John Walker's Electronic House

I think I’m turning into a housewife.

Except I prefer “stay-at-home mom”. Please don’t call me a housewife as I find this offensive. I work independently, and have my own life beyond the cooking and cleaning of my home.

On Sunday, the entire surface area of my new room was covered in cardboard boxes and carrier bags. Any square inch covered by furniture was used to support further cardboard boxes and carrier bags, and if with shelves, on an impressive multi-story scale. After three days of sorting through these, I am now finally somewhere near to Living Conditions. I have cleverly got around sorting out the last nine billion carrier bags of stuff by putting them all in a corner and then putting my beanbag in front of them. This makes them go away. It does.

I have discovered that Mr Hicks manages to live without eating. It’s impressive. Unless of course his diet is entirely clingfilm and salt. He shall arrive home this evening to face the horror of cupboards filled with foodstuffs, foodstuffs not in their eat-me-now form. Ingredients. Will he be able to take it? Will I be evicted upon the morrow? Stay tuned for these exciting adventures.

As the everwise Rev. Stu pointed out to me, putting away is so much less destroying than packing up. It’s nest-building, home-creating. It’s arranging your world in such a fashion that it is safe and comfortable. Admittedly, in my ideal safe and comfortable home, moving the beanbag wouldn’t reveal nine billion bags of assorted unsorted rubbish, but there is only so much sorting I am capable of in a day. And ooh, the kitchen is just bursting with sorted goodness.

In response to queries about Festival Girl:

I’m worried about her. She wasn’t there. I do hope she’s ok, and didn’t accidentily meet some horrid old twerp on the way to the festival, hence losing her Festival Girl status before we could even meet for the first time. Imagine that. In fact there were a couple of potentials who managed to fall short of the title by having accidentily got themselves involved in relationships far too long ago. The first was the steward guarding the entrance to one building, who helped me realise that the music playing was Snow Patrol. I felt we’d really bonded over that, but then I saw her later that evening, arms around another man. The brazened hussy. You can’t go around telling someone that the music playing in a building is Snow Patrol and then just waltz off with another man. The cheek.

The second was an even sadder story. My college had a stand in the market tents, which was left unattended for enormous stretches of time. Sian and I decided to sit at it for a bit in case any other idiots wanted to be youth workers, so we could look at them incredulously, and pity their idiot thinking. I was wearing my extra-splendid, “JESUS HELPS ME TRICK PEOPLE” t-shirt, which was made odd when surrounded by 15,000 Christians. It’s a strange sensation to realise that you’re being read, but made so much fun by the look of pained confusion on their faces as they pass. It doesn’t quite make sense, whichever way you think about it, which is just perfect. (I used to have a t-shirt as a teenager which said, “IDIOT”. It was for the Wonderstuff, revealed on the back, but it received my very favourite confused looks as people walked past. “Why would he have ‘IDIOT’ on his t-shirt? Is he an idiot? If so, why would he wear it? If not, why would he wear it? LOGIC ERROR LOGIC ERROR…” I would hear little pops as people’s brains exploded just as I’d walked past them. How I wish I still had that t-shirt).

On an opposite stall stood a gorgeous girl. She was tall and pretty, with excellent hair and the best smile. She read my t-shirt from across the marquet, and then caught my eye. We conducted an excellent conversation through mouthed words and improvised sign language, as I attempted to explain that it doesn’t really make sense. Then a girl walked between our stalls wearing an awful t-shirt, bearing some ridiculous comment that I forget. We looked at each other again, and exchanged screwed up faces with tongues stuck out. It was beautiful. It was true love. We were meant to be, forever, always. And then I saw the engagement ring on her left ring finger. Another beautiful future was squished under life’s cruel boot like the useless pavement-stranded worm it truly was.

So yeah, no beautiful festival romances.

Unless you count the potato wedges.