Mince Pies

You'll be pleased to hear I made it six, nay six and a half good days. Yesterday there was sleep and painting(!) and almond pasting. Today went a bit wobbly according to the 5.30 start, never a good thing. The blip lasted a few hours, remedied by a good ol sing song in the House of Commons no less. London sometimes smacks me in the face, still. I watch it and go, no, London, you are not a miracle, and it goes BIG BEN WHITEHALL MEN WITH SILLY HATS ON HA. Westminster crabby. I'm glad I met someone else who thought the Friends box set was a good idea.

The House of Commons! Shall I take everything off, I asked the man at security, your coat will do, he said. I got an instant Polke-(new contemps)-esque photo pass, quite pleased with it but wondering whether my burgeoning tax bill is really going in the right places. I was directed by what must have been ten different jolly staff members, still not believing they let me in. I didn't really get it, the ceremony, all Malcolm Third Sector and rhetorical talk of nothingness. I drank two glasses of their wine, scooped shit loads of brandy-laced cream onto two of their mince pies, and looked out onto the THAMES. We sang a couple of songs, I wanted more. It reminded me of the town hall concerts, years of getting up at 8am on Saturdays in order to practice flute badly and wait for break time to eat penny sweets. All in order for the termly presentation of results, all made worth it by an audience.

We made chat further than fondues this time, the remove of the crowd made them normal. I slipped off for further browsing, watching some religious epistle in the House of Lords and something about water and flood prevention in the House of Commons. Hilary Benn is a MAN. I feel stupid. My day felt rescued, the interview looms. Make soup, chat twice, three times. Music. Slight prancing. Decisions? Difficult. Not doing any more thinking now but hoping I will sleep it out.