OPINIONS IN CORDUROY

Continuing with my birdwatching amongst the Costa Shop Regulars.......*

*I overhear the conversations because the tables are so close. I'm not spying.... honestly:

NAME: THE PROFESSOR             SPECIES: Academic male (early 60s at a guess)

SIGHTING: Occasional, (mostly Fridays)      CALL: A pot of tea

PLUMAGE: Completely corduroy with a hint of matching polo-neck jumper.  

                   Sensible shoes.

The roll-neck/jacket combination
It's all the rage

The Professor is about 6.4' and is as thin as a stick. He has a mop of long and wild gingery hair which gives him a very distinctive look and one that screams: “I am an academic, don't you know?”   If you can imagine a cross between Rod Hull (of Emu fame) and one of those old Open University Lecturers you used to see on the tv back in the 1970s, you are starting to get the picture. He always wears corduroy trousers (shudders – don't get me started on this personal pet hate) and a corduroy jacket which is invariably matched with a similar coloured polo-neck jumper. He certainly has a style of his own.

I remember the first time he arrived on our doorstep. He bounded up the stairs two at a time (we roost on the first floor of the bookshop) and marched over to inspect the complimentary newspapers. They obviously didn't tickle his fancy, for he loudly declared to the world that he was going across the road to to Beryl's Teashop because their drinks were cheaper and they provided a better calibre of newspapers.  Now granted, he does have a point about the newspapers - Costas only provide the Sun, The Express, The Daily Mail and the Bury Free Press – horses for courses I suppose, but Beryl's coffee is rubbish.

Available from all good bookstores

Well, of course, he came back. Then he came back with one of his friends. And then he came back with a different friend. And now he keeps coming back, although I think he still secretly visits Beryl just to keep himself up-to-date with the broadsheets. When he is alone he tends to read books from the shelves of the bookshop, although I have to say I've never actually seen him buy any. I noticed he was particularly interested in a couple of titles: ' The Victorian Fern Craze' and “The Victorian Home” and I can just imagine that is exactly what his own house looks like: Victoriana and ferns mingled with a mountain of reference books and cluttered pieces of paper.

What's this?  The Telegraph?
I'm off to Costas

However, it is when he is supping with a friend that he really comes alive; then the arms fly and the opinions flow. I think he belongs to another time, perhaps in an 18^th Century Covent Garden coffee house, discussing the Enlightenment or how to cure all the social ills of the Universe. However, he doesn't get angry or irritated with the state of world affairs, in fact, he is often quite jovial about it all; he just seems to enjoy social comment and the flaying arms are only employed to emphasise a point. In just one sitting, I have heard him pontificate on the inner city poor, the Asian market and it's effects on the economy, the problems of the Middle East (yep, all of them), the merits (or otherwise) of Obama, Thatcher, Cameron, Osborne and Milliband and the location of the new toilets in the Shopping Centre. Yet, the really interesting thing – well, to me at any rate – is that although the Professor and his friend appear to be in the middle of an intellectual debate, neither one seems to be actually listening to the other.

For the Professor sees a problem and he has an answer to it - then the friend has an opinion and he states his case and so they end up taking turns to speak.  Each has a pre-ordained point of view or an opinion in their head and the only thing they are focussed on is to get that particular thought out into the open. Thus their “discussion” simply becomes more of a sequence of declarations:

Professor: Of course, the thing with the new toilets is they are miles away from anywhere - right out of the way, just behind Debenhams.

Friend: You wouldn't want to put them slap bang in the middle of the the open plaza area.....

Professor: And no signs! Well, not unless you are coming from the south side of the Centre and then you're practically on top of them anyway.

Friend: I see Milliband has piped up again. Totally ineffectual of course. Always thought his brother was the better option.

Let's forget all our differences
and have a cuppa

So, never mind Westminster, Capitol Hill or Zhongnanhai; the whole world can be put to rights over a pot of tea and right here in sleepy Bury St Edmunds. The tea has long been drunk whilst all this is going on, but there the Professor sits, for goodness knows how long, waving his long arms about like Mr Tickle and jabbing the table with his bony finger to emphasise his point of view. I notice he doesn't wear any rings.  Of course, this may mean squiddly-dot, but I don't get the impression he is romantically involved with anyone; he certainly never mentions any names. And I can't say I'm entirely surprised, as I for one would find it extremely hard to live with that much corduroy and opinions in a confined, Victorian fern-filled space.

