Sabbati-Week

As from today, I shall be taking a Sabbati-week and half or so. Consette needs a break sometimes, and I will write when I can. But I probably won't.

Because as from Thursday I shall be in Colombia with the idiot, the parental unit, the fraternal unit, and the newly conceived Colombian in-law unit. Larks!

Consette x

Library

So at about 7pm we shuffled into the PS section of the library with the most tentative motions possible, sensitive and scholarly. On the way in, we passed this on the stairwell:

[TRANSCRIPT]

Girl who shouldn't be in library on phone: Hiya
[Suppressed anger evident in pout]
Little does he know man on end of phone presumably says: Hiya
Girl who shouldn't be in library on phone: Yes, yes, so how did you find last night?
[Twirls a curl around a little finger and smiles sarcastically]
Little does he know man on end of phone presumably says: Oh you know, good.
Girl who shouldn't be in library on phone: Don't you remember? We had this sort of argument.
[Deceptive, lighthearted snort]

*

And at 8pm we exited PS section, and there she was. With advancements.

[TRANSCRIPT]

Girl who shouldn't be in library on phone: But Danny this is the fucking problem, you just don't care do you? I have been thinking about this all fucking day and, well, you always do this. And then I wouldn't mind if it wasn't for what other people thought. What do you think they think Danny? When you treat me like shit. Like SHIT.
Knows a bit more man on end of phone presumably says: Arrgooyaaaerrrr. Um.
Girl who shouldn't be in library on phone: Yeah well I suppose I'm going to go now. But this conversation isn't OVER Danny.
[Crosses legs, gets comfortable]

*

Nice to have a little domestic on a Sunday. In a ruddy library.

Consette x

Like a Kid on Jelly-Tots

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

The Snows of Izzy Lockhart Smith

No time no time no time. Hemingway consumes. She's almost finished. Can't finish now, though, there's a whole litre of cider to drink before the tri-racket ball tonight. Busy busy.

Consette x

Hklemh

Errgh.

Hkloncsetteh x
(Imaginary friend of Hklemh)

Lemsip

Head like an oil spill.

And who even cares if that works or not, Consette is fucking ill. Fuck and kill.

Consette x

Guinness Cake

Guinness Cake is made from dark matter, so says Maud. So says Father Nathan. Or even Guinness is made from dark matter, boiled up to liquify. It is the don of dense, and hats off to Rachel and Happy St. Patrick's.

Consette x

Porridge Explosion

She was so excited at the prospect of using milk for the first time in a long time, but the counter top attacked and porridge went everywhere like the lumpiest sick with chunks of stomach lining. It was a veritable explosion. Her hand got a little burnt. It was kind of funny. Lawrence Ferlinghetti is on Radio 4 but I know she's only pretending to listen. Exhaustion sags, Oxford Literary Terms proffers itself with legs wide open, there's a mug stained and a teaspoon stained, Cloudy Lemonade, food crusts on the keyboard, a multitude of spiders in the curtain folds which I imagine are there and they might just be you never know, pink eyes, a book on bullfighting, warmth. Goodnight,

Consette x

The Grim

It's funny how things can change in that split time inbetween two seconds. Just so sunny. And now grim, with that human warcraft roleplay lot splicing the field open with black rags and axes. And there was a lot of positivity about the Hemingway essay (the next hurdle), but now dim grimness. The first line must attain assertive originality balanced with simple constraint, and be completely astounding in its poignancy. She can't find it. So we have stalled at the first 12 words of the title. I think she's finally realised that Colombia is in almost 10 days, and excitement and concentration are not too good at cohabitation. De dum de dum de dum.

She wants another Lost Friday, and I agree. Being imaginary, stalking handsome raving men is pretty easy and lots of fun. We danced in silly ways and couldn't give two shits, we drank cider and built up our immunity to the dreaded apple-y ache and drag, we forgot about important things in one sense and focussed on important things in another. It was the best.

Tonight is another night out, but of a different sort and kind of pivotal if it all goes to plan for her. I hope it does, however much I take the piss. I basically want the reflected glory. Refracted glory actually; I reckon my imaginary constitution makes me more nebula-based than flat surface mirror-based.

Consette x

Pinocchio

Rachel and the idiot went on a date today to see Pinocchio at the Puppet Theatre. It was so beautiful, even I succumbed to a touch of nostalgia. Junked on it in fact. There was a bit involving whales swallowing people, quite traumatic, during which Rachel cried. The only one, I think, in a theatre full of 5 year olds. The whole thing was just marvellous and Chunky Blonde misery got skimmed off the surface like gravy fat.

I'm sorry my posts are a bit runty these days. She needs the computer for this essay rush; desparate to get it all done before the Colombian weekend adventure.

Consette x

Chunky Blonde

Chunky Blonde is occupied I think, a locked door. Frolicking inside with some glorious specimen. Do work, do drink, do Lost Friday, continue. And repeat.

Consette x

The Great Unwashed

Oh she smells so bad. So bad. Essay fermenting. Brain stunted. Woken up at 4 this morning by loud sexing somewhere above or below, left or right. Annoyed at not being able to discern the culprit from grunts. So got up anyhow and did some work to the tune of pleasure. Been on this essay ever since. She's done now, but not the references. They take a day in themselves. Bum.

