Rochester once declared that Isabella got on his tits. He had been perusing wanky 'installations' at the Baltic, I was advocating the more romantic and elegant Laing. However, he did become intrigued when I told him that Isabella was actually hiding the severed head of her lover in her pot of basil. I can't help but think that Isabella has become a rather sad metaphor for our tattered relationship. I am hopelessly trying to hold on to the fragments of something dead.
I wish there was an 'off' switch in my head, so I could briskly shut down thoughts of Rochester. Weekdays are full of sunny classrooms, creamy papered exercise books and grazed knees. Weekends are one endless, winding road of reflection. Yet I still can't find the time to clear out the fridge or do the ironing.
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