She is so happy it's making me sick. She has no specific reason to be happy. Bitch thought she'd inflict it on the rest of us. I've put on some Leonard Cohen in an attempt to dilute this nauseating sunshine and smell of lavender oil.
I suppose the Hemingway essay is done and dusted, that must be it. In the last 10 minutes I've managed to unpick about 5 stitches in her argument, but I'm being tactful and staying quiet. I am a considerate Consette. Oh and that lunch, that too must have kicked the euphoria into shape. Then the result of the rugby which she didn't have time to watch in proper time, and a few youtube videos of people getting the first question wrong on Who Wants to be a Millionaire. Fuck off Patrick Wolf on shuffle. She will explode from over-stimulation. Said the actress to the...etc etc.
The parental unit sent us an email the other day from New York, saying 'NY is rather big. We are rather small.' There be the truth. And the idiot just spoke to Grandmother on the phone. It was a case of reassurance duty and transferral of generational information from the second generation through the third to the first, which I suppose reminded her of that weekend in the Shire spent making biscuits and playing Scrabble. I think she's quite looking forward to these holidays, to reading and writing (or, at least, the possibility of reading and writing if she so desires) and seeing the Somerset lot. And she's more positive in one particular area than before, which is more than can be said for me and Chunky Blonde. I am the realist I feel.
And Colombia. And a new love of music. And the discovery of La Roux, who joins the list of women who she would. Rebecca Hall is no longer on her lonesome.
Bolognaise time,
Consette x
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