I think I am coming to resent the Emma Thompson thing. I mean, she might have been lovely once according to Fry, but I’ve only ever seen her playing total hippies. Why didn’t Mr. Hollywood compare me to someone more… dignified? Was it the glasses? If I absolutely must resemble an actress, can’t she at least be a Honeysuckle Weeks-type? You know, earnest, vaguely romantic, with hair that has never once been dreadlocked in an appropriative manner.
And why did the First Cassie decide to agree with him? We were always competitive, it’s true, but fair’s fair, I never took petty potshots at her. Unless she was referring to my ability to play my own opposite in a semi-serious theatrical context, having a giggle over my earrings and their resemblance to something Madam Trelawney might wear was unsporting indeed.
I have since mislaid the earrings. Likely my subconscious put them in a corner and failed to tell me which. They are probably in the catchall room with everything else that embarrasses me. Clearing that room will be one big blush-fest. We’ll need a skip. We’ll need at least one more bookshelf. If anyone knows how to shrink-wrap entire storage bins against the musty stink of the average unfinished basement, do let me know. Better yet, come do it yourself.
Where do I start in the catchall room, anyway? Do I grab a bin and muck it out? Part of me wants to keep only what I can properly store in there. Part of me knows perfectly well that I hoard, and would feel the loss of my mementos. I’m an idiot. At the very least, I should cut the logos out of my less-wearable T-shirts and quilt them together. I should alter the more-wearable T-shirts so they fit, like I did with Mum’s old Chaus. One is easier than the other, obviously. — Look, I’m making work for myself so I don’t have to face the real clutter. Avoid, avoid, avoid.
Natter on instead about stupid men, stupid childhood rivals, and stupid, stupid self-esteem issues.