In Which I Catastrophically Misinterpret The Reality Of Having Carbon Monoxide Poisoning

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Feeling, so, I don’t know… deliciously Soviet. Like a wandering tourist who’s accidentally stumbled into Chernobyl and is now surrounded by all these terribly macabre-looking, pale-faced, chain-smoking, unshaven unemployed nouveau Bolsheviks.

Sometimes I think my head may very well be filled almost entirely by lots and lots of finely shredded cabbage.

(N.B. For anyone genuinely concerned, intoxication level mild)

Because You Can’t Take Paris Out Of The Girl

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There was  a man with a shop type thing across the street. Paper, I think he sold. Or envelopes. Or both. This shop was the most catastrophic mess you ever saw, like Hiroshima had decided to go 2.0 but limit itself to the parameters that were his business. He was fat and smoked cigars and wore blue overalls and used to make me laugh.

I miss Paris.

I left for the UK when I was seven, but the smells linger. Why smells, I don’t know. Mostly the metro, cafes thick with cigarette smoke (gone are those days, though) and the boulangerie. And memories of being very little and standing on tip-toes to see the macaron counter because the excitement was unbearable. And then the OH DEAR GOD realisation years later upon visiting the same establishment and seeing there were tables… and people and an entire cafe behind the counter. And there I was, having spent well over a decade assuming that place was solely-constituted of counter and lady behind counter.

Jacques Dutronc was before my time. And yet in so many ways, so very not.

According To Yahoo, The Gingerbread Man Lives In A Gated Community & Now I Know Why.

Sometimes, I like to buy Costa’s giant custard creams just so I can hold them in my hand and feel like Gulliver.

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I was in gmail earlier. I like to scroll down every so often to ‘details’ and then check the IP activity on my account. Then I get to sit on this big throne and look down at the account’s granular activity.
It’ll mostly be chrome this and mobile that. And then every so often, it’s “atom feed” which on the one hand I want to google the meaning of, but that would ruin the glee of feeling like I’m a very big queen, bull-in-a-china-shopping her way through a nuclear plant. The queen is mostly me, but bigger (or perhaps everything else is smaller, it’s hard to say) and my legs are two big tree trunks, partly eroded by whatever it is nuclear waste does to people, although that would suggest I’m metallic which I think I’m not. Actually no, totally am. And the atom feeds are like the little tiny blackberries escaping the advance of whoever it was that chased them in that Ribena advert. Except here they’re more like sub-atomic gingerbread men with huge woeful faces made of icing because they’ve seen me approaching and it’s all aaah-aaah because they know they’re done for and then I catch up with them then they’re all squashed #the end.
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