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Saturday, October 30, 2004

BLUE: Sad 

Dolly has not been so pink and chirpy of late. She has been holed up in bed, trying to sleep away a funny sort of depression, the sort that suddenly moves in uninvited with its extended family and stays beyond its welcome.

Sometimes you know you have everything you want and the people who know you coo lovingly about your charmed life. And yet it's still difficult to get up in the mornings because you feel so down. Duck-down is never so comforting when feeling down.

There is a delicious angst about depression and wallowing - all great writers and artists do and there is a perverse fashionability about therapy or a reliance on Prozac. Or, you're just being a spoilt brat with nothing to do but create your own demons. Or, you really do have issues.

Mostly though, it just feels like shit.


Wednesday, October 27, 2004

WHITE: Long distance relationships 

It seems to a dolly that long distance is the new fashionable way forward for relationships. Same city relationships: only for the ordinary. In recent months, I've come across a surprisingly large number of people who are in for the long haul, long distance and come quite a remarkable way since. I even know of a married couple who have never spent more than 6 months together because he's always off extended periods of time for work.

It is a miserable life - the missing, and longing, and counting down the days when you are together. But a strange perverse sort of fascination with distance prevails - for people both in and out of these relationships. There is a sort of romantic angst that alomost makes this suffering fashionable and admirable. Think of all romantic heroes and heroines of the classics who are separated from their lovers - the idea of communicating only through letters and waiting in anticipation for the postman is always swoony and romantic (until you get into that distance yourself and realise that even modern gadgets like email, texts, webcams and Internet telephony are never enough.)

I've spoken to many interested people who coo and ooh in wonder at the effort and pain that must go into my LDR. Followed by a grand show of support, mostly said with such sincerity and well-wishes, you can't help by feel special for 'what you're going through.' Sighing and tutting over an LDR has made for many long conversations : with other LDRees there is instant bonding as we moan woefully to each other, and with others, there are always plenty of concerned questions and, oddly, a great deal of interest. There is the added intrigue of who your LD partner is as others are kept wondering what s/he's like for months until s/he next visits. And at the same time, it also puts in you that peculiar position of appearing single but being unattainable, which makes me feel special and wanted, both by the boy who's far away and quite possibly by others around me who are confined to just looking and not touching (the latter might just be wishful thinking but I enjoy fanciful thoughts).

I've had said conversations with the most unlikely of people - a random lady I sat next to in a literature conference, my editor(s), the yoga instructor - and there has always been big servings of sympathy, coddling and encouragement. (Of course, there must be others out there who think it absurd and a waste of time but I haven't met them yet and hope I shan't ever for the weight of my hand against an bare cheek can be painful).

Yes, the idea of an LDR can seem desirably chic and brave; declaring you have an LDR can be akin to declaring a newest gem you have stored mysteriously away in your accessory drawer. Still. As romantic and adventurous the idea is, and as much as I love attention, sympathy and being special, it still sucks. I would much rather just be ordinary and be in the same city as the boy.


Tuesday, October 26, 2004


Of all the pretty photos I try to be in (big genuine smile, sultry pouts, proper angling of the shoulders so as to get thin arms etc), the boys likes the ugliest ones the most.

There is an upside-down smiley face that I often pull (an ode to Worms3D, if any of you know of it?). It is an attempt to be endearing and cute but more often than not, comes out looking angry and cranky, like a spoilt child suffering something quite wrong. Also, entire archives of a dolly asleep, half asleep or rudely awoken: Bedhead is overrated - the mullet that revives upon waking is of frightening proportions and certainly does nothing for looking photogenic; also squinty, unevenly sized eyes and a crumpled face like an ugly new born mammal. Those are the ones that find their way onto the boy's desk at work and at home so that when colleagues or friends ask who it is, he can proudly declare that it's his girlfriend. Charming.

It is a comforting thought though, that my most hideous and unappealing is what the boy considers most adorable. Love is blind, eh? And thank goodness! Out with the makeup brushes and sprucing, au naturel and all its warts has never been so in.


