'turn up for the books' (or, fuck off to the library)

After vomming into my straw hat (i had to throw it away) and a paul on the road to damascus-style awakening at the crack of midday on this, the gloomiest Sunday on record (measuring a pane shaking 8.7 on the fuck-this scale), some part deep inside my black black heart dragged me back to the unsuprisingly quiet Johnny Rylands library, where now I sit with a cut + paste massacre of dead magazines, gold rope and little bitty bits of paper that im never gonna be able to pick up.
I am, perhaps, happiest when I am moodboarding and listening to bright eyes.



The guy sitting opposite me on the computers keeps putting his shaking head in his hands and mouthing the word NO over and over again though. And im pretty sure he just called his mate a 'goon-bag' (what the hell is a goon bag, its def not on urbandictionary.com, i just checked. answers on a postcard plz) . I hope he's gonna be ok.

Subsequent to someone, whom shall not be named for health and security reasons, offhandedly mentioning that they might have maybe accidentily one time glanced with one eye open at my blog (HELLO) i have decided to ressurect it...again...from it's wasting away state and plumpen it up like a little spring lamb, fluffchick, or piglet.





Hurray for spring, hurrah for seasonal sweets, hurrah for Yellow, Pink, Green and White. The colours, not the characters in resevoir dogs. Although, whilst im on the subject, three cheers for Pink, why the hell not. So much time for that man.




Anyhoo, since the last time i typed anything into this godforsaken thing, Winterval has blown and past without any major mishaps or events, apart from Rache giving herself a ginormous second degree burn with a pot noodle and except for my minibreak to ROMA.
So good.
Just like living in one of those 'education MADE FUN' pop-up history books, except the monuments and stuff dont go all sticky and rippy-outy when you eat outstanding, italianny gelaticious icecream whilst youre looking through them.




Having miraculously conned some fools into giving me a job as a perfume spritzychick at Selfridges up here, my nose is like a finely tuned violin to the bow of world scent. I can smell Flowerbomb from 50 paces, which will obviously turn in handy...never?




Weapon of mass sniff-struction. Oh fucking hell that joke didnt work at all did it...fuck. Someone NEEDS to buy me some tabacco vanille though.

Apart from getting a cheeky bit of muscular dystrophy from sitting on my bum all day revising for my bladdy exams, thingz continue swimmingly. In next week's episode...DMFR's girl tour to Paris to meet the fashion folk over there. Considering our lecture earlier in the week involved a quick brief of what to do if you are 'forcibly removed from a building...they're french...it happens often', promises to be, as the parisians might say 'Une Belter'.
So expect me to blog about it...ooh...sometime in 2014?
Until next time folks
Spritzy Spritzy.