two baby palms, in action

At the Hub of Feverish Philanthropic Action where I pass my days, sipping daiquiris and occasionally feeding the horses, I share an office with a woman called Meredith.

That's not actually true, but no matter. Meredith might be 45; Meredith definitely does the accounts; Meredith comes from Manchester.

Today, as I strolled towards the kitchenette with nothing on my mind but the sweet pursuit of delicious biscuits, I found Meredith in the reception area. Meredith was doing tai chi. While gracefully moving her arms and legs into odd and mystic formations, Meredith was providing Li, the incredulous receptionist, with a running commentary.

"And now we move into the position of the two baby palms," Meredith murmured dreamily as I passed.

"Uh huh," said Li.

I continued on. The biscuit tin was full. All was well with the world.

xoxox nora

vegemite dreams

In a melancholy, defeatest kind of way, he says: baby, I'm starting to think about toast. But he's lying in my bed, his chest rising faintly with eacn shallow breath, like a hiss of wind over a desert plain, and my cool plastic heart tells me that tonight, just like last night and the night before, there'll be no toast. Not for him, not for me, not for any of us.

oxoxox nora