small things

Mutual recognition after years.
The adrenaline rush of working an event.
Hash browns muddled through soup for my tea.
I made a hair thing. It’s held together with superglue. I may have had to pull superglue from my hair, having tried it on too quickly.
A child of darkness reference. Always a winner.

Googling the ugliest footballers. Oh, my eyes.
Enchiladas and casual stereoptyped hate. The perfect sidedish.
A new purse. So vintage looking, and quite purple.
Finding my perfume, in a larger size, reduced not once but twice, and then again at the till point, making the big bottle significantly cheaper than the small bottle.
A black cat on Stavordale Road.

A new pub, passed many times on the way home (A Sam Smiths to boot).
Leaving at the right time.
Paintings.
Curious options for guide animals. Squirrels? Flies?
A second round of beer. Thank god. Very inappropriate to run out at a private view.

A squirrel with a walnut in Russell Square. Whuh?
I'm a little sparkly cloud of greyness today.
Sitting on the floor with a pillow between my back and the radiator. Just like revising for my GSCEs, many years ago. All I needed was a parent shouting at me because I'll take the radiator off the wall. Oh so warm though.
An indecent proposal.
Reading half a book at my desk, illicitly. I work in literature, so it's almost justifiable, right?

Cocktail hour at Skylon with a glamorous auntie, a Tom Selleck a-like and the middle Pickard. Fun.
A vast collection of sauces and dishes accumulated between us and the encroachers on our shared table. A small fort was constructed, lined with defenses of dead eyed polite smiles.
Quiet domesticity before the end of the day.
The way my big grey scarf smells when it's just been washed.
My ipod ran out of juice just as I took my keys out of my pocket to get in the house. Nice timing.
A big mug of Barrys tea.

A couple of hours in Tate Britain and the pub with a funny friend, on the spur of the moment. Walking through the snow from the Tate, past the Houses of Parliament, was far too remininscent of a Turner for anyone's good (and certainly far too cold and wet for my good). Still a thrill, despite quotidian familiarity.
The joy that is spending an evening with a man clad in a wrinkle-free M&S shirt.
Messing with the youth of Shoreditch. Did you hear that story? In the Ham and High? About that guy who died... and the hearse? Hours of fun and games.
Cherry red and red cherries.
The small things thing has gone analogue.

A morass of deep-fried Dutch barsnacks. Taste of my childhood. Also, fritesaus!
An affectionate rub of my sleeping head.
The Big Red, the Big Red!!
A good streetfind - a (slightly grubby) large green mousemat in the shape of an M.
Buttons down my spine.

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