Morning coffee, late lie-in mumblings

The Houses of Parliament are well and truly out of my system now and I have returned to that strange nether-limbo of ex-polytechnia which constitutes the bulk of my existence. I'm back to making boring plans, all the while, dreaming of Dorset, Devon, Ireland and spring-time; seeking to bottle old feelings the way that the BFG bottles dreams in the book by Roahl Dahl. A part of me knows that it would probably be a good idea, come graduation, to set up home in Richmond or somesuch sensible South London location but if, as I suspect, such a course would only increase the mollification of my spirit then, to put it bluntly, what's the point?

*

A funny thing: I was talking to my Mum yesterday and she told me that she had just had coffee in "the place where you publicly declaimed your poetry..." to which I instantly, unthinkingly replied, "oh yes, I remember, Camberley..." (it was a little bakery and I was a runner-up in the teenage category of a competition at a local bookshop). The fact that there is only one place and, worst of all, that it is that place- a bakery in Camberley- should be enough to put a conclusively negative stamp on any remaining poetic ambition! Either that or, as I have said before, there are going to be a lot of pretty incongruous blue plaques in a few years time...

*

For posterity, yesterday, I kissed a girl and played a bit of scrabble, before going on to have a protracted dream about Chertsey, Weybridge and Oxford.