Homebound

Going to get the 'Mid-Station Blues' perhaps, between Liverpool St. and Waterloo and all the scum inbetween. The idiot loves it, apple cores and soggy butts, concrete, men in suits, sweat and stubbly underarms on the tube. She has bizarre notions of romanticism. Then it's on down South Westerly to look after various addendums of the homely hearth. Namely dog and grandmother. I don't know, I'm quite pleased to be going back. She can work on her poetry for a few days (that's what she says she'll do) and perhaps make a start on these essays, and I can lie on the bed and dream of chunky blonde, who has more associations in Somerset than in East Anglia.

She ate much food yesterday, and none of it constituting the holy 5. A Rocky Road Rachel, and so much licking of spoons, pans and fingers to dab up the Rich Tea dust, and a pancake party in the evening. Now she feels a bit sick, still at 12pm. Should be a fun journey,

Yours in Somerset country slacks,

Consette x