It's hard to know how to start the entry after the one where the world feels like it's going to end... but I'm still here, and trying to hang in.
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On Friday A stopped to help an elderly homeless man who had been blown over by the wind. “I’m a bit scared to get up,” he said, “in case I get blown over again.” So he kept shuffling along on his bum.
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S says that the possum sounds like an old man masturbating, and we all look at her, horrified.
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My flatmate says the Gibbon’s name is Nippy, he’s 59 years old, and he is at the top of a hierarchy of two. Once he bit off someone’s earlobe. He’s very noisy this morning. I used to think that the sound of Nippy calling was some kind of strange other-worldly bird.
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I’ve been doing some research into loft beds, as my dad is going to make me one for my very small new room. Now I can’t believe I survived childhood without a bed with a slide. Or turrets. Or wheels. Or cowboy boots.
