So, I’m leaving work at 6.18pm and my first thought on seeing the time is, “Ooh, I might get home in time to catch the end of Grand Designs!”
My body is quite happy at rest. If given the choice between exertion and stasis, it generally chooses inactivity.
I love the smell of pubs. Not the fancy concrete and stainless steel places but the old public bar with beer-sodden carpet, cracked-vinyl barstools and faint odour of disinfectant.
Most days, while drinking my tea on the balcony, I watch the pigeons on the roof of the warehouse next door.
Yummy. It’s up there with “juicy” and “moist” in the words-that-make-me-twitch category.
I’m drawn to the light. It gives me hope. I grasp at it. It slips from me. I move, change perspective.
Why do I love a television show where the characters live meaningless lives, the men are misogynists and it’s set in the upper-class, consumer-deceiving world of advertising?