Next Sighting: The Lesser-spotted visitors

WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN? (tomorrow morning probs..)

Continuing with my birdwatching amongst the Costa Shop Regulars.......*

*I overhear the conversations because the tables are so close. I'm not spying.... honestly:

These two characters were the original Regulars.

NAME: POISON GRANNIES                    SPECIES: Grannies

SIGHTING: Common, All year                               CALL: 2 Cappuccinos &

                                                                                        a glass of tap water chaser

PLUMAGE: Head to toe Edinburgh Woollen Mill/Marks & Spencers Classic Collection

                  Granny 1 prefers dark, denim jeans with ironed-in creases

                   Heavily wrinkled

                  Thick powder puff (I would guess Max Factor – like my nan used to use)

                  Visible varicose veins - Granny 2 who prefers floral pattern skirts

L'Oreal
Because we're worth it

This pair border on the stereotype. Granny 1 is tall and thin, whilst Granny 2 is short and more rounded. A sort of Laurel and Hardy, but without the hats. The first thing that strikes me is the well-worn skin on their faces. My mother would describe them as having a 'hard face', but I think I prefer the term: 'lived in'. They both wear face powder a shade too dark, which sits in the crevices and only accentuates the problem. Think Keith Richards in lipstick and you start to get the picture. I have concluded that their facial erosion can only be put down to a) smoking, and/or b) frowning. I'm not sure about the first, although I can certainly picture them with a glass of gin in hand and a fag hanging from the corner of their mouth. However, I do have stronger evidence about the frowning. Because they frown a lot, these two; frown and bitch.

A cappuccino &
glass of tap water please

During the whole time I have been sitting here bird-watching, I cannot think of a single occasion when I heard anything pleasant or positive from their table. They simply don't seem to have a kind word to say about anyone which made me think, 'blimey, they're a poisonous couple of individuals' and the name just stuck.

They are the kind of people you could easily imagine sitting there at the end of the family table at Christmas, wearing a paper hat and a scowl that could stun a brussel sprout, just because the turkey has overrun and they are missing the Queen's speech on the telly.  (As an aside, in my experience it is often the most miserable ones who wear the paper hats the longest at Christmas – a strange phenomena, but there it is).

Anyway, they are particularly venomous about one of their neighbours who apparently sits indoors all day, being waited on hand and foot by her son. I get the feeling the grannies wouldn't mind being waited on hand and foot by their offspring given half the chance, for it turns out that this isn't the neighbour's worse crime. Oh no, indeed not..... no, that would be her dreadful curtains: I shall take a large breath and let Granny 1 explain:

“I don't know what she was thinking and I bet she paid the earth for them, though you wouldn't think it to look at them and they don't go with anything because they're the wrong colour and they're much too heavy and will block out the light and I told her, I said, you'll have to have them dry-cleaned because they obviously can't be washed....”

A good mangle
does wonders

And so on. For 15 minutes without hardly drawing breath. Solid. Life doesn't get much more exciting than this, I can tell you.

Young people? “Of course, the problem with young people today is that they just don't wash things like we used to after the war”.

This surprising fact can apparently be pinpointed and laid at the feet of the demise of the mangle.

would you like to come up to my place
and see my curtains?

George Clooney? What on earth could be wrong with Gorgeous George I hear you ask. Well, he cuts no ice in rural Suffolk. Over to Granny 2:

“Well, you know, they had one of his films on the telly last night. I couldn't tell you what is was called, but I watched it 'till about quarter-past ten and then I thought: that's it, I've had enough' and went to bed. Don't know what all the fuss is about.”.

Granny 1 concurs. Poor George would be crushed.

The staff do try and lighten the mood.

Barista: Morning! Isn't it a lovely sunny day? Much better than yesterday. Are you up to anything nice?

Granny 2: No, just visiting my friend. She got run over at the weekend.

I try not to sit at the table next to them if I can help it, because the toxic doom and gloom seeping out from behind the cappuccinos tends to wash over me like a bucket of cold mist.

One does love a good laugh

I have also secretly pledged never to invite them to Christmas dinner at my house for fear that my table linen won't be up to scratch - not to mention that my middle daughter is a huge fan of George Clooney and my turkey always, without fail, overruns. In fact, we haven't seen the Queen's speech in more than 7 years.

