By now, oh constant reader, you might have gleaned that my home is full of knick-knacks with barely an inch of space anywhere. “I love it here,” my brother said, romantically casting his eye over the sea of assorted and colourful guff. His home has just as much bollocks in it. It’s just a bigger home and better organised because he is forced to find places for it all or have it broken by the kids or thrown out. I get why he likes it though. It’s like being a kid still at mine, you’d be surprised to hear. I’ve basically built a fort in my living room, but instead of it being cardboard boxes it’s books and pokers and prints and ooh let’s have a snake and a load of fish and, I dunno, put an altar with stuff on it from at least eight official faith structures plus one I’ve made up and a load of music scores signed by the composers and the biggest TV in Christendom and some vintage ski-boots.

I’ve left it all there and decanted to Brighton. I can hear the sea ceaselessly rolling the windy pebbles to port. Lou is drifting off to starboard.

Brighton is a haven. Lou is a haven. But not in the way of being a holiday from stuff. Her thing is textiles. It’s good she gets it. She understands my flat.

“My shelves have fallen apart,” says Lou as I arrive. “It’s no surprise. I think I found them in a skip.” Ha.

It’s no surprise they’ve collapsed either. You could sneak a whole army past Polyphemus using the cashmere in this room alone and you wouldn’t even need the goats. I’m being obscure, yes. But fuck it, I might have played the Cyclops a hundred times over the course of The Odyssey. It’s my blog. I can be as obscure as I like. Especially since the idiot in chief in the UK farts classical references when he isn’t giving backhanders to his mates.

The previous paragraph is a perfect example of how to simultaneously annoy two opposing demographics at once. I’m proud of myself.

We fixed the shelves. Then we put all the items back. I stopped counting jumpers when we hit 100. There’s enough for a different jumper for her to wear every day of the winter. We shook and folded the lot because the moths are breeding somewhere and they are as unwelcome as they are hard to get rid of. We put them back with a strict system, which is a largely alien process for me with shelves. Now she knows how to get all her cashmere. She’s still gonna wear just the same two of them. Just like I’ll never read most of my books.

Long drive again tomorrow but nobody’s paying me this time. But I’ll sleep well. Textiles again. I’ve started to understand the practical difference between different materials for sleeping on top of. All of my sheets and pillows were polycotton when I met Lou, and I didn’t know or care any better. Now I’ve got some brushed cotton for winter. It makes my old pillows feel scratchy…

This place is a cosy palace. No scratchy pillows here. I’m going to drift off to dreamland. Have a delightful Sunday.

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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