Thursday, 7 September 2017


Things you display in your rooms,  showcase you, you have to check how things look.
Nothing looks like it really does in real life. I am not sure about analysis it seems to make you cry a lot and only think about yourself and gives you memories of Mother's raincoat in the hall and how your favorite puppy got run over. The word Therapist becomes The Rapist. Some days nothing goes right. Today my Cocoa was spilt, Monopoly was not working and I hate my broker because he did not listen to feminine intuition. Three weeks ago I said to him nobody was going to drink Cocoa in August. The month is over, I lost my reason and rag. He didn't think it would collapse because Cadburys put a glass and a half of fresh milk in every bar.
Coz I lost my shares in this,  I don't suppose a man with tight black lycra will vault into my bedroom tonight leaving a box of milk tray. The last time a man crashed through my french windows they took my camera equipment and pearls. All this on the strength. of  After Eight chocolates, and frankly,  I don't love anyone enough to give them my last Rolo. If only it was Mick Jagger as everybody knows what he can do with a Mars bar, lies or not. Sadly, most of my men turned out to be flakes. I wanted the man with black magic and all I got was the finger of fudge.

I see that Prince George had his first day at school and obviously they did not get the uniform from the gender neutral Peter Jones as otherwise, he could be wearing a skirt and blouse with a cardigan with giraffes on it. The world is in a transitional phase of transgressing transforming and transcribing. I am wondering what to do with myself in order to translate. I am good at doing things with my mouth. Anyway, I transgress.
I am very sad about the death of the wit  David Tang whose loos are famous in his Restaurant China Tang in the basement of  The Dorchester Hotel for speaking poetry as you pee.  "I wandered cloud"  as I try and navigate the seat. The man has sadly gone, but the paper and words lingers on.

Poor Lady Branson's house is now tooth picks, as yet again Sir Richard was in the basement clutching his ormolu whilst his house was lashed by the storm. No wonder money is spinning with Mr. Kim threatening to blow off the top of a mountain. I do want his haircut though on everybody else except for me, It only needs two sticks dynamite and a sense of humour.
It is a  special man to know the secrets of my black magic box!

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