Resenting David Copperfield, the boring little fucker going on about his love for Dora, who I’m sure will turn out to be a twat.
I’ve no time for a man who can’t forward an email sent three weeks ago.
I do draw the line at cheese with fruit in.
L came into the library, dressed as one of the Cambridge Tracts in Mathematics.
Bizarre dream about being ushered into a doctor’s office with two other people, everyone apparently under the impression I was one of three consultant experts on setting limbs in plaster. There was an elderly patient about whose case I was invited to give my opinion. I protested early on that they’d got me mixed up with someone else, and it was fine. Still, the message seems clear enough: fear of being found out.
I tried to find a book today using the flank-pat system and it didn’t work.
I don’t want to go to the pub, really, but I do want some alcohol very much, and for someone else to buy it for me.
More imaginary conversations with R in which I’m Kristin Scott Thomas. Weird.