A most judicious choice, sire

I haven’t written here since I had a baby, but I refuse to pivot to baby blogging

Okay, so my friend’s dad was selling this frankly epic Oscar Wilde bust and obviously, as a gay literary man, I wanted it immediately (I messaged him within 14 minutes). The dad had already sold it to his daughter (my friend), because she asked him first, which feels apt but also kinda homophobic. My mate then sent a taunting finders-keepers selfie with her new historic knock-knack, which made the plastercast Oscar Wild feel like the Elgin marbles. What is the point of disposable cash if I can’t secure covetable gay trinkets?

Sartorially, with the trillions of jazzy blouses I own, I often feel like an amateur magician, and the inevitable evolution is to carry a trick-deck for when the conjuring mood strikes. When you’re sat with a bore at dinner, it’s helpfuk to know a few sleight-of-hands that run diversion before they start telling you about a dream they had that “felt so real, tho”. Practical magic is captivating—a coin from behind the ear here, a dove up the sleeve there—as long as you don’t tip into living in a glass box on the Thames territory, because that’s just nasty. Also, no disrespet to Derren Brown, but he makes me feel like I am not the king of my brain, that I’m the creepy guy standing next to the king going, “a most judicious choice, sire”.

Happy Halloween from this Frankenstein Afghan rug. I’m wondering if I would hang it on my wall or if that would make me a twat.

Somebody Sharpie-ing on your schoolbag is very cool, but I think it has to be a parent or guardian to really fucking slap.

If princess Diana was alive, she would have worn this on a hospital ward the day of Charles’ coronation.