Monday, October 25, 2004


How rude of me to forget... Thanks for the info re: Tipping the Velvet. I still don't know how to get to Sungei Wang's parking lot, and I don't even know where Wangsa Maju is (??!!) but that's my own silly problem with navigation and lack of directional skills. Where there's a will there's a way though, and I shall scour my way around badly-signposted chaotic KL streets to find it.

D xx


RED: Surprise party 

I flew back to KL a few days ago for a surprise party that dad had planned for mum. It'd been planned weeks in advance and, quite typically I managed to botch things up and let the cat out of the bag. Almost. The day before flying back, I wrote a text message to dad about the party and ended up sending it to mum - it caused confusion, distress and a great deal of pissing and moaning on my end about my own stupidity. Only I would be capable of such a royal mess up; I never heard the end of it at the party, of course, but at least it makes for stories, conversations and a blog entry.

Fortunately, she didn't quite figure it out (because bless her, she's quite simple) and the surprise was still a surprise. Friends and relatives she hadn't seen in almost 10 years had flown in from Singapore and Hong Kong, and as we staged a grand entrance of surprise guests, dear old mum blubbered in tears and flapped about in shock. We weren't quite sure if her little old heart would be able to take it.


Friday, October 22, 2004

PINK: Tipping the Velvet (again) 

I don't normally do this but I've been gripped by a rather unusual desire to watch dramatic serialisations about 19th century lesbians... following the great book of course. Hence, a personal address to a reader (right after I'd just said I wouldn't talk to readers anymore. Silly me)


Duress, my lovely: which magic VCD did you find Tipping the Velvet in? I should never have imagined anything quite so cultured to reach Malaysian shores and sit alongside common Hollywood drivel - how thrilling! I've been hunting for it for almost two years now and it's getting a bit ridiculous. Shall be grateful for any leads as to where it can be found for not more than RM12 a disc? (as I'm quite typically your cheap and stingey, piracy-supporting M'sian).

D xx


BLUE: Melancholy 

The boy is asleep and snoring, sprawled out with his legs so far across my side of the bed that I'm forced to get up and stretch my legs. It's irritating, but it means that he's there and that I shall wake up next to him tomorrow morning.

It's my last night here with the boy and am flying back home in 9 hours after a month of being in bliss and feeling the daily thrill of hearing the apartment intercom ring when he gets home from work. I am sad, in anticipation of being alone again. As always, it's the small things that will leave their tiny prints and make you moody when you find yourself missing him: the t-shirts so old they have holes in them, which he leaves in wads between the pillows when he wakes up in the morning, the furrowing of eyebrows while he sorts through his work, the ugly brown shoes he insisted on buying on a day out, the sudden kisses as he walks by for a cup of tea, the sweet wrappers he leaves like a trail, the giddy smell of him that runs cosy comforting ringlets round your head as you walk into the room, the funny little song from the Bailey's advert which he obsessed over the whole month you were there.

On the upside, the boy is coming back with me just for the weekend (there's another story in this, for another day), but is it is still an abrupt ending to a month of floating in joy so complete it even has its own a comforting smell. Already, I have horrid random blue thoughts of having to wander round 1utama without the fitted lock of his fingers through my loose palm, or being stuck in hazy, rainy KL traffic without someone to sing along and pull faces with.

Oooh err, I think I'm getting too soppy and dependent for my own good. Love has turned me absurdly compulsive.


Thursday, October 21, 2004

WHITE: Invisible 

In response to the latest comment: yes, indeed, if comments boxes are anything to go by, it seems dolly is dwindling in popularity, but it hasn't bothered her enough to think of shutting down the laptop and drying the quill yet. It is fun to write for the sake of writing, and I had set this blog out to be a bit of a punching bag for loose baubles in my head rather than to compete in amassing the largest number of comments. (Thanks to those who do comment though, they are fun!)

Still... Let's see now - what would you all rather I did write about so as to solicit plenty of raucous comments? I confess I am curious as to the wants of a reading public these days.