Again, idiot, go and have a shower.

Consette x

Metapizza

See, point proven. Found on thisiswhyyourefat.com.

Consette x

Meta-Blog

Today we talked about metanarrative and the incredulity thereof, and that was easy enough. But then what exactly is meta? You can pretty much put it in front of anything. And people do. The idiot had a meta-sleep at 2pm today in which the sheets almost consumed her whole. Then there was the meta-lunch and the bolognaise was made with red wine. And she has just finished a meta-squash match against the Beccles ladies, who are in themselves the personification of meta.

PG Tips make meta-tea bags.

Enough. It's Lost Friday in 3 days and I think everyone should attend. Last time was magic and so sweaty, so much dubstep (another phrase I bandy around in an elastic way and really have no clue.) She hasn't indulged in a VK binge in a very long while. The VK was the definitive nutrient of the first term. £1.50 for a fortnight's supply of sugar? Truly wondrous.

She's so sleepy all the time and I'm finding it a bit hard to communicate. The radiator should be turned off and hot drinks should be exiled. She doesn't seem to understand that this is the only way the essay will get done. 'In what senses did the US Constitution reflect the ideas of the Enlightenment?' My foot. Exams for next term are irritatingly random; only two, one on the 18th May and the other on 1st June. We live in meta-times,

Consette x

Friends

Some of her friends are trickling bit by bit into the arena of the insane, just a little at a time so that no one really notices. I notice, though, because I am special. Neither do I mention any names.

Ok, the essay is taking me over. It's gurgling in my ear. Threats. Shit, better go.

Consette x

Balloons

Someone's released the balloons left over from Emily's party from their kitchen quarantine; they're blowing all around Norfolk Terrace and popping at random. I keep thinking it's a muffled gunshot. We're up so early because Joao had to leave at 8.45am to go to Gatwick to go to Portugal. First Stacey, and now Joao. The flat crumbles.

I can't write much because I'm hungover from Maud's last night, and the thought of work is making the idiot jumpy and I'm on call for placation duty. She's reading Kant. She read it on the bus yesterday like so much look at me. I was embarrassed.

Consette x

Ick

Too late, today has failed. Yesterday failed rather.

Consette x with a kiss again

P.S. HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAUUUD!

Yellow Bricks

Oh just fuck all of you. Last night was excellent, and here you have the price paid. I'm a little crispy bit of dead skin, fucking off and hurting things in the process.

Fuck. Wasting 3 hours of our life watching Watchmen was not the most prudent of moves on a hangover.

Consette no kiss today

M and M

The bedroom is drowning in brownie smell (bejewled with M&Ms instead of walnuts). They have to be kept in here to cool because Emily could waltz into the kitchen at any given time, and then she would know about the M&M surprise and the whole shebang would go to pot. Don't know how much longer I can last without turning perverse. Peanuts and chocolate do things to me.

Ok, I'm going to help her draw bricks onto a yellow top now. I am such a diligent imaginary friend,

Consette x

The Wizard of Oz

Tomorrow night it's EEB's Birthday Wizard of BoOZe and such and so, in preparation, the idiot and I sat down to watch the film for the first time. Quite well oiled. I'm sure we've seen snippets before, but never the whole fandango in its glorious entirety. The Bulmers in the pub no doubt added to the overall impression, but but but what. a. party for the kids. Toto in particular, very special.

We haven't chatted about chunky blonde for a while. His human manifestation (god made manifest perhaps into something ever so slightly inferior, skinnier and on the whole, not chunky blonde) is, well, absent, and thus, and with commerly consequences, I do profess, an absence for me. Too. Don't know when they're back. Gurgle. I wish the idiot would sort something out. These humans, both idiots. Me and chunky blonde (yes Granny, I know - Chunky blonde and I) could discuss their general idiocy over a scone and tea. Time for you and time for me. Or whatever it is. I can't suck up the energy required to stretch the distance between here and the shelf upon which Eliot lies. And who really gripes at misquotes, apart from Josh. To whom I extend my deepest apologies.

I think that this post is shotgunned with too many full stops. I should learn to stop stopping quite so enthusiastically. It's cheating.

We are stiff from aerobics and need to go and baste a chicken and then eat it, so goodnight one and all and wish her luck as the yellow brick road tomorrow. But I would, in general, advise against following her.

Consette x

Recent Chocolate Ventures

Another Short Entry

Busy day of piggy, red-rimmed swimmer's eyes. She needs to get some goggles. Nackered too. But also prepared for nuclear war after that Morrison's trip. 12 savoury muffins for a pound? Splendid.

Consette x

The Picaresque Epic

9 hours. Fucking 9. Hours fucking.

We could have gone to Paxos in that time. But instead, oh no, let's venture the distance between Somerset and Norwich. Just let's.

We did, however, get to see Jamielock for a quick coffee in Victoria which was pleasant. The last glimpse of him sans wifey. Then there was a man (or woman - I didn't actually see) improvising saxophone over the beat to Billie Jean; of course, wonderful. But apart from these minor alleviations, today was an arse.

To bed. To iPlayer.

Consette x