A solid block of odd.

My arms are cold. I'm wearing a stupid t-shirt that I don't like. There's something painful at the corner of my upper lip. Your average garden slug lives for three years. I was up at 6.30 this morning because of the clocks and also because my cat screamed in my face. The voting for the dancing went better than could be expected. I like people who fall apart with panic. My neck makes the most awful collection of noises when I tip my head to the left. There's nothing I want to see at the cinema. I begin to despair of ever writing a screenplay. There's the most fantastic custard in the fridge. We were talking in limericks this morning. It's almost the start of November, said Mother, then when quiet as she tried to think of a rhyme for November. Behold this magnificent custard, I said. Mustard and bustard were bound to come into it. I had lemon sole for tea and roasted vegetables. Soon I am going to have a bath. I have had my bath. My hair is wet. My head does itch. My brother was posting on a forum at eight this morning. I watched him post. There was a firework then. I wrote a story about a parrot. I wrote it about eighteen months ago. It isn't news. It doesn't have much to do with a parrot either but it's the story version of the last bit of my India diary. Magazines don't want it so I might post it here. I am not the woman in it who is called Carol. We just share several experiences. I went to the theatre this time last year to see A Man For All Seasons. I remember because I missed the dancing. Martin Shaw was in it. I think Ploppy the goaler from Blackadder II was in it as well, or possibly that was Merchant. I love being in the theatre a bit more than I can say. I would quite like to live in a theatre. My bedroom would be a box. Or I could live in the cloisters of Gloucester cathedral, only they keep going and filming Harry Potter there so it could get noisy. I might go and turn the other computer on now. The cat is giving me a funny look. Doesn't Art Garfunkel have angular ears? Like fleshy fifty pence pieces.

A solid block of odd.

My arms are cold. I'm wearing a stupid t-shirt that I don't like. There's something painful at the corner of my upper lip. Your average garden slug lives for three years. I was up at 6.30 this morning because of the clocks and also because my cat screamed in my face. The voting for the dancing went better than could be expected. I like people who fall apart with panic. My neck makes the most awful collection of noises when I tip my head to the left. There's nothing I want to see at the cinema. I begin to despair of ever writing a screenplay. There's the most fantastic custard in the fridge. We were talking in limericks this morning. It's almost the start of November, said Mother, then when quiet as she tried to think of a rhyme for November. Behold this magnificent custard, I said. Mustard and bustard were bound to come into it. I had lemon sole for tea and roasted vegetables. Soon I am going to have a bath. I have had my bath. My hair is wet. My head does itch. My brother was posting on a forum at eight this morning. I watched him post. There was a firework then. I wrote a story about a parrot. I wrote it about eighteen months ago. It isn't news. It doesn't have much to do with a parrot either but it's the story version of the last bit of my India diary. Magazines don't want it so I might post it here. I am not the woman in it who is called Carol. We just share several experiences. I went to the theatre this time last year to see A Man For All Seasons. I remember because I missed the dancing. Martin Shaw was in it. I think Ploppy the goaler from Blackadder II was in it as well, or possibly that was Merchant. I love being in the theatre a bit more than I can say. I would quite like to live in a theatre. My bedroom would be a box. Or I could live in the cloisters of Gloucester cathedral, only they keep going and filming Harry Potter there so it could get noisy. I might go and turn the other computer on now. The cat is giving me a funny look. Doesn't Art Garfunkel have angular ears? Like fleshy fifty pence pieces.