A longing for Spring. For daffodills and jam-jars full of paper-whites. Enough already with snow smutty with boredom. A Sunday morning in bed with warm Camembert, french bread and The September Issue. Blown away by Grace Coddington. Astonished yet again at how willing other women are to hurt each other.
Laughing two pages in to Januarys book choice:
” I was sure that Father Bode was equally worthy of eating smoked salmon and grouse or whatever luncheon the hostesses might care to provide. Then it occurred to me that he might well be the kind of person who would prefer tinned salmon, though I was ashamed of the unworthy thought for I knew him to be a good man.”
Embracing a divine Bohemian manifesto and watching talent quietly unfurl. Aching to learn to knit and drinking too much hot chocolate. Wearing my Winter uniform of ugly blubber. Barking back at that persistent black dog. Staying up too late. Watching Richard sleep. Wondering what he thinks of. Poking him awake till I exist again.
Hounded by a smell I cannot shift in the fridge. Wasting delicious hours at a time drawing on Odosketch. Sniffing at the perfume of my pink scarf. Watching Laurel and Hardy in Spanish.
Getting to grips with Photoshop (at last!). Feeling over-whelmed. Feeling under-whelmed.
Sick of wellies.
All images credited on the Pinboard.