My best dreams, shamed as I am to admit it, are dreams where I am in an almost endless warehouse of jumbled-up clothes, and everything is beautiful, and everything fits, and I am allowed to have anything I want and have all the time in the world to choose.

Genuinely, I must have been genetically altered to be the best possible capitalist. Although maybe I’m not: after all, the clothes are all second hand, and no money ever changes hands.

I raked through Oxfam yesterday, and came up vaguely trumps, with this dress, two pretty belts to go with it (one patent red, one black), and a top from warehouse which is nice, even if I do look like a woodland creature in it.

I have knackered my back, I think possibly walking to Grantchester for cream tea and fiendishly expensive lunch consumed Britishly in the freezing cold. Pretty, though:

pretty pretty pretty

pretty pretty pretty

Have been listening almost exclusively to John Martyn, mainly to ‘Fairy Tale Lullaby’:

The thing with fuzzy stoned-out-your face songs is that they have an uncanny ability to describe what the inside of my head is like all the time. I do worry about my predisposition for the fictional, at times. The other day I argued with a member of the clergy about the existence of dragons.

But sometimes a head full of dragons is preferably to a head full of anything else. It certainly beats the appalling hangover I mysteriously awoke with this morning. The room was still spinning at 5am, though, so I shouldn’t be surprised. And seven per cent cider may not sound lethal, but good lord, it slips down far too easily, especially in good company.

You know what I hate, more than anything else in the entire world, she added peevishly at the end of yet another wittery blog full of nothingy-ness, people who simply will not text back, no matter how simple or important the question. But then, I enjoy communicating with people, and am a ludicrous texting harpy, who texts all the time because she can and because she foolishly and wrongly invests her communications with an undue level of urgency. Ho hum. Latin latin latin calls, and I leave you with another rather lovely, and wryly amusing John Martyn song: