Soup

The house has become a sort of soup. I am sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by bananas, a pair of earrings, an Elvis Presley CD, a child's painting of a green witch, a French centime coin, the coffee in a flask I made this morning and forgot to take to work, a toothbrush and three screwdrivers.
Everything has slid about on a slide rule principle: the plastic dinosaurs are still in the bathroom, the rope lights are on the stairs, three empty guitar cases lean lopsidedly on a chair and a pile of duvet covers wait patiently on the landing, where we are trying to ignore them.
If I sneezed forcefully enough, everything would blow into the air and return to a more logical resting place.

Gina called this morning, full of the joys of being in the States with the Raincoats and Viv Albertine. She had a very funny rock'n'roll story about being caught in the hotel lift by the manager with a sofabed that she and Viv were trying to move from one room to another. They pretended that Viv had had a row with her husband and needed to move the sofabed out of his room and into Gina's.
Actually, she'd borrowed the sofabed from some guy they knew so she could sleep in Gina's room because a very born-again Christian Palmolive had come to stay too and it was getting rather crowded in there.
Apparently the hotel manager was really sympathetic to the guy they'd borrowed the sofabed from when he checked out, and told him he hoped they'd get over their quarrel!

There was another funny thing but I'm going to disguise that a bit like the Weasel and the Stoat story, and tell you another time!

I'm supposed to be writing tomorrow's lecture but I am unbelievably tired. I have the powerpoint from last year and I remember it leading to a lot of discussion, so let's hope that happens tomorrow too.
Goodnight!