Requests have come from several quarters for Confessional, and it has been some time since we opened the doors to the musty, vermin infested Waffle Confessional. That is because my sins of recent weeks are very very dull. However, confess I must, and hopefully some of you will have been unspeakably badly behaved and I can chastise you with scorpions. First, though, here comes my own faintly depressing set of minor transgressions. I am warning you now, it is just more of the same old shit.
1. Slatternliness (various)
House looks like.. Well. It looks like this, frankly.
I sit in the middle of it, faintly surprised at its reluctance to self-clean. Worst of all, I cannot be arsed to drag my carcass all the way upstairs to the attic, where I know for certain a bunch of tulips is rotting, quietly. They have been there since M came to visit. I forget when that was, but I think it might have been in February. It's reached the point where it seems wiser to just leave them there until they dessicate entirely.
2. Administrative paralysis
4 months since the theft of my ID card, I have still not replaced it. Ditto driving licence. At some point soon this will create intractable problems. I am waiting, defiantly, for the intractable problems before I try and sort it out, at which point it will be far, far too late.
Whilst I think I am being very much more careful at the moment with money, due to not having any, I was momentarily blinded by the softly lit, welcoming DEN OF SIN that is Westfield and bought a Jaeger dress on my last trip to London. I am not even sure about the dress. I think it might make me look like Barbara Taylor Bradford or something. Mutton dressed as, um, mammoth? Hang on, I'm going to take a picture.
(a rare shot of me not featuring the orange towelling bathroom curtains, or the previous decaying collection of Economist magazines, or me standing on the loo seat. I am staying with Papa Waffle. He has a proper house with proper stuff in it, like mirrors)
Also under "spending", Facegoop has reignited my passion for snake oil beauty products, which I can now laughably describe as "research". I am heading for Space NK shortly where I have been reliably informed there is some special offer on which entitles you to many free samples is you spend a quarter of your annual income on tiny pots of make believe.
Requires no further explanation. Gin, gin, gin like a dissolute 18th century parlourmaid. Including on school nights. Interestingly, at Tall Tales last night (I will probably talk about Tall Tales at more length tomorrow, suffice to say I was a bit crap, but people laughed. With, at. It's all the same really, isn't it? Ahem) I ended up talking to three men all drinking gin and tonic. Has gin and tonic butched up, or is this just metrosexual London mores? I am woefully out of touch with metropolitan drinking habits, clearly. Though my head would beg to differ this morning.
5. Mild desperation
I have been considering the personal ads with increasing interest. Mine would be one of the tawdry and unambiguous ones that occasionally pop up on Kiss & Ride, along the lines of "Femme 35 ans, double menton, ressemble a la progeniture illegitime de Barbara Taylor Bradford et Grayson Perry, ne veut pas etre seule ce soir. Vous avez 2 bras, 2 jambes, une tete? Cela me suffit. Ecrivez moi at whatdoIhavetodotogetsomemeaninglesssex@gmail.com". No, I'm not going to translate that for you. That's what Babelfish is for.
Ok, I'm done. Your turn. I am feeling quite filled with the milk of human kindness (I think that's actually 18th century code for "gin") today, so please, tell me everything. Bless you my children.