Poached Egg Eyes

She's awake. I'm awake. Cake all afternoon has turned her active in unnatural hours. Cake and rhubarb crumble, and the discovery of tea, and the discovery of green tea, and jam tarts and smoked salmon sandwiches. And half a hot cross bun, and some biscuits. Oh and a pop of fake sugar, the taste of which was so repellant more biscuits were required to mush it away.

She insists that the inventory above is a necessity. I am not to leave anything out, I am not to hurt anyone's feelings. Especially Rachel and that crumble. Maud's tea party was a triumph.

So I am Consette. Hello. The imaginary friend of an idiot, previous star of myspace (a reader from Norway!!), and a solid sort of girl. In posession of an exemplary pair of cheeks and hair down to my knees. The mutant amalgamation of a woman called Betty and a builder called Vincent; the idiot's first loves, and the obvious inspiration for a name like Consette. There's a silent B somewhere in there. Vincent used to donate sandwiches to her and the dog when he was renovating the kitchen back in '92. Betty was a babysitter of sorts with jellybabies hidden about her person when the idiot got homesick. This sounds like the start of a song. Brendan says he's got writer's block. There's a mine of diamonds here, Brendan. I won't ask for royalties.

University is lovely and Norwich is not the hole everyone says it is. Those who say it is know nothing of Norwich. Or holes. And we gambolled gaily in the Cathedral grounds for the first time today and my hems got muddy. There were two goths in front who looked like they were goths on probation, kind of amateur and not entirely sure about it yet. They kept looking back at us as if we were stalkers. We followed them right up into the lanes, but then I couldn't take it anymore because the black and white polka-dots on the backpacks were making me dizzy.

We're going to go swimming again tomorrow morning. It soothes the old lady hip, the one which aches in cold weather. She complains about that fucking hip all the time, so yes, swimming, when offered, is advantageous and I'm not going to stop her. Twenty years old on Tuesday, that makes me about Seventeen I'd hazard. She must start getting trendy again. Or perhaps more female. I might petition for the wearing of a skirt on Tuesday night.

In an unfortunate by-product of ageing, the idiot has begun to dip a tentative nail into the vast varnish of poetry. I offered to give her a bit of my blog as a charitable and imaginary friendly gesture, but somewhere in the liminal state between cut and paste, she balked. This is the sort of backwards behaviour I have to put up with on a daily basis. If only she'd take a leaf out of my freshly coined, uncliched, book of metaphors, not to mention learn from my alliterative faculties, then confidence would follow like the glint of sunlight on toilet porcelein.

Night my lovelies,

Consette x

P.S. The uncultured lot on blogger.com won't allow an acute accent on the 'e' of cliche. I hope we're all OK with pronouncing it 'CLISH' for now.