Actually, I am not too sure about my curtains either........

Next Sighting:  The Professor

WE FEW, WE HAPPY FEW, WE BAND OF BROTHERS;

Continuing with my birdwatching amongst the Costa Shop Regulars.......

Now, this next up is a very strange one..

NAME:   HENRY V                           SPECIES: Middle-age Male

SIGHTING: Common, All year                         CALL: Cappuccino & a blueberry muffin                                                                                                                            

PLUMAGE: Khaki sleeveless utility jacket (lots of pockets) over navy blue jumper

Red/black North Face jacket (looks new)

Blue check wool scarf

A painting which hangs
in the National Gallery

This chap is a recent addition to the Regulars. He has a very odd hairstyle which instantly reminds me of a painting of Henry V which hangs in the National Gallery. The style is like a very short, pudding-basin haircut - actually, it's less of a pudding-basin and more of a cereal bowl. I'm not sure what he asks for when he visits the barber:

Barber:  “Afternoon sir, and what can we do for you today?”

Henry V: “A short, cereal-bowl cut rather like that painting of Henry V which hangs in the National Gallery please.”

Barber:    “Right you are sir. Doing anything nice at the weekend?”

Henry V: “Oh, you know, nothing much. A relaxing coffee in Costas, before popping over to France for a quick siege at Harfleur, maybe a spot of argy-bargy at Agincourt, then back to Calais in time for tea and some duty free luxuries .... normal weekend really"

Or it could be like the ancient joke my father always likes to tell:

I'd like a Henry V please

Barber:  “Afternoon sir, and what can we do for you today?”

Henry V: "I'd like my hair cut like David Beckham please.”

Barber cuts hair into a short cereal-bowl style, rather like that painting of Henry V which hangs in the National Gallery.

Henry V (outraged):  “But that's not how David Beckham has his hair cut”!

Barber: “Well he would if he came in here sir”.

Boom, boom...

But I digress: Henry V's hair is always very neatly combed, even in inclement weather – which is admirable – and he wears little half-glasses to read the paper (unfortunately, another blessed Daily Mail reader). He often cleans his ear out with his little finger.

He is always alone and seems to be in a constant bad mood, which means he comes across as a right old misery guts. In fact, I often feel he looks upon the rest of us mortals with disdain: something inferior and nasty that he has to put up with - a necessary evil of life. He does a sort of  'cutting his eyes' thing over the top of his glasses (usually with a faint sigh) at people who have irritated him and has a withering look that could stun a crying child at 50 paces.


Henry V particularly dislikes being disturbed by noise when he is reading his paper....

Women talking loudly on the other side of the room? Huff.....

Child whinging for attention from indifferent mummies?Glare.....

Mobile phone conversation on the next table? Grrrr..

Have you seen that painting of
Henry V which hangs in
 the National Gallery?

I have wondered if his gripe with the world rests beneath some deep-seated psychological issue, resulting from an unrequited love. Maybe the only woman in the whole universe who could possibly replace his mother as his soul-mate, rejected his amorous advances and ran off with a plumber from the next village. Oh, the injustice..... Of course, the simple reality may be that his Y-fronts are chafing, but who knows? I'm certainly not going to ask him.

He doesn't appear very popular. The staff never ask how he is and although some of the other Regulars smile at him, he never responds. No-one wishes him a 'good morning', but he doesn't seem to mind - in fact, I think he actually prefers it that way.

Next sighting: The Poison Grannies

BIRDWATCHING WITH COFFEE

The Tiara has not been on good form just lately. Life has taken yet another one of its regular wrong turnings and left me up a gum tree with a leaky paddle. First, I thought I would vent my spleen at the injustice of my lot through my blog, but then the vacuum cleaner broke so the Dyson felt the full force of my wrath instead. The result of all this anger is the vacuum cleaner lies a broken piece of revolutionary engineering in the spare room and I am still shouting at whatever God happens to be passing by.

Thus, with a dusty floor and a heavy heart, I plod off to my local Costa Coffee to sit and watch my world pass by. I often tweet about the regulars that flock there, so I thought as part a creative writing therapy to lift my mood, I would blog about the characters that share my hour every morning between 9 and 10am. They are all real people; their monikers merely protect their identity and save myself from a black eye should any of them ever find out I am writing about them.

