No, sorry – still not feeling like writing a post. I don't know why. At first, when I – totally unplannedly, you understand, and purely on an impulse-whim – decided I would start posting every single day until Christmas, the idea seemed not only brilliant but positively easy as well. Liberating. Hurrah, I am going to post every day and say what the hell I like.
Yes, but what if I don't have anything the hell I like to say? What then?
Anyway, I may be saved by the bell (just as I was getting into this, as well. No fair). Blogger and/or my connection is going wanky, and it may mean that this post-that-isn't-a-post is never going to happen. Actually, that's beginning to properly smart; a bit like miscarrying a child you never wanted (oh Christ, is there no limit to my political incorrectness tonight? Or ever? To my totally unreasonable crassness, my inability to be sensitive with regard to things that carry great loads of potential hurt for, you know, people? Evidently, not).
While it is still possible for me to speak to you (until the wanky connection cuts, you see, leaving me forever stranded here in Eastern Europe without any means, for at least another 90 seconds or so, to be in touch with the rest of the world, nay, with Civilization), I am going to show you a picture from my springtime trip to Florence (yes, I've been a proper little gallivanter-round-the-planet this year, haven't I? Shame on me. Especially for not staying longer than a week on my travels. Just to make you want to smack me (I should like that too much, see), I am going to let it slip that I am about to go away again – to Rome, no less, and shall take my younger son, too. So you're not going to get any posts that week, for I'm so not taking the maccy and I'm so not spending time at internet cafes). Where was I? Oh
yes. A picture from Florence. Not, as you may expect, the Duomo or David (which
they really don't want you to photograph yourself, you know? But then I cannot
really get why people would want to, either. You can buy a perfectly good
poster/postcard/small replica/apron/pair of boxers of him at most anywhere, and
why you'd want to waste the time you could be watching him (for he really and
truly is amazingly, stunningly beautiful) trying to grab a slap-dash
point-and-shoot photo of him (maybe with your iPhone as well, what) is really
beyond me). No no, nothing as classy as all that. No. The picture I'm about to
show you depicts An Item of Lust and Unfulfillable Desire: A Dress to Be Craved
and Needed So Very Bad It Hurts.
Isn't it amazing? Gorrrr-geous? Or alternatively, so hideous you can't quite begin to describe it? Either way, I wanted the fucking thing so very much indeed. I can't rightly say why (although obviously, because I thought it the most desirable garment I had ever seen). There's something of the straight-jacket kinky in it that really appeals.
(If you look closely, you can see the scary-looking lizard lady inside the shop; she was instrumental in me not even daring to go and ask for the price of the fecker. (Which is just as well, for had I gone in and tried the thing on, I would have had to buy it, which quite clearly, I could never, ever have afforded, so I would likely be speaking to you right now from the realm of White Slavery. Although I would prolly be wearing that dress, so it wouldn't be all bad.) And if you look even more closely, you can see me, reflected on the window and all a-dreamy over that bloody frock. For shame.)
Actually, I rather like a lot of the stuff going on in that picture – the reflections and things. I used to have quite a thing about taking photos of myself via reflecting surfaces. Taking photos of any reflections, in fact. I should maybe try and revive that particular interest, for it was fun.
I could always post the results (okay, some of them) over here, I guess.
