I just Googled Thorntons, to see if is it's a company or a man called Mr Thornton, if the chocolates belong to the man. I just bought myself a massive 400g box from Morrisons (Morrison's?), for 5 quid. I felt really pleased with myself for spotting them, and then decided I needed to have a conversation with someone about why it was 'limited to 2 per customer'. So I went to check out the chocolate aisle, and sure enough there was a woman scoping out the gift boxes. I told her about the cheap ones, by the entrance next to the veg, how you can't have more than two valentines, ha!, and sent her scurrying off. I felt a bit gross about it, maybe she didn't even want them, maybe she was after Black Magic or Milk Tray. I decided I'm not going to eat Cadbury's boxes which have a Brazil nut in them after the school incident, it's not worth the gamble and they're not even that nice.
Valentines is always a big deal if your single. But most sane people abdicate from the whole thing, it's only those idiots who ring up Steve Wright's Sunday Love Songs who would want or give something pink and heart-shaped. Though we did discuss flowers last night. Flowers are not cheesy, they are beautiful, and everyone should receive them. Everyone should have a favourite, like a favourite crisp flavour. I mean not even I want crisps all the time, but there is a time. It was funny when I went into the flower shop the other week to ask about Peony Month and the guy with all his flowing hair was like 'what do you need them for?', and I had to say, 'oh, just for me', and it didn't even feel that bad. 'For me' would be enough. So I bought the chocolates as I really enjoy having them actually, gin and chocolates. Two or three, every now and again. They are like little self contained gifts, even if you do buy them yourself. So I took the five pounds off the twenty I found in the toilet, and there's still enough to buy a nice lipstick.
I just went through that last paragraph and de-comma-ed it. I'm feeling a bit over-compensatory with them, I don't want to feel like I'm pouring them in for English's sake. I am nervous about writing all of a sudden, I am watching myself do it, rather than letting itself pour. I am really nervous about writing. It needs to change and evolve, and it's meanings will change. I thought yesterday how it is like a non-political Golden Notebook. And the books aren't identical. The red leather is a private diary, the blog is articulation of thoughts and language, the orange pad is an ideas book for positive thoughts. The shoe box is my store for visual excitement, the A3 blue leather is a somewhat destitute sketchbook, the folder is an example of exciting words. And now I have to make a new way with words. These ones won't be sole, they will have something to say, people to explain, ideas to shake about. It will be new but it won't mean the other ways have to die, only evolve.
For anyone who is interested, Nigel came into the shop the other day, and I was very very nervous and my knees were burning, and I didn't know if I was allowed to declare myself. After a pause I said hello, explained I was the marmalade girl, and he was glad I said hello. It was a kind of non-event, to meet a kind of hero, kind of celebrity, ambassador for something I really think is good for the soul. But he was just a normal person of course, so not a let down as such but a myth breaker. It made us similar. We both make marmalade and drink Monmouth espresso. Boring really.