Today I made oat and sunflower seed bread, sticky, spicy spare ribs, and chocolate and banana cupcakes. Now I want to drink a pint of Guinness, watch something beautiful and sleep fitfully. Sunday, you always make me want more.
One day this is really going to happen.
People, I implore you to ditch your Converse. Throw them high into the sky and pray they don’t sully the eyes of others by resting on power lines or trees, defiling the skyline. Pray. Pray that some kind angel lifts them up and disposes of them quickly and silently. Converse are the kicks of the bored, the tired, the not-connected-to-your-feet-and-where-they-might-take-you. They are unthinking, noncommittal, unassuming and ready for dead. Wake up. Embrace life. Give your feet hope. Shit, they’re not even kicks. They’re half way between Clarks and what you granny wore when her arches went. Deliver us all from this pain. Deliver us.
I apologise to the Converse owners – it’s a personal thing. Forgive me.
Seriously.
I need to see you
