Surrealism

Surrealism is following me around today like a lost puppy. The gas engineer phoned while I was out shopping and said I'd left a message that sounded like a Dalek on his messaging service. Juggling my bag, wire basket and a handful of potatoes, I accidentally deleted all the notes on my iPhone during the call in such a way that I can't retrieve them (I don't back them up to anything, and it was a text-delete, not a note-delete, so they are irretrievable). But I was sort of relieved.

I looked in the window of the North London Hospice charity shop on the way back, and there was a harmonium (very good condition, and quite a coincidence because I almost sold my piano yesterday), plus literally scores of white satin wedding dresses festooned about the shop and lined up obediently on hangers, as though waiting for husbands to insert prospective wives into them, waltz out of the shop to the church down the road, and marry them. A veritable production line of marriages, all in a north London suburb. Wow.

Actually, the problem with losing the phone notes is that they partially contained a list of all the things I've got to catch up on after being ill. Will I remember them all? I don't know.

We used to play a game on the train home from school. 'You've dropped your head!', pointing at the floor. Everyone got caught at least once, looking down instinctively before playing the trick on the next fool in a school uniform. I've certainly dropped my head, or the contents, anyway. 

It's quite nice. 

I think I'll leave it there on the floor and see what else turns up in the surreal world of the High Street.