I walk into the flummery shop to buy some dictionary-flavoured paint for my kitchen walls, only to discover that the last pot has been sold to a wandering tribe of performing Irish nazis.
Eyeing the paint chart, I decide on Disdain – with a hint of apple as an alternative.
Upon returning home, I find that my house is now a small, white envelope. I pick up my envelope-home and open it. Inside is an unwritten list of the names of all the people I should have met.
The scar on my primal wound has been playing up again.