I've been taking an intense amount of pleasure in domesticity lately. Although my mother may disagree, Alex Dodd will attest to this bizzarre behavioural trend.
Need. Need. You Need. We Need. I Need. Need.
These words keep coming out of my mouth like I'm speaking in tongues. On our trip to Jysk: "You NEED these dishtowels. They're more expensive, but they'll dry better."
On our trip to Ikea: "You NEED this lamp. Look, it even has a reading lamp on it. How about a bulletin board? I've decided that you NEED a bulletin board."
Upon seeing his apartment for the first time: "You NEED plants to go in this corner. Little herbs live here. And your cups NEED to go in this cupboard. Not that one, because I'm too short to reach it. You NEED a duvet cover. You NEED furniture. You NEED NEED NEED NEED."
And upon seeing Alex Dodd: "You NEED to give me a kiss. Then can you rub my feet, make me dinner, get me a juice and tell me I'm pretty?"
I've also been taking an immense amount of pleasure in becoming a Cold Lake homebody, but only because I have little other choice. I've already burned through Mark Haddon's A Spot of Bother, and now I'm reading Valley of the Dolls, to fill the requisite trashy classic novel category and to compensate for the depressing tone Haddon left me with. I've been going out for walks with my Dad, admiring the new dress in my closet, wishing that I had blue shoes to match it, convincing myself that I NEED blue shoes.
I also take pleasure in the fact that I know I can deny myself of these NEEDS.
(All except from the need to be told that I'm pretty, of course.)