i used to think i was some kind of gypsy boy.

i've just fallen in love with leonard cohen once again or for the first time, and i have a cup of lady grey. i'd had more than enough time to begin excusing my behavior by explaining that i am, alas, a fishmonger, but these things come back very quickly. i am once more, misery, woe, famine, death, an english major, and as such, have no choice but to spend the remainder of the day contemplating the phrase, stripes and bruises. you understand, though, don't you?

"you're a good boy - a very good boy. here's a penny for you. bumble, just step up to sowerberry's with your cane, and see what's best to be done. don't spare him, bumble."

"no, i will not, sir," replied the beadle: adjusting the wax-end which was twisted round the bottom of his cane, for purpose of parochial flagellation.

"tell sowerberry not to spare him, either. they'll never do anything with him, without stripes and bruises,"

and it's over, i'm gone, before i can even tell you about the gentleman in the white waistcoat. dear me.

i'm all cup and chair and book and the ghosts of cats, again, and i can't say i mind. words can be arranged in such pretty ways that it is a wonder that we should ever wish to be anything but lonely.