On the bus ride home I hear something. I don't recognise it immediately, until I notice my reaction to it. Eye roll, cringe, stare at lap, sigh.

It is the yodel of regret.

Brain: Um ... excuse me ... yodel, you say?
Babs: Yeah, can't you hear it?
((( Yodel-lay-he-yodel-lay-he-yodal-lay-he-who! )))
Brain: I hear nothing, nothing!
Babs: That you have at some point started modelling yourself on Colonel Klink explains a lot to me.
Brain: Yeah well, you're the one who still listens to me.
Babs: Hahaha, okay, you got me.

*****

I like working on Oxford St. I love walking down it, and adore the way whiffs of pastry and other goodness appear sandwiched between the pollution from the traffic.

I love pausing to consider that designer label I could never afford with a salivating "Hmmmmmmm."

I love the way my feet turn to stone for a minute when I'm in front of the window of that fetish shop, to wonder just how I'd look in their red corset, with a chuckle and a "Hmmmmmmm."

God help me, I even like where I go to throw out our rubbish, a place I've christened "Pee Alley". I imagine that on the odd late crazy night it's been a home to sex, drugs, violence, and crime. But mainly, it's just home to stinky pee.

*****

of course, work otherwise goes not so well in a couple of ways, but they are ... I want to say, pifling (?) in so much as they're very "pfff" and boring and trivial and pointless and I have a headache can you tell.

so let's just say, if everything was wonderful it wouldn't be called work.

or maybe it would, and it'd just have a different meaning to it. Shut up inner linguist.

******

Good thing: I want stuff.
Bad thing: I have less than no idea of how to get stuff.

It's the mankind-plaguing question I suppose, much in the vein of "can hamsters fly planes?"

I'm happy to want, to a point, but having seems so hopeless. Hello rut, you're so shiny and new, I think I'll put up some curtains.

<< >>