Buying shoes to make all my problems go away

Hello sports day my old friend. I’ve come to talk with you again. 365 days later we are back on the pitch for Reuben’s sports day for which I was once again dressed completely inappropriately for. After annihilating / cheating in the egg and spoon race and fielding suspicious stares from other parents, we decide to cut our losses and slip away. Two days later, sports were back in my life in the form of the world cup, where Reuben took it upon himself to cheer for the Republic of Congo, much to the chagrin of his father. Bookending the week with yet more ! sports ! we rolled up to Phoenix’s sports day late, during which had to engage in some bribery and black magic in order to actually get her to partake. All of which made me double down on the fact that i fucking hate sports.

On Wednesday I went to an exhibition celebrating the breadth and beauty of queer culture where I writhed around a giant latex bed and imagined I was in an episode of British Horror Story: Brighton Pier.

I also saw a picture of my book How To Be A Goth displayed in some German museum next to a slime green tank top emblazoned with the word brat and rather inexplicably a hi res construction workers vest. The grouping of which I’m marginally unclear of. Maybe something to do with building a post goth, post brat future? Thank you to the admirer who sent me this!

A trailer for a movie called Tusk about a man who gets kidnapped, has all his limbs cut off, gets put inside a human walrus skin suit and has to pretend he is a walrus. And now I’ll never sleep again.

A pair of vintage Chanel kitten heels because I like the idea of cosplaying as a very chic neurotypical French woman who remembers where she left her keys, phone and wallet, can consume copious amounts of bread and wine without getting an inflamed gut, shits regularly, and is enthusiastic about going to the gym. Basically buying shoes to make all my problems go away.

A comment from a troll berating me for my negative canthal tilt, which is clavicular speak for downwards slanting eyes. Tbh they are my most distinctive feature. Tom always says that when i * eventually *get my facelift i’ll have to tell the surgeon to pull down instead of up, otherwise the kids will no longer recognise me, which does sound pretty tempting to be fair.

Partied with a former child star for the lore

Thought about going to Madonna’s party

Oversaw a mouse’s burial in the country

Lost my voice after saying too many nasty things. Might have to bring a whiteboard with me to Couture.

On Thursday we were back at The Hart for Lauren Sherman’s cosy pub dinner where i ended up stealing some of Plum Syke’s mince bun, having eschewed my own gluten and dairy free alternative.

Second place goes to the parmesan custard I had at St Clements, which came with caviar and crisps. Actually, strike that, I think this was first place. A salty, creamy, delight. The physical manifestation of umami.

“Don’t burn the house down and complain to the fire-brigade” Jack

Must stop smoking, drinking, and eating gluten.