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Come in, winter. Or if not, then at least lurk just outside a little more menacingly. I want biting, damn it. I want the ground to be hard with frost and I want puddles creaky with ice. I want the sort of cold where your face hurts.

I have begun speculative Christmas shopping, a past-time less crowded and far cheaper than the actuality. I would like to buy my sister several extra weeks in the year, and let her take them as holiday. She works so bloody hard. I also think that she would benefit from one of these:

Isn't this the cutest animal imaginable? You could keep it on your shoulder and feed it pieces of fruit.

At the moment, my time management is shit. I feel so much like I am being followed around by a giant clock that I might start wearing a periscope to check. This would not only be a welcome addition to my accessories wardrobe, it would also provide a conversation piece at parties. I could pretend it was an upgrade from a monocle I’d had for years.

I am listening to a playlist so excellent that it looks to get worn down smooth, except of course it won’t because these days music is intangible (a weird parallel with a pre-recording era, isn’t it, except now is usually isn’t visual due to live performance instead: rather, its been whittled down in terms of which senses it engages. How sad. I wonder if it minds.)

The highlight is probably:

which has fabulously ridiculous lyrics.

This is not getting my coursework done, far from it.
But then, this week, nothing is. I am looking forward to next week. I have spent this week being deliriously happy and very, very hurt, both by people who I love. I just can’t ever really be bothered with dramatics, when they aren’t mine, or they aren’t productive, or they aren’t beautifully orchestrated and with seriously marvellous costumes.

My friend has just finished a play run where there were costumes galore. GALORE. I love the eighties.

Urgh. It is closer to tomorrow now than it is to today, and I have three thousand words to go before I sleep. Think you’ve got problems, Robert Frost? Ain’t got nuthin’ on me.

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