Beneath this thin veneer of calm, swan-feet are churning.
On my way home from work I stopped for a good few minutes to watch the swans on the lake with their seven beautiful fluffy babies. They were protective and nonchalant in elegant swan-style, and gently but firmly saw off some curious mallards. I imagine cygnets have quite a high survival rate because frankly, who is going to mess with a fucking swan?
But I'm not really like that. I'm more Maria from the Abbey spluttering "SEVEN CHILDREN?" Mind you she did get to marry Christopher Plummer, which must have eased the horror, somewhat.
Tomorrow, my friend and colleague J (one and the same person) will come to meet my landlord. Presumably to see if he's suitable and not a serial-killer. I don't think he's a serial-killer. He's kept it quiet if he is. If he passes the serial-killer test, he can have the apartment. And whatever furniture he wants. Frankly at this point I would give away all my worldly goods, bar a few items of clothing.
I have a longing to be in England, but I suspect it's an England that doesn't exist any more. England is mainly the amphibian Nigel Farage at the moment, with a sprinkling of Boris, and a chaser of Rees-Mogg. Cunts, the lot of them. Still, I really need to go home.
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