And suddenly it is August 31st and I feel my joy fraying a little at the edges as this signals the end of August Break.
This is Bacardi 151. Yes that’s right, 151-proof Puerto Rican rum with an alcohol content of 75.5%. It is a beautiful looking liquid with its dark amber glow and it is also Mister’s tipple of choice. It’s available here but at a cost of around £60 a bottle which frankly, we refuse to pay. So whenever a friend or loved one sojourns to the States, we (he) asks that they bring back a bottle. Whenever we head out there ourselves, we bring back one or two because at $20 a bottle in the US of A, the discrepancy in value cannot be ignored.
It’s not often I do this. In fact, consider yourselves lucky, privileged and downright auspicious that I am feeling so benevolent that I am extending to you, an invitation into one of my most sacred spaces (and please extricate your minds from the gutter if that’s where they so happen to have sojourned). I refer of course, to my shoe closet (except it’s not really a closet as a collection of different areas in my house where I keep my shoes.)
My beloved Dominique did an August break shot of her shoe collection and mentioned how her significant other thinks she owns a crazy amount of shoes. I thought it apt to demonstrate to him that she is normal and there are people that exist in the world who, when it comes to footwear, are slightly to the right of normal.
I am one of those people.
The truth of it that August has been a pretty brutal fucking month so far. I’ve been clinging to my happiness with all my might knowing that there is upset and disaster hovering like a rain choked cloud.
When I was younger, I suffered at the hands of bullies. They were pretty merciless and surprisingly coordinated in their verbal and sometimes physical assaults on me. They’d swoop in like Special Ops all dressed in their bottle green gingham school dresses and jumpers – miniature soldiers.
They asked me questions about my hair: “why is it so curly and wet? What’s that stuff on it? Spit? Hahaha spit head!” (explaining a Jheri curl to a group of jeering seven year olds is like trying to explain common sense to the Far Right.
Stereo. 20-something aspiring bon vivant. London based. Exceptionally Nigerian. Partial to snark. My default setting is "wry". Jeans and blazers are my uniform. Landlady. Speed reader, tuneless singer, hoarder of words, drinker of Schloer; I am suspicious of most people, have zero tolerance for tomfoolery, have a vast DVD collection, worship at the altar of Al Green, own too many bottles of nail polish, have small eyes, small ears and giant hair and owe approximately 86% of my awesome to the Parents Typewriter.
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