Positively Not Bridget Jones’s Diary
# of fags smoked: none (which I can’t take much credit for as I never quite got the hang of this smoking thing, but still v.g.)
# of fragile glass lampshades broken into smithereens: 1, not so g. In fact bloody frustrating. (By accident, too. If you’re going to be smashing your own stuff at all, it feels better if you’re doing it on purpose.)
# of e-mails sent to institute of conflict research, asking if I can use their data for my research: 1, v.g.
# of nails painted slutty red Gryffindor shade and unsmudged as if by miracle: 20, v.g.
# of hibiscus buds not fallen from plants: 0, v.g. (though can’t take credit for that either, as little buggers have minds of their own and are p. suicidal)
# of focaccias baked for evening’s barbecue party with the gang: 1, v.g.
# of damnèd spots taken out of mattress cover with castile soap, old toothbrush and elbow grease: 1, v.g. (or would have been if I hadn’t been the one to put it there in the first place. You’d think I’d had Sir Simon de Canterville as a partner.)
Resolutions: Will brave entire make-your-own-stuff business and learn how to make non-fussy and tasteful-looking unbreakable lampshade, exorcise demons of pot-pourri, dried flower arrangements, lace ruffles and découpage, and call upon the guiding spirits of Aalto and Le Corbusier for strength and inspiration. Or something.
Furthermore, will not be inviting Elizabethan knights with stain fetishes anytime in the foreseeable future, as am fully competent at messing up bed sheets on my own.
And v.g. party, too.