“You can’t put a price on a permanent shirt,” according to the voice holding forth from my kitchen bench. Only you can. And that price is $US875, which is, apparently, a good deal.
The three gorgeous girls glued to this tiny screen are all health nuts. They’d been swimming and just cooked themselves lunch; bacon, eggs and avocado on six-seed bread. They’d cut up pineapple and peeled lychees for dessert; made smoothies with berries and ice. Then they propped a phone up against the napkin holder – the 21st century television – and watched Youtube clips about tattoos.
It seems their bodies are temples begging to be decorated.
The Athlete departs for Europe in a couple of hours. She’s in line to check in as I type. I told her I expect texts at 15-minute-intervals for the next two weeks. She told me I need a glass of wine. I told her I’ve had two and am desperately resisting the urge to pour a third. I love her more than life itself and hate it when she travels alone. God help me when she has children.
The Husband remembered to pass on a message from yesterday. Cousin Suzie is in hospital again, gripped with psychosis. Her husband has his own struggles and visiting the public hospital’s mental health ward is too much for him. He knows I’ll visit.
For the record
I have another cold sore, despite having just picked the final layer of skin from the last one. What’s going on? Perhaps all this WRITING till the wee hours is unhealthy. Perhaps. But golly it’s fun.
My kitchen still sports pantry moths. Now there are ants to keep them company.
Tomorrow is shaping up to be a hell of a day.