Mumble shuffle


I’m still alive, though Getting Peculiar. Revision revision revision insanity. Strange trousers, shuffling gait, 400 mugs of tea per day, bit mental patienty. I was even writing essays in my sleep last night, though it seemed to involve a lot more flailing around than is usual in daylight essay composition. Duvet turbulence, awake at five, feeling a bit sick.

But it’s not the pain between my shoulder blades that suggests things have gone too far, it’s the yearning I feel to take a pair of shears to the hedge in the front garden and give it a buzz cut. In my defence, I’m not the only thing that’s gone too far – I have good reason to be eyeing the hedge. The dustmen haven’t collected our rubbish for three weeks because they can’t get into the front garden to empty the bin.

Chaos is nip-nip-nipping at my heels, but globalisation is NOT synonymous with the death of sovereignty. I don’t care what they say, it just isn’t.


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