small things

A glass of wine with lunch. A consequence of being essay free for a month or so.
A good gig.
Having the time to hoover.
Good underwear - scarlet, worn under black and white.
Walking home from Camden unplugged, listening to the sound of North London on a Saturday night.

A mid-day walk through town in glorious sunshine so warm that I had to take off my jacket.
A Pickard pitstop.
Sitting on the doorstep barefooted flicking through Time Out.
A late night decision to hop on the bus and play in town.
A deadline met.

Seagulls wheeling and swooping, attacking a lone misguided pigeon over Caledonian Road.
An impasse at the lift, and the following bemused laughter.
Pure evil.
Satay sauce.
Missed Connections in the London Paper.

The crunch of the remnants of a car window, sparkling under orange street light.
The fact that Elderflower Youth tastes just like being six in the Hague.
The following conversation between two suited and booted Westminster men regarding the second man's sandwich choice - "So what about crayfish - isn't that an animal? That's not vegetarian." / "No, it's a fish, it's fine." No, Mr. Man - crayfish is not in fact a fish - you muppet. (And, even if it were a little more piscine, it still wouldn't be that vegetarian, would it?) The first man didn't question the second's authority though. Astounding.
A phone call that left me smiling all the way home.
The ticking noise that the heating makes just as it kicks in - the only noise in an otherwise silent flat.

An impromptu pizza lunch with the boys, with conversation flavoured with restructures, birthdays, a history of beauty - y'know, the simple things.
The best coat I've seen all week - a pink Big Bird pelt, worn over a glittery frock (waiting for a bus at 3pm on a Tuesday).
David's playlist on my Ipod - still good, despite the fact he's a grumpy shitbag.
Being dressed like a mime artist all day. Apparently, my skills need brushing up though.
Skinny wrists.

The thought of a big leather bed called Romeo. Just makes me laugh and laugh and laugh.
A choir of ex-girl friends.
Ill-advised strawberry laces.
The moment at which I decided that no - no matter how elegant and innocuous the yoga trousers seemed, I was not going to nip to the corner shop in a tracksuit bottom equivalent. I may have been sitting on my bed, chained to my computer, for TWO DAYS, but it'll be a cold day in hell before I'll leave the house in leisure wear.
The summer smell of fake tan.

Analysis of last night's fun and games over a cooked breakfast and the papers, basking in the sunshine. I love being back from the cafe by 11am - it's a good start to the day.
Last week's Guardian Guide. Brilliant. Restores my faith in the Saturday papers a wee bit.
Pitta-bread stock replenished.
The frustratingly delayed, but satisfying when it finally arrives, post-10pm work ethic. Why is it that I just can't focus during daylight?
Orangina. The taste of summers in Moureze.

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