May 1st, 2016



The notion of sitting on the sofa, warm and dry, reading myself silly on a rainy cold Sunday is massively appealing. It just ignores my basic antsiness and adult attention deficit disorder. (Neither of those operate when I'm in front of a computer, mind. WHY SHOULD THIS BE, I WONDER?) So instead I sat in a laundromat reading, which has the bonus of getting me a clean terrycloth bathrobe as well. (I need a new bathrobe: this one is nearly ten years old and looking it. Also I have vain hopes of a lightweight terry robe. Vain because I'll be lucky to get terrycloth at all in this day of non-absorbent microfibre that pollutes water supplies.)

Dreamed again of The Apartment I Don't Live In That Has All The Books/ Things. A place I rented in the- 80s, this time, I think, because it felt different from the 70s dream apartments. As always, I moved my stuff there long ago and then forgot about it all. The Books/ Stuff were all on Ikea book cases that took up most of the space, only there was an extra hallway and a room at the end where someone was indeed currently living- rather a nice girl in her 20s. The landlord and his men came round- dark squat sullen muscle, wanting me to move- but as it happened my apartment was full of friends and relations, including my brother. So I was aware of its existence as well as being all 'OMG I forgot about this place how long have I had it, 20 years, 30? who's been paying the rent all that time??' To which my brother said in disgust, 'Me, of course.'

I have indeed rented apartments where I moved my stuff and then lived elsewhere but they were all in the forgotten 70s, which may explain why I have this dream in the first place. Oh, and for some reason I believe I sublet a friend's place as well for a few brief months. But that too feels like a dream, mostly because K's room looks like our childhood cottage and I always thought that's what I was seeing.
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