so it is the most glorious day in the world because it is spring; it is molten sunshine and leaf-breath scurrying your skirts when you're lain down beneath a tree, on the fresh-wintered grass, sleeping for the joy of warm backs and the end of a politics lecture which you almost dozed off in. an ant tangles in your hair and when you get up you can't quite walk straight, because you're drunk on spring, spring, and the wind keeps knocking you sideways.

i've been thinking a lot about clitorises, because about 150 million women in the world don't have them anymore, and whenever i think about that i want to press my legs tight together and cross my arms above just for good measure.

i met a boy over a pool table the other night; the second we'd shaken hands we were at the edges of each others' skin like we'd just moved in to one another, how d'ye do, let's kiss each other silly in the smoke of cigarettes. a remembrance of jagermeister about his mouth and the old man tang of tobacco. we left it to fate to meet again; i am ever so slightly impatient at the slowness of her mechanisms.

there was an old italian man on my tram. eighty-six, and he wants to find a fourth wife, and his granddaughter is incredulous. in the days i am fine, he says. but in the nights i need someone to hold, someone to sleep with. you know what annoys me more than anything else? these women with children.

- but the glorious day is fading and i am sitting behind walls and white curtains, talking of old italian men. adieu!