Despite an abundance of tea shops, we have two Costa Coffee shops in this town (and a Starbucks, but that's a whole different kettle of mackerel) and they all do a roaring trade with the more elderly population who seem to be more than happy to pay £2.45 for a cappuccino*.

*According to my mother (who purports to know about these things) the older person only ever orders cappuccinos because they know what's coming; whereas (according to her) no-one really knows what a latte involves – it's one of those exotic foreign practices – the unknown, like spaghetti bolognese in the 1970s. My mother feels the same way about pesto and even today, still won't entertain feta cheese.

Anyway, back to the coffee shop sightings. First up is one of my favourites:

NAME: ESPRESSO MAN                                   SPECIES: Elderly Male

SIGHTING: Common, All year                                          CALL: ESpresso, black

PLUMAGE: Raincoat, flat cap, shopping bag

This old fellow orders the smallest, but strongest espresso Costa can make. Espresso man is about 90 years old and I imagine he must have the stomach lining of a mountain goat, because he drinks this stuff every day. A little while back, my husband once tried an espresso. The resulting energy buzz meant he cut the lawns, washed the windows, took the rubbish to the dump and started to sort out the garage. However, the buzz eventually wilted and quickly curtailed this unnatural phenomona of movement. He retired to his bed with a headache, leaving the garage as a work-in-progress - where it remains to this day. He has never touched the coffee again.

Espresso man is a whole different specimen however. He is a tiny, bald Irish man who wears an oversized, beige raincoat and a muddy-green, chequered flat cap. He shuffles when he walks; is always alone and carries a jute shopping bag which appears to be empty apart from a copy of the Daily Mail. He is quite deaf but can cuss in 4 languages (Gaelic, English, Italian and French - I happen to know this for a fact).  He reads the newspaper aloud and whenever he comes across something that he considers ridiculous (which is nearly on every page – it is the Daily Mail after all) then the effing and jeffing begins. Most of the regulars and staff are very fond of the old guy and tend to let him get on with it, but he still causes much consternation to whoever happens to be sitting on the next table (Yummy mummys, tourists and posh people particularly get outraged). Espresso Man says his late wife had kissed the Blarney Stone and could talk and talk and talk; then she got Alzheimer's and everything went quiet... and then she died. His motto to life is: "never live too long".

Apart from me, Espresso Man is the only other customer I have seen to have his coffee delivered to his table.

Next sighting: Henry V

DON'T JUDGE A BOOK BY IT'S SUNGLASSES

A rather irritating thing occurred to me a few weeks ago – initially I let it go, but then almost exactly the same thing happened again this morning. It has really got up my nose which means I should probably write it all down, take it to the window and chuck it out with the rest of the mental garbage I insist on drowning myself with.

So, here goes.......

First, a snippet of background: My back and leg problems have left me in a bit of a state. I try not to use my walking stick – I have a hate/hate relationship with the blessed thing - it's a symbol of everything that is wrong with me and I stubbornly refuse to lie down and give in (at least to the outside world).  I live in a rural area (8 miles to the nearest shop) so I rely on the car.  I have also shoved my pride up my backside and accepted a blue mobility badge, which entitles me to park nearer to places and has admittedly been a great help.

When I received the badge, one of the first things my parents said to me was “well, you'll have to limp more than you do when you get out of the car; otherwise people will think you are cheating”. I was horrified at this suggestion. I have nothing to hide, I didn't blag my way to easy parking - I cannot walk 60/70m without resting and my application was fully supported by my GP, hospital consultant and physio, but it just shows the suspicious society we have sadly become. Now the general consensus is that everyone else is working the system and no-one (especially the law-abiding tax-payer) likes to think they are being short-changed by what they see as the privileges of others – the 'big society' sure is a leaky bucket.

Still, the brush sweeps wide and paints a lovely shade of stereotype. Although a number of people will fit the bill, we now seem to have a media situation where anyone on benefits is probably a 'cheat'; all single-mothers are pony-tailed, teenage miscreants wearing large gold hooped earrings (widows are also single-mothers, but let's not worry about that, it doesn't fit the argument). Oh, and don't forget those pesky teenagers who are all trouble-making hoodies; or how you can only be considered disabled if you are in a wheelchair; not to mention all mental health patients will most certainly push innocent strangers under trains at some point; or all Londoners are either the Notting Hill set or cheeky chappy cockney wide-boys etc., etc.,........I could go on.

