That time of the year again when the irresistible need to buy candles and essences and diffusers rears it's fragrant head and beckons me to begin a pilgrimage towards the small artisanal market that specialises in niche products which include everything from handmade obscure potteries to bakeware to fragrances.
I mean it's so specific there was a candle which smelled like fresh cut grass mixed with drying linen on a hill slope and one would think it was a bit ridic, but just a whiff made me realise it did exactly what is said on the box.
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I've been gifted a hybrid sort of fountain pen, in that it has a cartridge attachment and a fountain pen attachment to draw in ink along with a leather bound notebook and I'm wondering what prompted people to actually go in for this sort of a thing.
Of course the gift was sweet but not too well thought through because the ink pot gifted along with was black ink and I do not reserve much love for black as I do for royal blue, but these are nuanced understandings which a broad spectrum companion given by way of marriage doesn't understand or know. For them ink is ink. A pen is a pen. A book is a book. An orgasm is an urban legend.
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Morning..almost in time for noon and I am contemplating a languorous shower, a big meal after and should I go ahead with beautifying my Crystal and China rack? Or should I leave it for the weekend?
Tomorrow I have a lunch date with a friend who insists we go drink a special kind of frozen beer she has discovered in a pub I know is notorious for allowing kids and do I want snotty little shits cramping my buzz? Maybe not but we shall see tomorrow won't we?
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Currently listening to Thomas Barrandon and hoping to find you aboard an intergalactic cruise ship, holding your head between my legs as I moan to an astounding supernova in the background.
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