DurAnorak (duranorak) wrote,

Oh, mother. Why must your nervousness about the party tonight, which, after all, is going to be full of a small number of people whom you love and who love you, be so towering and frenetic that it communicates itself to me, making me feel thoroughly sick, so that then I have to say I feel thoroughly sick and you and dad fail to believe me and think I'm trying to get out of doing the hoovering?

It's not as bad as it could be, certainly, and it's a sight better than last year's train wreck. It's just. Nobody cares that there's a few cobwebs. Nobody cares that there's a few magazines on a table. Nobody cares, mum. If people wanted houses to look like nobody lived in them then nobody would ever live in any houses. People know you live here. They're not going to come in, see a pair of shoes and gasp "I'VE FOUND YOUR SECRET HABITAT!" They know you live here. You invited them. It's where they send the Christmas cards.

I am tired, now quite sick and I miss the sanssommeils, corvidaes and scarethewolveses of this world. I do not want to be down here rearranging piles of books until they look geometrically perfect. I do not want to be down here dusting the underneath of the piano. We haven't invited any agoraphobic midgets. Nobody is going to see.

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