Amusingly, the horoscope on my homepage has got stuck, and for the last five days has read “A wave of emotion hits you quite suddenly. Prepare to do some damage control”, which could be the horoscope for every single day of my life.
Outside it is overcast, but I am making a nest in my own innards to keep me safe if it rains. I had a wonderful weekend but now I am polluted, grimy on the inside. I want to feel like apples and linen, to wear a white dress and whiter knickers and sit unstained in the tender grass. This week I will be a good Sack Posset, the opposite of smoke.
Sometimes I would like to be tidier but I don’t think I can. I sit perfectly still for eleven minutes and around me appears a fairy-ring of filth. I am the Pied Piper, leading a merry procession of half-full coffee cups, piles of orange peel, screwed up Rizlas, paper-back books, broken biros, wads of tissue and lonely socks. From my person falls a constant rain of tobacco and hair, for where I am is mess, and where mess is, must I ever be.