Bluer than blue.

Mother’s day in Brazil. Mine obviously wasn’t home to pick up the phone. Whatever. Ended up in Kent to collect a blue suede chair that I got from Facebook Marketplace. It’s huge and comfortable and beautiful. Perhaps a tad too big for the space available, but we’ll manage. My new spot for morning coffee has arrived.

We have shelves.

Well, that happened quickly than I expected. ♥
Found another Liatorp (for even cheaper than the 1st one) in South London. It was a bitch to make the TV fit (we had to dismantle + reposition the only fixed shelf) and we’ll never be able to fit a bigger screen in there, but that’s fine by me for now. Happy. Easter is go.

Wherever we go.

What reconciles me to my own death more than anything else is the image of a place: a place where your bones and mine are buried, thrown, uncovered, together. They are strewn there pell-mell. One of your ribs leans against my skull. A metacarpal of my left hand lies inside your pelvis. (Against my broken ribs your breast like a flower.) The hundred bones of our feet are scattered like gravel. It is strange that this image of our proximity, concerning as it does mere phosphate of calcium, should bestow a sense of peace. Yet it does.

With you I can imagine a place where to be phosphate of calcium is enough.

(Extract from “And our faces, my heart, brief as photos”, by John Berger)