A fat night's sleep and strange dreams, mostly to do with weeing, or not weeing.
Stella biting a stuffed IKEA bulldog's face like it was her job. The bulldog's face itself, looking like it was being bitten even when it wasn't. That 'kill the rat' shake that dogs do with a thing in their mouth, that makes them look like a killer and a tiny youngling simultaneously.
An angel-faced child making mouth-shapes at me, but staying deadly serious all the time. Not a hint of a smile. Me looking like a twat.
My own internal dialogue today, which has been making me laugh. I called so many people unforgivable names in my head today, including the hulking Swedish woman on the plane who was ruining her child with baby voices and a rife lack of conviction, the man who happened to be 'in my way', the woman on the train whose bag and lack of imagination were blocking the aisle.
The pleasure of Catherine, on the end of the phone. Kate, at home, and then Marg, also at home. Good women all. Good conversation. Warmth and wisdom. A text to/from puppy-like boy Ellis, a good man and my pretend son. Memories of my wig as his mother and the resulting SuBo look.
A cheque, a book, a CD waiting for me. A rash of pleasing texts.
A big fat duvet and a sofa bed. A steak and some dark green cabbage with a posh name. An unexpected cheesecake.
The Morrison's aisle sign that says only 'Beef' and 'Pies'.
The prospect of swimming in the pond tomorrow and testing my mettle, breakfast with lovely Ruth and a walk on the heath with Catherine.
A great big future full of promise.
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