Sing When You're Whining

I am sitting in my freezing bedroom, where everything that stands still long enough develops a rash of mildew, wearing a long jumper and a long cardigan.  This is currently the hub of the house because the TV is gone, and my books are packed.  Life is channelled to and from me through this monitor.  I may need gloves.  I lost the Lost Property ones last winter.  I pray to the patron saint of Eurostar that it does not snow over the next month. 

The more I get rid of, the more this looks like a squat that Pete Doherty would scorn.  The more I pack, the more I wonder if I actually need any of it.  Right now I'd be quite happy to leave with my duvet and the computer.  And some spare pants and socks.  That makes me sound like a boy.  Beyoncé certainly didn't mention that in her song.

As it gets exquisitely colder and I get nearer check-in and check-out there are so many feelings.  One day I might be able to talk about it, or I might just forget it.  For now it's a knot and will have to stay a knot.  One day soon I might be too distracted by karaoke with a bunch of new chums to remember.