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The way I'd talk if nobody was listening.
I am waiting for a person to come onto MSN. She is forty minutes late. I am slightly aggrieved because I peeled myself out of bed at five-to-eight, and it's cold. But still I am waiting. I am not vindictive. Not on a Sunday morning.
Yesterday evening, my closest friend asked permission to fall asleep against me on a bus. This is worthy of remark because she hates to be touched and the only physical contact we've ever had has been pushing one another through doors when we've been alternately gripped by awkwardly timed social phobias. I just sort of got to wondering how usual that is for a couple of best friends. We've known one another since we were 11. I suppose it's not a tremendously heroic friendship or anything: though we've been through a great many of the same experiences together, they're not things like wars and famines and crippling poverty and fights against social injustice. They're more things like A-levels and overly strict librarians and embarrassing games lessons and fear of telephones and the still living at home thing and the knowledge that soon we're going to be 26. But that does make it, to me, a very important friendship. Though she never did fall asleep.
I love the way Leonard Cohen, in the BBC documentary I have on tape and the name of which quite escapes me, says that everything that happened to him happened 'about a thousand years ago.' His music really went downhill since he became happy. But it's worth the sacrifice to know that now he's happy. I'm glad I didn't have to weigh that up for more than a handful of seconds.
This is not really the way I would talk if I thought nobody was listening, because I have a notion someone is. Though it's very quiet here of a Sunday morning. It's the quietest time to be making a post. 2.15am is much, much busier in comparison. But yes. I'm always very aware that people are reading. This is not the journal I would keep in a padlocked book. I just couldn't think of a better title.
I think a lot of people are much ruder than they need to be. Not you people. Other people.
I had a slice of cinnamon and apple cake yesterday, in spite of the whole biscuit avoidance thing I have going on, and I felt warm and replete for the first time in about a week. I can only conclude that cinnamon and apple cake is good for the general health. Take Cinnamon and Apple Cake! Anaemic girls need it!
I can't remember what it is that anaemic girls really need. I think it's something like Vitrol. I saw it at a station on the Keighley and Worth Valley railway. Possibly the Railway Children's station. I was en route to Haworth. What amazed me most was the sofa where Emily Bronte died, and the locks of hair in the bedrooms. And the self-portrait of Branwell that looked so much like John Lennon. But the point of this section is that I really love old adverts.
I think walking behind me not once but twice to take things from the sewing box while I'm writing entries on LJ is not perhaps entirely necessary.
I am waiting for a person to come onto MSN. She is now 59 minutes late.
Yesterday evening, my closest friend asked permission to fall asleep against me on a bus. This is worthy of remark because she hates to be touched and the only physical contact we've ever had has been pushing one another through doors when we've been alternately gripped by awkwardly timed social phobias. I just sort of got to wondering how usual that is for a couple of best friends. We've known one another since we were 11. I suppose it's not a tremendously heroic friendship or anything: though we've been through a great many of the same experiences together, they're not things like wars and famines and crippling poverty and fights against social injustice. They're more things like A-levels and overly strict librarians and embarrassing games lessons and fear of telephones and the still living at home thing and the knowledge that soon we're going to be 26. But that does make it, to me, a very important friendship. Though she never did fall asleep.
I love the way Leonard Cohen, in the BBC documentary I have on tape and the name of which quite escapes me, says that everything that happened to him happened 'about a thousand years ago.' His music really went downhill since he became happy. But it's worth the sacrifice to know that now he's happy. I'm glad I didn't have to weigh that up for more than a handful of seconds.
This is not really the way I would talk if I thought nobody was listening, because I have a notion someone is. Though it's very quiet here of a Sunday morning. It's the quietest time to be making a post. 2.15am is much, much busier in comparison. But yes. I'm always very aware that people are reading. This is not the journal I would keep in a padlocked book. I just couldn't think of a better title.
I think a lot of people are much ruder than they need to be. Not you people. Other people.
I had a slice of cinnamon and apple cake yesterday, in spite of the whole biscuit avoidance thing I have going on, and I felt warm and replete for the first time in about a week. I can only conclude that cinnamon and apple cake is good for the general health. Take Cinnamon and Apple Cake! Anaemic girls need it!
I can't remember what it is that anaemic girls really need. I think it's something like Vitrol. I saw it at a station on the Keighley and Worth Valley railway. Possibly the Railway Children's station. I was en route to Haworth. What amazed me most was the sofa where Emily Bronte died, and the locks of hair in the bedrooms. And the self-portrait of Branwell that looked so much like John Lennon. But the point of this section is that I really love old adverts.
I think walking behind me not once but twice to take things from the sewing box while I'm writing entries on LJ is not perhaps entirely necessary.
I am waiting for a person to come onto MSN. She is now 59 minutes late.