Pocahontas

While she watches Pocahontas and claims it's research for an Expansionism presentation, I'm reflecting on yesterday. We weren't exposed to too many couples thank goodness, except for Maud and Doug and Emily and Stewart (all of whom are bearable), and spent most of our time pretending it wasn't happening. Then in the evening it was that Soapbox Alternative Valentine's in Norwich's own freezer drawer, with cheesy chips outside and miserable runny noses inside, but a seminal Susie performance and EP launch to finish so I suppose it ended okay. Sarnies (slang) are delicious. On the subject, a new classic is hard boiled egg, tomato ketchup, and burnt toast. Direct result of low food supplies. Invention through limitation.

Valentine's Day was so much more important when the idiot was younger. 11 year olds are, on the whole, more romantic and have greater reservoirs of optimism to draw upon. She still has a little pink box with the husk of a chocolate heart wrapper, a present from Rory Watson, and last night in the Birdcage she saw a red balloon just like the one Ben Conlin gave her at the age of 5. But now, not a gift or a card in sight. Me neither. Weirdly, though, it didn't matter so much for her. I miss my chunky blonde.

You know, sometimes I want to stuff a bazooka down the throat which makes that laugh. I hear that girl laugh for prolonged periods at least twice a day. Whoever the hell she is I wish she'd get some reserve. It's a fucking rubbish laugh, kind of like an engine running out of petrol and juddering. SHUT UP. The walls and windows of Norfolk Terrace might as well not be there.

Happy fucking Sunday,

Consette x