So. Light and fluffy. Conveniently, I went to London yesterday, to stare like a halfwit at the bright, shiny things. This was not the purpose of my visit as declared to HM Immigration, obviously, but the work thing I went for lasted all of 40 minutes so I was able to do a good amount of halfwit staring.
Halfwit staring conclusions:
1. Camden has not changed at all in fifteen years, has it? Probably longer, but that's the last time I used to go there regularly (to Sainsburys. Not to the market. The last time I went THERE regularly I was fourteen). Does it have some kind of English Heritage preservation order on it which means that the drug dealers and punks are paid a stipend to lurk around the tube station providing edgy local colour? Christ, it's ugly. I have no issue with the wider borough, just, you know, the High Street. Ick.
2. Liberty's peerlessly beautiful underwear room has been shrunken to about 6 shelves of Princesse Tam Tam and Stella McCartney, neither of whom has much truck with a DD. I am saddened. Not only was this the site of one of my favourite 'sleb spots - Piers Morgan ostentatiously buying saucy women's underpinnings and looking tremendously pleased about it - but it had some really really beautiful stuff and large comfortable changing rooms with lovely wallpaper. Now, half of that side room is taken up by those severe Japanese shroud garments with massive sleeves made of boiled felt, favoured by contemporary gallery owners and people who teach at Goldsmiths. The Japanese assymetric shroud market is apparently recession proof. There's gold in them there Cork Street contemporary art galleries!
3. I had to buy the new Kate Atkinson. "Had". The staff of Foyles were not holding a gun to my head. Their tiny weak girlish wrists would not be very good at that. But I was, nevertheless compelled to. This will be filed under "reasons why my economy drive continues to suck". A hardback, no less. Fie, fie.
4. These Gap Modern Bootleg things. I think they might be massively unflattering. Obviously I can't have thought that when I got them, but I think there was a colossal error of judgment at work. The material has a whiff of the drip-dry polycotton about it. They aren't quite occupational therapist's work trouser material, like some of the other new Gap black trousers, but they are definitely suspect. The shape is .. ok. I suppose. I seem to have got out of the habit of trousers, or perhaps more accurately, I am not the convenient trouser shape I once was. I'm actually fairly scrawny at the moment - the nervous vomiting thing is making sure of it - but I'm just the wrong shape. Anyway, my Gap Modern Bootlegs compound their various crimes by having a defective fly. Which is always nice, particularly as you saunter around your neighbourhood greeting acquaintances and trying to look put together and on top of things, as opposed to crushed by the weight of things and put out with the bin bags (a look I master effortlessly), then realise that you are showing them your (cheap, greying) pants. No-one needs to see my pants. Full stop. Especially now that both Liberty's underwear department and my bank balance are shadows of their former self.
So I came back from London with Kate Atkinson, a pile of cheap chocolate and two rather charming wind up bats from M&S, had a lucky escape with a taxi driver whose mastery of the rules of the road and sense of direction was worse even than mine, and today we have done nothing, but nothing. All slightly under the weather, and after some pretty ferociously bad behaviour mid-week from all three of us, we have rentrenched and spent the day eating toast and chocolate mini rolls and largely ignoring each other. Lashes has watched endless Japanese tv ("this is the BEST day of my LIFE" he said histrionically at about 6 this evening, from under a duvet on the sofa, blank eyed cartoon characters bellowing at him, legs crossed and a bottle of cheap orange squash held in one limp, exhausted, hand. He looks like I imagine Lytton Strachey would have looked if he had been born in 2002 with an inordinate fondness for Pokémon; a bit fey, and disapproving). I fell asleep on Fingers's bed whilst trying to build some Lego monstrosity after one of those mildly OCD fits of trying to rationalise the toys ('No! The Hot Wheels go in the BLUE box!', as all around me red bills and crumpled clothes collect in drifting heaps, and the pervasive smell of drains is not remotely masked with cheap belgo-air freshener. Priorities, see). Fingers wore no pants and spent most of the day in the bath or tormenting the dog.
It was brilliant and we now feel a warm glow of affection towards each other, even going so far as to manage a walk to the park this evening without moaning, violence, or recriminations. But where do we go from here? I fear the future may consist of us all wandering round the house in varying states of undress (me displaying my pants through my defective Gap flies to the horror of the neighbours), eating processed crap straight from the packet with our filthy claws and communicating only in a series of grunts, interspersed with gestures of wordless aggression when our territory is invaded. The Pope would be delighted.