cinderella, disney, hole, rags, ragged, ripped clothes, holes

There’s a hole in my…

As I type, everything I am wearing has a hole in it. My cotton knickers have been laundered to such silken softness that I stuck my thumb through the hip panel. My shoes have a bit of a hole; you know, where the stitching comes away. My sock has a big-toe hole in it and my sweater is in the process – along with all my favourite coats and hard-won cashmere – of being gnawed into a kind of spiders web, more string than knit. Of course my tooth has a hole in it and let’s not discuss the pores… pore me.

We are all, these days, leaky ships. The roofs of our houses and flats leak with varying degrees of aggression and is there any point patching things up when clearly a full renovation is needed? Annoying to pay for it twice.

Our memories are like Swiss cheese; we can remember that man we slept with in Turkey 11 years ago but not why we are standing here holding this tape measure? Probably something to do with the roof and the renovation, but who knows?

Our finances have huge holes in them – the moment they get filled the laptop commits suicide, the car gets something terminal and then there’s that hole in the damn tooth. There are holes in our consciences, holes in our sexual histories (never happened – that’s my story and I’m sticking to it).

We are entirely perforated. But, let’s look on the bright side: these holes are just spaces waiting to be flooded with opportunity… for lovely new money (the universe will send me what I need, and so on), injections of fresh, clean thoughts, pants and plaster work into our lives. It’s not deterioration, it’s the CONSTANT potential for reinvigoration and reinvention. So that’s good news. On balance. In the end. Every cloud. Yup.

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