Some people can add to other people’s life like that, and bring gifts of photos of
tiny kittens and rules of thirds and cool cameras (and, fix broken ones), or secret
phone numbers and nuts for dinner and Egyptian bracelets and painful fashion
advice, or puns and phone calls and carefully selected vegan ham-flavoured
crisps, or the biggest smiles and fobs and doughnuts, or loud laughs, badly edited
pictures of honey badgers, fancy iPhones and second-hand flirting, German
experimental music playlists, Belle and Sebastian, instant email responses, birthday cards, tailored
guidance on London boroughs (as night follows day wPeckhamwsavesw), haircuts worth four hundred bus rides, take-care's, espressos, inexplicable exceptions to the rule of
never being touched, books that were meant for someone else, unrealistic tales
of North-American wildlife, bags-for-life, thermals, sleeping pills,
good-night’s; or (but you’ve got to be lucky like I am), even all of the above.
Now whether all these riches are deserved or
not, or if I’d rather give things away than lose them, or again if I myself
only am the bearer of utter annihilation (fine, of stuffed killer whales also; but only if you’re David Wilson), however consciously hidden behind a mask of cuteness, quirkiness and puppy eyes, it’s an entire different story; because today, on
Matt’s birthday, cake is the only thing that I choose to bring along.
Adding fudgy pecan pumpkin blondies to someone’s
life really can’t be a bad thing; plus when you and your cake tin are almost
squeezed to death on your crammed bus to work, there’s just no room for all the
bullshit.
Aaaand many more.
Aaaand many more.