But hold on a minute, I've been a few of these. I was born in the East End, and although I am generally cheerful, I don't spend my waking hours walking around with my thumbs in my braces, saying “gawd blimey guv, strike a light, those apple & pears have knackered me out today”. I've been a single-mother (sans ponytail/ earrings); I am now unable to work and have been on benefits in the past (which is not a lot of money for quite a lot of humiliation in the assessment tests). I have suffered mental health problems through depression – but I have never felt the urge to hurt anybody - and now I suppose I'm considered disabled, but I am resisting the wheelchair with all my might.  

However, as it turned out, it would seem that my parents were right...

Which (finally) brings me to my:

'bug up the nose episode of the week.....'

I had parked in a disabled bay outside the supermarket; it was busy and quite a few of the other disabled bays had cars with people sitting in them, presumably while their other half did the shopping, which you are not supposed to do, but is actually quite common practice. Anyway, as I was getting my bag out, an old boy, who was a complete stranger to me, came marching over and demanded to know the 'nature of my disability'. I was so shocked, I told him to mind his own business – whereupon he gave out a diatribe about how his wife was in a wheelchair, implying that she needed the space more than me. Perhaps she did, and I would have been happy to have moved on, if her other half hadn't gone into the “attack mode” straight away. It may have been wrong, but he was told in no uncertain circumstances where to go and I limped off into the supermarket with steam coming out of my ears.

It happened again today, when another old chap accused me of not being disabled – purely on the grounds of what I look like.   He also got a flea in his ear, because I would like to ask: what the hell is a disabled person supposed to look like? And why should they have to look like it? I have spent most of my adult life working in the Artificial Limb Centre in Roehampton, where the doctors and prosthetists work extremely hard to help patients function and appear aesthetically as near normal as possible. Most of the time you couldn't even tell if someone was wearing an artificial limb or not and surely that's the way it should be. 

 The sad thing is that this guy was convinced he was in the right and once he realised I was entitled to park in the spot, he accused me of not displaying the badge properly (it was clearly on show on the dashboard, he just hadn't bothered to look).  He made all of his assumptions and accusations completely without grounds and then refused to take responsibility for them.  The whole episode was unpleasant, upsetting and unnecessary and in the end he marched off without so much of an apology, kiss your ass or anything.  He had no understanding that people who have needs (whether physically or mentally) come in all different guises and need help for all different reasons - some of which will not be immediately visible.  Books and covers come to mind.

I know I am extremely vain and I go out of my way not to look my age or display what is wrong with me.  In fact, I have actually heard someone say:”well, she doesn't look very disabled,” and this observation was made when I have been sitting inside the car.  Well, thanks very much, but I don't want to wear a t-shirt that shouts:

'I AM DISABLED' 

if it's all the same - not because I'm ashamed, but because as far as I'm concerned, that is certainly not what defines me as a human being.

So, I shall still continue to have Pink blaring out of the car stereo when I pull up into a disabled parking bay and I shall refuse to dress my age; I shall keep wearing the eye-liner and Jackie O sunglasses and my only concession to the Daily Mail/Express disabled stereotype are my flat shoes and my stick (which I plan to cover in shiny diamante stickers). As I refuse to conform, I expect I shall be having a few more “discussions” like the one I had today with certain members of the Big Society, which seem to be mostly old boys in Waitrose car-parks. 

I hear so much hullabaloo about equal rights for the disabled and yet, when you try to remain equal, you are immediately labelled (yet again) with blagging the system. The bottom line is you can't have it both ways.

End of rant.....

THESEUS AND THE CONTROL FREAK

As the half-term holidays waves goodbye, so the 9 year old trundles back into the school playground with a heavy heart and an even heavier rucksack that would do a Gurkha proud, because deep within the bowels of that rucksack..... lies the dreaded half-term homework.

We have had a few “issues” this week with the homework and I'll be honest here – 90% of the trouble is me. For I am a perfectionist. I can blame my father all I like for this trait (and I frequently do) but in the end it's really up to me to control it. For instance, when child No.3 brings home a school project requiring a castle to be built entirely from household materials, I watch her at work.....and I watch....and I watch... and I try really hard, but I just can't do it; there I am, hovering round the empty Carlsberg Lager box and various toilet rolls with a pair of safety scissors and my glue gun. I just can't leave her alone to build the blessed thing without offering “constructive” advice.

