heracles and hercules are the same person. they could also be twenty different people. or thirty. or three.
how the hell did my brother turn seventeen yesterday when it seems that he's always been twelve?
and it feels like i was seventeen hardly a year ago!
sundays have always related to two words: bread and newspaper. from being sent to buy these things by my parents for years, it's become a ritual: my sunday morning duty.
wheat and ink fetcher.
there is also an unwritten rule where little old ladies who talk to themselves must go out at 16.00 for a walk en masse.
plane tickets are sorted out. friday.
hopefully everything will fit into my suitcase. i'm starting to look at it suspiciously, judging its volume, sometimes thinking packing will be no problem, other times thinking i'm going to have to leave half of my stuff behind. it's sitting there solemnly, with two of its latches broken courtesy of gatwick airport.
argh. i really don't want to go back. it's going to be such a busy year in that grey cesspool of a poor excuse for a cesspool of a poor excuse for a town. squared. times infinity. plus one.