Sundays afternoons delights.

I'm at home, nursing a really nasty throat and attempting to spring-clean the abyss that is my room. Old photos and new polaroids. Ticket stubs hung over my Mao Tze Dong frame; Franz Ferdinand 2006, a train ticket from Ayutthaya that escaped from my travel journal, Happy Endings. Postcards and letters; Edward's enquiry about intrusion of privacy when taking photos in Siem Reap, Darren visiting his ex-maid in Belgium, Fen's exchange in Amsterdam, Hansel's lovely Epson-printed Christmas card from the computer labs of Wesleyan. Books and magazines; a copy of Christy Chung's pictorial Andrew and Clarence got for my 16th birthday, an issue of DNA magazine Fen got for me last year. Boxes. A box with leaflets and brochures I used to randomly picked out from boutiques and art houses. Call sheets and schedules. Scripts and notes. Presents. Chris' Elvis stand. Shanice's beautiful collage frame of my photos for my 21st. My DIY collage-d wall of random clutterness; a Keri Smith postcard (How To Feel Miserable As An Artist; 4. Talk to your family about what you do and expect them to cheer you on.), a cut-out of yoga poses from a local tabloid (Banish That Double Chin; 1. Begin with a Lotus Positionas!) and amongst others. CDs and DVDs; borrowed and unreturned, pirated, blanks, untitled and thrown away. Burnt.
It's no wonder I complained about morning sinuses.