ME: “What's that supposed to be?”

YUMYUM: (9 year old daughter): “It's a turret. Can't you tell?”

ME: (aghast) “That's not a turret. THIS is a turret!” (proudly producing a masterpiece that I just happened to have made earlier from the inside of a Thirst Pockets kitchen roll). “ You know, you have to be accurate about these things; for instance, what kind of architectural style does your castle represent?”

YUMYUM: (thinks hard)..... “uhmm....the Fairyland style?”

ME: “Okaay – well yes, that's a good start..... carry on....” (silently places the other 3 matching turrets I just happened to have made earlier on the dining room table and slopes off)

Then came the English homework:

Q.1. Retell the story of Theseus & the Minotaur in your own words.

Firstly, let me just say that the classics are a subject very close to my heart. I studied them with the Open University and unfortunately, I can be a bit of a purist (ok, pedant) about the subject.

I can still remember squeaking at the cartoon film: “It's Heracles not Hercules! That's Roman, you Disney plebs - it's HAIR...A...CLEES not HER...KEW...LEES!! And YumYum saying: “mum, shut-up, the people in the second row are staring at us”. (side-note: even as I am typing this, Microsoft is telling me that 'Heracles' is misspelt – unlike the word 'Hercules'. I feel an e-mail coming on, but I digress).

spot the difference           

Anyway, YumYum goes off to write up her essay and I know I shouldn't have looked, but I did...

ME: “Er, I don't think that's quite right”

YUYUM: Giving me that 'here we go again' look.

ME: “Well, I just don't think Ariadne would say that to Theseus – after all, she was meant to be in love with him.

Own up woman, what have you done with me trews?

YUMYUM: “and?”

ME: “And maybe I'm a bit old fashioned, but if you're in love with someone who is about to face certain death in the middle of a labyrinth at the hands of a bloodthirsty monster - would you really say: “Listen Theseus, here's the deal. Luckily for you I  just happen to have this brilliant magic sword and a ball of silken thread.......”

YUMYUM: “I would say that” (one pities any future boyfriends – they may have their work cut out there).

Of course, she may have a point, for Theseus ends up abandoning Ariadne on the island of Naxos.  Perhaps he finally wanted to prove who really wore the trousers......

Now husband pipes up.

OTHER HALF: The question says “in your own words”. They are her own words. That's how kids talk and that's the kind of things they hear on tv and read in books now. Enid Blyton is dead. Long live the Horrible Histories and Nickelodeon.

..and here we have a fine example of
an Early English Gothic style
Castle from the Fairyland Period

So I let it go. It pains me greatly but I know that sometimes I have to step back because there is a fine line between helping and taking over or controlling. My intentions are well meant, but I have to consider the long term effect they will have on my daughter. I need to give her the space and freedom to grow and learn in her own way and only wield the double-sided tape when she really wants me to.

My castle is not her castle.

End note: Ariadne's bolshieness earned YumYum a credit, while the castle won first prize.

THE SEATS IN COSTAS

This song often gets stuck in my head when sipping a latte......
To the tune of 'Streets of London' and with apologies to Ralph McTell (I hope he doesn't get too cross if he ever finds out about it)

Have you seen the old man

sitting there in the corner,

flicking thru the paper

with a worn out sigh.

In his eyes you'll see no light

they're deadened by a too-long life.

Yesterday's hero - reading yesterday' s news

So how can you tell me you're lonely

and say for you that the sun don't shine?

Well, let me take you by the hand and lead you through the seats in Costas.

I'll show you something to make you change your mind.

And have you seen the young girl

sitting glued to her iPhone,

staring at her lap through her unbrushed hair.
She's no time for smiling;

She just keeps right on typing.

Checking every minute - for a text that's never there.

So how can you tell me you're lonely

And say for you that the sun don't shine?

Well, let me take you by the hand and lead you through the seats in Costas.

I'll show you something to make you change your mind.

And in the bookshop cafe at a quarter to eleven,

you will always find me - sitting there on my own.

Looking at the world

over the rim of my laptop;

editing a novel -

that the world will never know.

So how can you tell me you're lonely

And say for you that the sun don't shine?

Well, let me take you by the hand and lead you through the seats in Costas.

I'll show you something to make you change your mind