Irrational Sunday Traditions.

Every Sunday is the same. I wake up at half eleven, do a bit more art, fall in love with a new indie-boy, realise that it's half one and I have no plans and call Lydia. She'll say she's not allowed out on Sundays, have I not yet realised, you disturbed church, etc. etc. I'll decide a new pair of plimsoles is WAY overdue, and a dress would be nice, so I hop on a train and go into London town - I'd be judged if I went round more locally on my own. So I'll wander into Flagship Topshop, find some beauties and leave. I have nothing else to do with my day, so, still plugged in to Too Close For Comfort on repeat, I'll take a trip to WHS, just to admire the art equipment. Every single week I end up buying something. You see, theres something about buying new pencils, its a kind of satisfaction. And then you go home all excited like, I HAVE NEW PENCILS, MAAAN, sitting on the floor of a southeastern service train. The next bits th best bit. I get my brown paper out and draw. Satisfaction? I think so. I know so.