Shifting a tonne of big-arse rocks is not exactly an alluring prospect and we've got no money for expedient additions. I'm not usually this design-challenged, but as you can probably tell by the budget nature of this MsT instalment, inspiration isn't exactly oozing from my apertures at the moment. It was a toss between whining about this shit and showing you pictures of this disgusting object a friend found in Germany. I decided to do both.
Kierkegaard would say there's no reason not to do shit like that and my own hedonic animus stopped vomiting down the back of someone else's sofa long enough to concur wholeheartedly.
As penance I'm thinking about writing a few horticultural pieces this year for the basic broke-joke novice who doesn't know an osteospermum from an arisaema.
I don't know what to do with the centre island in my front lol, garden, which is just a fucking weird wedged-shaped wasteland of old concrete slabs and balding gravel, with < this bullshit rock installation in the middle against the house.
It's full of nice plants that have been jammed into available soil pockets and, as you can see, look like a bunch of unholy gibbering shite together.
A pink were-nailbrush. It looks like... like something surgically extracted from Nicki Minaj or a Kardashian? After unexplained fever and rashes?
I blame the white chocolate, pistachio and rosewater ganache-injected donut I ate on Friday for this echo-chamber lassitude, and rebuke thee Satan for making me the kind of person who enjoys jamming a steel confectioner's plunger into a such a passive and yielding mass.
Just because gardening can seem intimidating and exclusive and I'd like to help other weirdos get into something rewarding.
I am aware that all this is boring the tits off you. It's boring them off me.
Anyway, here's a bit of Tori Amos. R's more of a professed Toriite than moi but Boys for Pele and Choirgirl Hotel are definitely the flavour of the blood in The Blackthorn Orphans' tangled veins.
Set aside a weekend to watch it. Then write off the rest of that week as you walk around gobsmacked by the implications. There are ways and means of accessing it online for those of us lucky enough to live in the rest of the world wink wink.
EDIT EDIT: RIP David Bowie. He didn't mean that much to me personally and seemed a wee bit too happy to accept credit for stuff he neither came up with nor epitomised, so I'm not going to wank on.