|Here is a picture of a book I wanted today.|
This one is on my friend Dr E's bookshelf.
I have bought some lamb chops, and later I will have them with a warm potato salad with a dressing involving cornichons and capers. Sour-things yen, apparently. I've looked in my photos to find one to put here. I take a lot of pictures of food.
I have murdered other people's children in my head, and deposed Putin. I've speculated about cannibal rats and fast-setting concrete in signalling rooms. I've wanted parsley. But there isn't any.
I've googled symptoms of things, because my body is being a dick. I've been terrified by the batshit crazy, superstitious-paranoid, crunchy-granola-pathological ways people talk about their bodies on the internet. I've looked at bus timetables for tomorrow because I am going to the hospital for people to look at possible sources of the dickishness. I've thought I love the NHS. I've crinkled my nose happily at John de Lancie's villainously scenery-chewing guest turn on CSI. I've emailed the property manager because the drainage pipe seal in the bathroom has failed again.
I've tracked mud into the house. I've reminded myself to remember not to have a cup of coffee in the morning, even though in the morning I can't remember anything except to have a cup of coffee.
I've put away some laundry but not all of it, which is a fucking irritating habit. I've arranged my dunnock skull on a pebble. I couldn't get the mandible to line up right and I wished I had tiny tiny tiny gauge wire and the needliest needlenose tweezers and those super magnifying specs with scopes on the lenses like my dad had in the surgery.
I haven't washed my hair yet.