It’s a light blue Saturday with all the accompaniments. The general knowledge crossword is completed, the concise crossword is completed, the cryptic crossword is buried in the garden lest it remind me of my inadequacies. Best Girl and EP came over last night and much cricket was played. I don’t much care for games that don’t involve either a board or nudity, but I make a necessary exception for cricket.
I am about to go and commune with my killer. She’s waiting in the spare room with the tip of her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth, her black thatch of hair hacked into a wonky pageboy, her Parka zipped all the way up. Her hands hang like crabs on lines. My endless love.
I might start pretending to be my own twin. I will sneak away from social gatherings and put on a jaunty hat, then come back and speak only in binary code. I will knock on the front door carrying a suitcase of satsumas and claiming I have just come back from Croydon. I will be my own opposite. What is the opposite of Sack Posset? Probably a manicurist.