Alice, Don't Give It Away

Cracking on with the how-disgusted-am-I-at-my-own-laziness angle, I cleared yet another heap of unhomed rubbish off the dining table this evening. The kids were getting confused about being expected to eat there, and seeing as our lifestyle has evidently instilled social deviancy in the one who is no longer going to school, the function of the dining table seems fairly pivotal in lessening the slide into ruin.

There wasn't anything greatly exciting lurking there; 2 weekend's worth of papers, and the latest Telegraph cuttings that my mum sends, after she's cryptically highlighted sections in yellow. This batch were about Brighton, doing up old tat, and the over-prescription of ritalin. There was also last term's unread school newsletter, 3 old brass doorknobs that might get turned into a bag-hanging thing, picture frames left there the last time I thought about framing some fabric, and some broken necklaces that I'll fix if I could find those jewellery pliers.

Getting more unfinished things done, I will return to the Boots perfume counter sometime this week, to sniff the Vivienne Westwood violetty, musky, black rose one. Don't fancy the idea of telling people it's called Naughty Alice though.


At the World of Work I did a grand job of putting my foot down about words being written like what they is spoke. The lady who used to announce Watch With Mother would be spitting teeth if she knew what it's all come to these days, so I hope I'm making her proud...