My mortality was waiting for me in a pile of laundry again, today. Okay, perhaps not in the three-a.m. trying to put myself to sleep by singing Smiths songs backwards kind of way, but in that "whinge whinge whinge where has my life got me thus far?" way.
Because folding a pile of the kinds of teeshirts nobody can really have been expected to wear (even I don't: gods know where I got so many adult XLs with dippy unfashionable logos on them -- not a stitch of camp on any of them, really) is like having my eyes propped open and pointed directly into the sodium glare of my upper-middle-class young-intellectual's [cough, hack, wheeze] sloth and poverty. There are stains in the armpits of them. This is not my beautiful life. This is not what I wanted.
Shit. And now the house is full of people who either want my attention or at least won't shut up. I will finish this later: it was, in fact, destined to end with hope, include a thesis on the place of large-scale architectural destruction and epoch-making (why else do we have the phrase "safe as houses") and was likely to cheer you all up. But I will leave you with the dispiriting image of stained white teeshirts, malaise, and the recommendation to read He died with the felafel in his hand, an adorable little Australian book on shared housing and its discontents. Apparently they've made a movie of it.
Okay, I can't think over the stage patter happening in the front room. Until later.
a