Harlequin

One of those battered jeans days.

It’s summer! So I’m wearing lots of colours on weekends.

Beansprouts, your favourite colour. Although I don’t quite believe its your favourite colour, I don’t think you really have a favourite colour. Or maybe it is gray.

I felt like writing this morning, but after reading various cases for the day …don’t feel like it anymore. What work does to you.

I wonder what book I should pick up again.

Meanwhile I came across an old book, of a short story by Agatha Christie (a childhood favourite) on a man who was thinking of his old friend, Mr Harley Quin, and without realizing it he had stepped into an old tea shop, which sold teacups of every colour of the rainbow, scones, and he began thinking of Daltonism which led him to solve the case. The case was utterly random. But something about AC’s writing that still makes me shiver and thinking of a rainbow kindly elderly man in the sunlight. Mr Harley Quin. Couple that with pictures of a harlequin baby still floating in my mind (several of my friends are from medical school and they have shared so much fodder for a detective story) , and you get a rather delicious shiver to start the day.

It was my official confirmation yesterday, ie. I have worked six months. I think I have been here longer actually, I don’t really know.

I still want to qualify as a lawyer, I wish I had more energy, I want to do theatre again, I want to read like I used to, I want to visit Russia and Japan, most of all I wish to see ST again. Desires. On a wishing star.

Instead, I go back to living in the next book. Or hoping to have no mistakes in the next report.

Maybe I should imagine myself as a little Sherlock Holmes, hoping to spot and remember and piece together all little crystal parts of daily living, so that I can derive more tickled amusement in simple things. I only seem to get more despondent and darker as the days go by.

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