What does it mean when you look everywhere for your wallet and finally find it in the fridge?
Is it symbolic, after a friend had doused the house for your ipod and hinted that there are vague 'indications' that it might be....'upstairs'..., that you find it in a box of tampax in the loo?
"Where's my shovel?" asked Julian.
"Have you looked in the living room?" I replied.
This one needs no psychobabble to unravel. We are living in a pigsty. There is nowhere to put anything. All is dust and chaos. I go and sit in the mini, which I have just cleaned, for therapy. One day there will be order, but right now, to add to the madness, Julian's site has crashed for the second time in two days and it's all too much.
...except that we have skate wings in the fridge to go with capers from a friend in Tuscany's tree.....
Julian dances in from his hemp studio, taking a surprising sabbatical from his web fury, and waltzes with me on the wreck of an ex/future kitchen floor.
"Pasta with cheese will do fine. I'm not really into eating tonight."