Tucked up in Mr I's 40yo school sleeping bag because the dog ('Is not dog, is princess') needs my side of the bed, wearing a Bjorn Borg headband because otherwise my budget face oil 'won't take'. In a pandemic. It's all immensely displeasing.
This sleeping bag is for 9-12s. From 40 years ago. I feel like I'm zipping myself into an industrial pork production unit. Tightly.
The footing is very ... constricting, but the little hood is most pleasing. No doubt tomorrow I will look like a resplendent, reconstructed Nefertiti, or an abandoned husk. Place your bets and spin that wheel (don't spin the wheel).
God help me when I need to hot pee at 6. If they find me dead face down in 3 days, half eaten by the dog, in a stale 40yo sleeping bag, it wasn't a crime.
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Two hundred years since the death of John Keats. Poor, dear, John Keats. The Romantic underdog. Torn up by talent and petulance, and a mind we have never seen again in the English language.
His short and painful life began at the Hoop and Swan by Moorgate where he was the eldest of three boys and a girl. His father Thomas was a barman who came to manage or even own the pub (now Keats and the Globe for some reason, being nowhere near The Globe).
When Keats was seven he was sent to a school in Enfield, North London. Nine months after he started at the school, John’s father came to visit him and on the way home was thrown from his horse. Thomas Keats’s skull was fractured and he died.
This is in no way to hijack Jennifer's story, but if you want to know how it is to be spoken like that, in a different galaxy, I was waiting for the removal van to move us into a new flat and a man parked in the space started to get a suitcase out. And loads of suit bags.
I said, I'm really sorry but you can't park here right now, because we've applied for the removal van and everything. I pointed to the lamp post with the sign on it. He said, 'Fuck off little girl.' And marched off.
Dear TV People, Please and please do not ask me for my 'expertise' and then say you 'currently' have no budget. I am 42, and have 20 years in this game. NO time for this shit. It's rude and disrespectful. Also, don't email me if you're 22 and have a signature of 'Researcher'.
Because all you will get back is a screenshot of your email signature with something terrible across it. DO THE WORK. God, I am so angry.
Beyond angry. I spend my entire life dedicated to a husband and a dog, laundry, DIY and the writing *I* love. And some rascal says to me 'We currently have no budget'. Well nor do I.