I am not disappointed. Today, yesterday, last week - it has just been a lull, with the change in the weather, that is all, the cold is unsettling. It is the time of year I usually re-read Wuthering Heights and spend inordinate periods of time taking deep, hot baths and eating more food than I can justify. But anyway in this house there is no hot water (yes, yes, I know; what century is it? Obviously you've never encountered an Irish landlord.) Oh god, don't I have anything better to do? What strange void have I found now? I could go out, like my horoscope said, 'you could meet somebody who really loves you,' (so, you go and you stand on your own, and you leave on your own...) but I don't want to meet anyone new, I know too many people all ready. Tomorrow though, I will go out, I can't stay here eating bowls of porridge and listening to Sylvia Plath read from Ariel while spilling wine on my friend's ***white*** sheets again. Oh but lonely people are contagious, all you have to do is catch one and then suddenly they're everywhere. Do you remember how you first caught me?
Outside the streetlamps have just turned on, a strange hopeful glow. I tried to explain to someone why I romanticise about flickering neon lights at twilight, but I can't articulate it. It's the same way I romanticise midnight ferry crossings and night buses skidding through the rain. Above the identical pebble-dash houses the sky is a heavy, silent grey, and the line of trees has - almost overnight - been transformed to the most gorgeous, nostalgic amber. I am happy here, I can hear a siren (a siren! A real siren! Unless you too grew up miles and miles from civilisation you won't understand why this is exciting, don't try.) Everything's fine, I am so, so free, and I'll have left before the last leaves have fallen.