From Gypped:

I didn’t actually have anything in the fridge, and he nearly had a fit. I do, however, have takeaway menus for eleventeen million different places magneted to the front of it though. When I’m hungry, I don’t look *in* my fridge, I look *at* it.

Sucker that I am I joined the PunkRockSoc. Free customised badge from the Punk Rock Society fundraiser says, at my instigation, ‘pointless ironic badge’ and I’m bizarrely distressed that I didn’t write it neatly enough. As a person I have a talent for remorse. At the end of every conversation and every party there are things I wish I’d done (not specifically, but a vague notion of what they are) and I’m struck by an urge just to go back and keep talking or find someone else and talk to them. I don’t know what this would achieve even when I’m wanting to do it, like now: go back and make a neater badge, say hi to the Prez of the punkrocksoc and chew on my sandwich standing next to the stall. Pure craziness; not at all the calm demeanour of me here at my desk c/w ergonomic keyboard rest. Still, at all those times I am scared and wondering how the work of our few minutes together will look from a distance. Like a painter in search of proportion. A musician ready to improvise an ending. Never content to let anything imperfect or lop-sided lie, as if it simply happened there.

I can never part without a perfect goodbye.