Some days, I have moods wherein I hate everything. Everything. When I do, I often have a list of things that, despite how awful everything is, I don’t hate. Stuff I wouldn’t pop into room 101, if you will. These are, at the moment:
1) Clare Balding. I want to marry her. Even when I would gladly wipe out London with just the gentlest of pressures on the smallest of red buttons, I am glad that Clare Balding, funny, well prepared, and fucking superlative at her job, is in the world.
2. Iced tea. Now I have a confession: I cannot make iced tea. No idea how. I think that is because it is actually an illusion, a chemical cocktail of tea extract and peach extract and extract of sunshine and sticky hopefulness. Mine is always weak and disappointing, making me pathetically brand loyal (Pret, not Lipton, not that anyone thinks that is an improvement) and always overexcited to have it. No matter how miserable I am, I am ferociously pleased to quench my thirst with iced tea. 3. Fake flowers. I like ugly things. Taxidermy, fake flowers, rhinestone cowboy suits. I bought a bouquet of funereally awful plastic roses for myself recently, and they make me genuinely joyful everytime I see them. 4. Rice noodles. Because a rice noodle is as close to space food as I ever feel I will come. 5. Simone and Garfunkel. Because there is very little else that I know so many words from, have so many fond memories associated with. I never listen to Simon and Garfunkel with my significant others. Perhaps that will change when I marry/if I marry. Until then, they are a private joy.
Today, during a particularly poor metaphorical vision, I described myself (someone who needs to drink a lot of water because (probably) I eat too much salt) thus:
‘I’m like a camel. No! Wait! I’m not. I’m like the opposite of a camel…. a sieve!’
Longsuffering, ladies and gents, is the friend I was with.
In a move totally unlike myself, I just (after an obnoxiously healthy dinner consisting almost entirely of leafy greens) went and bought an ice cream. And ate it in my pajamas. It is now imperative that I desist reading romance novels. This weekend was, obviously, perfect. I don’t see how weekends can be anything less with that kind of weather. Sangria, a paddling pool, Dr Who, edible Tardises (Tardi?), lunch out, and then the world’s most cathartic kitchen cleaning, and I am one happy woman.
(All the happier because Rupert Graves was a big game hunter on Dr Who. Need I say more? And yes I realise I should just get a Tumblr and desist boring you all out of your minds. But seriously.) On which note, goodnight.