Mud

For the second time this week she underestimated the mud around the lake. As a result, the trusty converse have transgressed so far beyond what is universally considered 'clean' and would do well to get their own parking permit. They are on the verge of sprouting little legs and hairy toes. The smell is bad, but in the comparison to the corridor smell in D01 Norfolk Terrace...well, can't complain.

The lake walk with Josh seems to have worked wonders. No longer is she a mopey floppy flannel of boredom and American Constitutionalism-related angst, but fresh and smiling like a lockjaw patient. When the weather is good here, it's really really good, and I've realised that the trouble with writing as a cynic means that my capacity for describing nature is somewhat limited. The lake looked like a glass eyeball sucked from a gash, ripped socket. The trees were fingering us with yellowing nails denting skin. And the mud, oh the mud, was actually dog faeces.

See? It's a tricky business. But what I really mean to say is that today is pretty.

She is opting out of an UHOHs gig tonight, but hopes to catch them later on in the term, preferably with Maud who is in London this weekend. Also, the Milkbar Launch Night was last night, and Tawny Owl and Francis & Louis more than supplied this week's quota of jawdropping sets. Tomorrow it's Soapbox, which the idiot is going to try and review for Concrete.

Oh shit. Someone has put on System of a Down in the room opposite. BUMS. Let's get out of here and eat the remainder of that Caterpillar Cake.

Splendid,

Consette x