(no subject)

[deathbyipod]

there was a middle-aged lady, with the trunk legs of someone much older and flip-flops of someone younger, sitting outside the fountains of waitrose crying. she was blonde, and the morning sun made her seem a statue of a sad angel. i didn't notice her until i saw a man (brown hair and business-like) walking in the other direction staring. i was on the phone, ringing out to answerphone, so didn't say a thing. i should have, though. but what does one say? someone, on tv or in a magazine or a newspaper, noted how no one stops to help older women crying. only young ladies. i don't know. i don't think i've ever cried in public, but i suspect i have, but i don't think anyone's ever stopped to say anything.

today is party day and the preparations are on. i have unceremoniously forgotten to buy presents. (or should it be ceremonious, since it seems to happen every year; i already pulled cupcakes on them last year, so i can't do that again. plus, it isn't right for the occasion.)

so walking in the cool morning (england is colder than i was expecting, although as usual i wasn't prepared to return and was shocked by pigeons scurrying so close to my feet and uncannied but not discomfited by the familiar unfamiliar of people's natures), i feel like mrs dalloway, buying flowers before a party. i have a romanticised image of me carrying them home cradled like babies.