Friday, 4 December 2009


There’s no logical pattern to it. No theme to the madness. No correlation in the bizarre rituals that litter my daily routine. I’m quite blind to the array of discarded shampoo bottles strewn across the bathroom, yet when the cap isn’t placed back on the toothpaste I have been known to throw myself on the floor wailing. The only tea towel I cannot touch is the red one. But the red coffee cup is the lucky one.

The smell of bleach comforts me but I sneeze at the smell of soap. In London I have to get the tube to get from location to location.... I balance myself precariously in the middle of the carriage (my legs have to be fairly apart to do this) without touching a single thing. No seat, no window no surface. Try sustaining that for half an hour, it’s like being on a surf simulator except the ocean is the putrid scum of a grimy city. I can sit quite happily on buses though...?

The obsessive compulsive’s sphere is not penetrable one; it’s laden with contradictions. If you weren’t a fanatic yourself you’d get lost in the paradoxes of it. Yes, even Alice eventually made sense of Wonderland but, as she had various guides, here I am.

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