Well, I hope you have survived Christmas… I did (contrary to popular premeditated belief), which is good news, I think. Just popping in for a brief blogging moment; I hope to continue more voraciously in the new year.
First of all, I would just like to warn all readers that having a huge glass filled with Skittles in the middle of one’s coffee table, although alluring and aesthetically mesmerising, is exceptionally dangerous; as it may cause childish overeating and misconceptions of energy reserves. It may even result in singing Dusty Springfield’s You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me (a new favourite), at high volume, into the TV remote, in an after-party duet with one’s mother. You can’t say I didn’t tell you.
Isn’t this lovely?
It made me reminisce, rather, about baths in general… I have even come up with a concept which may or may not materialise, about a woman being discovered (in a typically Agatha Christie-type way), dead in a bath. However, the milky emollient she is bathing in, combined with her lusciously coloured hair, red fingernails and still widely open emerald eyes, mean that nobody will be convinced she is dead. Too much colour you see… Possibly short story, or maybe a picture job, if I can convince anyone to shoot it.
Anyway, not much else to say – still in that eight day familial chasm between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Day… After which I can finally start on my dreaded essay and continue learning my lines for How to Disappear. A little taste:
DOCTOR: Is there any chance you could be pregnant?
CHARLIE: Excuse me?!
Until soon, maybe, x