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End of summer nostalgia always makes me listen to cute music, music from when I was fifteen, music so comforting that it is like creamy mashed potato and old episodes of ‘Diagnosis Murder’, and finally, embarrassingly, lots and lots of pipers’ laments.

I know.

I have now completed the annual round of catching up with old teachers: geeky, maybe, but the best thing about my school was the teachers. The two I am still in contact with are funny, fierce, and totally in love with English Lit. They are the whole reason that I do what I do (resultingly, there may be a warrant for their arrest out there).

I have eaten risotto, and drunk quantities of wine so copious that I had to stay up and watch re-runs of ‘Rock of Love’ until I sobered up. (I would link to it, really, I would, but if you don’t know what it entails, then, oh happy the man who dwells in such ignorance. I won’t spoil it for you.

All creative endeavor gets shot to hell the last few days before I leave any place: I retreat into myself and all I want to do is sleep, eat and be around my family. So, no horses yet. I am, however, having more serious Mills and Boon inklings. I do love the sound of ripping bodices, sudden draughts which extinguish candles, and moors upon which the swish of highwaymen’s cloaks is disguised under the patter of rain.

He is a librarian by day, fact fans.

He is a librarian by day, fact fans.

It is just so fabulously silly: virginal women (alright, not inherently silly, I grant you), frocks, troubled brows and resultant soothing, and a -safely married – sexual climax. And I love period detail and the comfort of a solid romantic structure. Mine is going to have to involve oil lamps and secret letters.

I ran the length of George Street with no shoes on this evening – my shoes are stretched out of all recognizable shape, and the bus was thundering down the street apocalyptically – and despite getting a stitch and almost littering the pavement with risotto, it was wonderful. I hate shoes. If we lived anywhere where it was hot, I would be barefoot all the time. Shoes never fit, or if they do they are the shoes of babes, and sparkly with embroidered rabbits all over them. Better have hard soles and a wandering heart – or something similarly gritty. I am looking forward to proper running by rivers again soon.

I am waffling, and not deliciously, so am popping off. Not to bed, mind, because being about to go away makes me horrendously alert. I might go and do rubbishy dad-esque dancing to the lesser known hits of Bananrama. With that image, I bid you adieu.

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