How did I end up in Southwood Lane last night? It was the most vivid dream I've had in ages. Strangely, Betty and Peter and B were all there with me and we were debating whether we could all stay in the room. I remembered every detail. I even remembered landlord Rupert's exact address and the name of streets around. Highgate throbbed larger than life in my head and it's still thrumming away there, memory as alternate reality.
I don't know where the dream came from though. It's not as though I'd eaten cheese before bed. Or even been thinking about the London days excessively.
Although Rupert had crossed my mind and I had mentioned him at the Melbourne Cup lunch, and while cooking yesterday I did think about a phone call with Dan when I was in the Southwood Lane kitchen, and called him possum and felt stupid and juvenile and desperate for it. So, I don't know from whence the thoughts came, but they weren't unwelcome.
Yesterday after work I quickly stuffed some field mushrooms and then chose the mango recipes for the evening before barreling out the door to see the sunset. I learned that the sunset seemingly lasts longer when it's overcast/ cloudy because the light is reflected. And there were dolphins. And warm water. Ooh and a few trickles of lightning.
I went shopping with sandy feet and smiled in at the bead shop man, though I was good and didn't spend anything this time.
There was just one horrible horrible moment as I was pulling out of the Shell station on Cambridge when I realised the screaming sirens and flashing police lights were right behind me. I pulled over, quivering, but it wasn't me they were after. Is it December 22 yet?
The mango adventures continued, to the staccato of B's expletives from the other room - these programming languages lay their obstacles before him. Three jars of mango butter (melted sugar fucking hurts on bare skin), some chicken and mango rice-paper rolls with a zingy sweet chilli sauce (lime juice hurts on cut hands) and finally some macadamia and mango muffins (no injuries).
tonight: music at the hyde park hotel (hydey if i was a proper local), and rest.
I don't know where the dream came from though. It's not as though I'd eaten cheese before bed. Or even been thinking about the London days excessively.
Although Rupert had crossed my mind and I had mentioned him at the Melbourne Cup lunch, and while cooking yesterday I did think about a phone call with Dan when I was in the Southwood Lane kitchen, and called him possum and felt stupid and juvenile and desperate for it. So, I don't know from whence the thoughts came, but they weren't unwelcome.
Yesterday after work I quickly stuffed some field mushrooms and then chose the mango recipes for the evening before barreling out the door to see the sunset. I learned that the sunset seemingly lasts longer when it's overcast/ cloudy because the light is reflected. And there were dolphins. And warm water. Ooh and a few trickles of lightning.
I went shopping with sandy feet and smiled in at the bead shop man, though I was good and didn't spend anything this time.
There was just one horrible horrible moment as I was pulling out of the Shell station on Cambridge when I realised the screaming sirens and flashing police lights were right behind me. I pulled over, quivering, but it wasn't me they were after. Is it December 22 yet?
The mango adventures continued, to the staccato of B's expletives from the other room - these programming languages lay their obstacles before him. Three jars of mango butter (melted sugar fucking hurts on bare skin), some chicken and mango rice-paper rolls with a zingy sweet chilli sauce (lime juice hurts on cut hands) and finally some macadamia and mango muffins (no injuries).
tonight: music at the hyde park hotel (hydey if i was a proper local), and rest.
posted by BanAnna at 11/05/2009 06:07:00 pm
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