Whinge

I miss supermarket chains. I miss self-service checkouts. I miss pelican crossings, human-size coffee, untempting bakeries, after dusk transportation and presentable universities (with waterproof ceilings). I miss muesli; granola is not muesli. I miss the reduced food section, jesticles, lined paper. Night floozies vomiting and weeing and shouting, urban drainage systems and the BBC news music. I miss goddamn proppa tea. I miss Lincolnshire sausage. I miss the NHS.

On a less sulky note, I think I have found my guardian angel in the form of the halls cleaning lady who looks like a scarab beetle. You know when you feel like you’ve seen the same person at various moments throughout your existence, in various places in the universe, this is she.  And whenever I see her she always looks deep into my soul like she knows what I’m about and what’s going to happen. That or she’s just staring at me discerningly because she knows I write memos on my bananas and she’s seen my novelty boob mug.

I’m back in 5 days; I have already packed. Apocalypse me now