I was meant to go to yoga for four this morning and my beautiful new phone didn't alarm me properly - but my smartass body, nonetheless, took the trouble to wake me up at 4:20. Thank you, body, well fucking done. Still, it gave me a chance to finally drive a stake through the heart of Miss P's goddamn botany project, so it's not all a shitty lining.
Which reminds me, I have a new phone number, so don't use the old one. The new phone I got last night has a camera. It's exciting. So far I've only photographed my cat, some roses and my chest. I don't know what it is about holding a camera that makes me photograph my own tits. Sometimes I feel like a Soviet experiment gone wrong. Fuck. This is going to be a sleepy day.
So Italy is through to the finals - my daddy must be over the moon. I'm shocked. Del Piero? Scoring a goal? Four strikers? What's that now? When I look at Del Piero, the last thing I think of is a soccer ball. That's just too surreal. A soccer pitch, maybe. With a big jar of lemon curd and a couple of parachutes. Mmmm. Italian soccer players. Why are the beautiful ones always so evil?