December 7th, 2003


Hooray for Grayson!

Grayson Perry has won the Turner Prize. Drinks all around. As I've mentioned before (or am I freely associating?), I've known Grayson in a vague sense for a long time. Well done, Claire! Pretty, pretty...

Before narcolepsy swallows the entity formerly or currently known as Sarmoung and, before we tuck into a soporific bowl of Armenian dahl (that's what it says on the packet, things are pretentious enough without me needing to make that recipe up...), let's raise some virtual glasses. Tonight, before the assembled throng of Come Down And Meet The Folks, The Professor and The Landlady became engaged.

Dearest Landlady, it's not too late, we could spend the rest of our lives discussing mediaeval Flemish painting and vanished Fitzrovia. You are one of the most perfectly beautiful and sexy people I know, how could you desert my imaginary landscape in this way? We could marry tomorrow, but I fear that the Professor might have words to say. None shall enter the Secret Garden again until your say-so.

Dearest Professor, you have abandoned me, perhaps no more will your fair words grace this journal. You've yet to see me in a wig. Trust me, I can be every inch the woman that you desire. We could marry tomorrow, but I fear that the Landlady might have words to say, not to mention that small question of legality. Gadzooks! Your most overdue mandolin shall follow shortly.

I shall be spending Christmas Day (heterodox) with the soon-to-be-conjoined Professor/Landlady entity. I hope that my subtle ruse of alternately pouring absinthe and Jamesons down their throats this evening has been of success. Judging by the taxi home (I couldn't understand a word the poor dears were saying) it has. And so, my most dear of friends, I shall bid you adieu! Back to the broadband blackout until my work is finished.