1. I think I broke a small plastic pink hoover with a multi-tool in order to get the batteries out of it this morning. I wanted them for my digital camera. The person who owns the small plastic pink hoover is probably going to come back home before the person who has the power to fix the possibly broken small pink hoover comes home. I am scared.
2. My mood over the past two months or so has been affected by the complete works of Paul Auster, who I discovered in October and haven’t left alone since (is this a stage?) as well as Johnny Cash live albums (the prison ones, predictably) and Sara Maitland’s silence and, a total lack of nicotine and an increase in food and an intense bout of writing and less sleep followed by an intense bout of not writing and more sleep.
3. I really like oranges, satsumas and clementines. Christmas is a boom time for small orange fruit. My lips and face are constantly sticky with orange juice. There are lots of little piles of peel where ever I go. Peel piles. I love the peel piles.
4. I’m really worried about one of my LITHOPS. It has gone sort of soft. I don’t know why. I am certain I haven’t overwatered it. I watered it a tiny bit. But I watered the other one too and that one is thriving.
5. I had a bit of an epiphany in the last six weeks or so. Not a bolt of lightening, but a gradual dawning. I care more about what I think about myself than I care about what other people think of me. I think most people come to this when they are about fourteen. I’m a late starter. I do less things I don’t want to do now. I don’t do thinks that make me feel icky or embarrassed any more. I please myself. I like it, so far. It could be the death of my ‘career’.
6. I’m going to have hassleback potatoes with every meal. I’m having them tonight. They are delicious. I’m going to take the leftovers with me to work tomorrow and arrange a posy of hassleback potatoes on my desk.
7. One of these is a lie. Whenever I’m tagged I usually lie to get a small and petty revenge on being forced to write about things I don’t want to write about.