First Sunday Breakfast

I am sitting at my new Breakfast Bar, looking at my objects in the Open Plan Storage, contemplating my new Clothes Rail and Loft Window, and wondering how to pace my spendage around the Mezzanine Floor. All of these late cliches, was he right when he said they're only cliches because they're true, finally, and thinking how a want satisfied is truly pleasing. All these silly 80s continental modes that were the dream are now here. It reminded me how I thought Ikea vase twigs were cool in 1997, jealous of her mum wanting them for Christmas, and now my mum has the gross things in miniature next to the fireplace. I am tapping into my 'what won't my parents let me have, I'm having it' place. It's 1994 and Clarissa is so cool.

I had a really good day on Friday, despite a late non-breakfast and an allergied head. I reclaimed my computer yesterday, so the wave was lost and now I'm floating again. Bobbing, (very excited by dairy apples). It was this fear that, you know, whatever accolade you put on a life-change, you're still you when you get there. And that being a most fearful problem. All these ideals, imaginings, projections, I must get the perfect 'shabby chic' chester drawers (sic), but where does it end? Like these people who are always doing up their houses, filling them with Ikea crap, reinventing, objects as goals. They will always be their poor unfortunate apres-garde s(h)elves.

I have grown myself a fear of change and the future. I told her in August that my plans were literally into next week, and I wasn't lying. Now, my visions are further, my plans fortnightly. I'm looking through my diary and the only skeleton is tea dances and medical appointments. It saddens me greatly. But considering only a few months ago the diary was scrapped, the book of plans shot, the future combusted, dissolved, exploded, blotted out, I really cannot give myself an instant-fix hard time. I must learn ways to relax and realign, and think. I want to think. I am not apathetic anymore and this is amazing.

I told the eighty year old man in shiny shoes and tails that I feel too old to learn anything new. I felt utterly ridiculous as soon as I'd said it, knew it was one of those moments where you shoot out of yourself and go, did you just hear that, what she said, my god, learn right there will you. Something sharply bookmarks that moment so you'll remember the feeling that it made, bottle the impulse. Did you just hear that, you made your own lesson in an instant. It felt good. I nervously danced around, not knowing where to look, what he was thinking, if his wife had died, how polyester felt a bit yucky under hand, wondering who was watching me and how I must have appeared. I don't know what to do, I said; pretend you've just had a dry martini, he told me. He skipped about and I awkwardly tried to copy, secretly knowing I could do it even though right now it didn't seem that way.