FROM THE BRICKS TO THE STICKS
Sorry. This is one shambolic moving card. But perfection is a poisonous thing. Crave the incomplete. Half-do things. Cherish the ugly and leave it that way…ugly.
Where was I? Yes, disorientated, my life in boxes that may never empty such is the manner of moving home. As I write, a coastal fly with cowshit breath circles above me while the leaking fridge impersonates the groans of an uploading mac on its last legs. I want to kill it. I will, after we’ve spoken – I’d hate to implicate you in a murder trial.
I now live in the sticks, where patience governs technology. Today, broadband arrived at its own pace. The sea air induces one long stroke that takes around 40 years to sink into the central nervous system. But more of that later.
I’d like to dedicate this entry to Roberts & Denny’s, a removal firm and a half. Those boys put the hours in. If you need to lug your life sharpish, call them, and tell them your doctor sent you.
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