Puppetmaster

I’m being played with by Fate. Or whatever it is controlling my destiny. Some sadistic puppet master, yanking my strings and conspiring to plot my clumsy little path through the chaos of existence and make it a little bit surprising, and more often than not, a teeny bit weird. 

This week has involved finding a great housemate to replace me for my forthcoming move (yay!), said housemate not being allowed to move in because of stupid fucking contract beaurocracy (fuck’s SAKE), having one of the most wonderful, spontaneous London days out I’ve ever had (hurrah!), watching a heron silently fish in Little Venice at midnight (ace!), getting some pretty awful family news (grim) and weirdly, running into someone who’s been on my mind. Twice. Via the medium of almost being randomly hit by their car on two consecutive days.

Obviously I styled it out, not looking at all like I’d just walked three miles home from work, hurriedly, with the world’s heaviest bag on a muggy east London evening. Or that my makeup had fallen off. Or that my hair was a massive frizzy mess. Or that I was seconds away from being actually hit by their car because I was in my own little world flouncing home from work, and crossing side streets perilously after some twat rollerblader almost took me out on a pavement. (Note to east London adults: if you MUST rollerblade around like some childhood-regressive Californian tit, do it on the roads and not on the narrow Hackney pavements, or next time I’m not moving out of your way. PS. Your Lycra shorts are disturbingly revealing.) 

Maybe there’s some alternate version of me out there who inhabits all the could-have-beens from my life. She got a housemate to replace herself, and moved into a new flat with minimum fuss. She didn’t almost fall over someone’s car bonnet, TWICE, because she’s cool and not a total specialton like me. She would have breezed through the serendipitous situations effortlessly. She probably has really good hair too.

What a cow.