I'd like to share something that isn't negative, cynical or sarcastic. That isn't tainted with disappointment, nihilism and ennui.
No, really, I would.
It's true that fortune has been projectile vomiting on my eiderdown recently - although, as people keep reminding me, you never know what's going to happen. Which is very true. These last few months could, indeed, be the making of me. Although winning the lottery, falling in love with a non-douchebag and not seeing someone who once put their tongue in my mouth on Embarrassing Bodies having major dental work on their rotten teeth and blackened gums, would also be the making of me. Just in case the sprites of fate, justice and karma feel like listening at any point between now and my inevitable demise.
So, onto the good stuff. Although I have to digress just very slightly. Tonight, while in the throes of my first ever kidney infection (I do love firsts) I remembered that I haven't yet watched any of this season of Made In Chelsea. It hasn't disappointed. Spencer Matthews is more hirsute and flabby than ever, while attempting to play the alpha male - even though all of the rest of the cast, including his doormat girlfriend just cannot stop laughing at his greasy oikishness - and it just always fills me with joy to watch Ollie, Binky and Cheska cavort around, orange of face and facile of tongue.
There was a whole scene with dialogue like: "Oh yah. Prada is, like, classic." "Yah, black. You can't go wrong with black. It's, like, a really good colour." "Yahhhhh, black. Yahhh."
It was amazing. A-maz-ing.
So yes. The good stuff.
It's my flat. I love, love, LOVE my new flat. I adore it. It has wooden floors and an exposed brick wall, beams everywhere, five huge sash windows in a row giving this ever changing view of a main thoroughfare of York. It's at the bottom of The Shambles and all human life can be glimpsed at different times of the day.
The church opposite attracts tramps, students, drunks and hipsters alike. Not to worship at it. That would be weird. No, they come from far and wide to loll around outside it on the grassy bit, smoking fags and eating Gregg's pastries. At night there are the ghost walks, complete with tolling bells, the screaming of drunkards, the nightly cry of "Yummy Chicken!" as some very drunk person discovers, to their everlasting joy and relief, that they can get a greasy chicken kebab from my downstairs neighbours
In short, it's a little slice of perfection in an imperfect world.