Sunday afternoon

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A week ago, I sat in Southbank and ate toast with lemon curd, and spun and swirled down Carsten Höller’s slide. I went to England and ate too much cake and my sweet tooth ached on my return. A week on, I reflect on a week of ‘go’: of airplanes, and trains and tubes and buses, and back to sitting at my desk in work, and of making dinners and doing my washing. I make it to Sunday again, and the week ahead seems long (will I make it through?) and I long for certain people, things and comforts. But, it is nice too, to sit in this attic room, still in my pyjamas, and to flick aimlessly about the internet and read that book I bought for £2 in charity shop in Nottingham, and think about what I might eat for dinner or what I might do later on. And it seems, for the first time in a long while, I am resting.

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