From what we see of bookshelves and reviews, it does seem that there is a disturbing large (and growing!) interest in Jessica Adams, Katie Fjorde and the like. As far as pandering to public fancies is concerned though, that little niche shall hopefully never be mine. Predictable action-packed storylines and over-stylised hero(in)es are not my forte so for now you shall have to contend with g-string sores and talk of babies... if indeed there's anyone out there reading at all.


Wednesday, October 20, 2004

PINK: Lesbians 

Am I the only person in the world who didn't know what a quim was?!

Have just finished with Tipping the Velvet about 'toms' (lesbians) in the late 1890s which really couldn't be more fun. Hurrah for Sarah Waters for such a lucid account on the goings-on behinds skirts and parlours. I'd love any book that suggests that it was outrageous for a girl to run around in a skirt and short hair. They should think me a freakshow then. And, well... what should they think if I had out my pink mini and pointy pumps? Time travel would be well worth it just to see the shock on Victorian faces.

Anyway, lesbians don't shock anymore. Since it's become fashionable to be bi, chicks are kissing chicks at every party and everyone with a computer owns at least one downloaded lesbian porn video. But, lesbians in period dramas - that's something, if only for the scandal you'd imagine it would have stirred up back then among the monocled eyes, petticoats and stays. Even more outre, for then was the idea of girls dressing up as boys and falling in love with each other. Nothing quite like donning boys' clothes, dancing and singing on stage to get the ladies excited, eh?

And,"tipping the velvet", for those who don't know, is giving head the girl way. And here we all were, thinking it was something about theatre curtains.


Tuesday, October 19, 2004

RED: Moments of shame 

There is a point in every relationship when things lose a little of the luster of its shine from initial days of courting, flirting and feeling shy around each other. As dolly and her boy are in a long distance thing, this particular point came around later than usual; rather, in stages, as a little more of our each of our perhaps unpleasing mortal habits show themselves each time we see each other, after periods of time apart.

There’s all the usual then: Leaving doors open to pee, snoring, burps (though really, this dolly is still far too polite to incline that way just yet), mooching around at home all day in old crinkled pyjama, leaving cups of tea unwashed around his room, hanging your handwashed knickers on the towel rack to drip dry, untamed bed head, donning a green mud mask (and still have him say you're lovely).

This time round though, two more things to add to an increasingly horrifying list of things to shame oneself in front of the significant other. First, I noticed I had started to wear mismatched underwear which is something I seldom ever do around myself, least of all around a beloved. I balked as I realised I had on pink pants and a white bra - it was so frighteningly, grossly uncoordinated I should have deserved to be put on probation before ever being touched by the boy again. Then, the other night the boy walked in on me in the bathroom as I was bent over, arse propped outwards towards him, in the most unflattering of stances adjusting a sanitary pad onto slouchy, undesirable knickers balanced loosely around my knees. Quite possibly the most undesirable of positions to see anyone in, really and tops, by far, the boy's earlier request to check out the sore on my behind.

Ah well. I suppose they do say love is blind. Or at least I hope it is.


Monday, October 18, 2004

BLUE: Shopping bags 

Once again, a diligent dolly has put off reading and writing long-overdue book reviews in lieu of window shopping which always makes it past the front door, into the changing rooms and back out through the cashiers. Today it was Kookai, more for the thrill of walking out with their beautiful turquoise blue shopping bags than for what may be sitting inside.

For someone who wrote extensively of marketing ploys and the evils of consumerism, I am no less savvy and have perhaps come out scathed as even more of a sucker for beautiful packaging and crisp shopping interiors. The rationale is that since I have studied (and therefore possess a deeper understanding than most of, haha) the socio-psychology behind "the system of objects" (Baudrillard) and "the fashion system" (Barthes), then "I know what I'm doing". So it's ok. As if being aware of the sin pardons it and makes it better.

So. Beautifully wrapped packages and boxes shall forever enthrall a shallow, indulgent dolly. I was estactic when I got my first Tiffany: poor dear father has no idea that I don't actually care much for jewellery and still hasn't realised that my show of delight was actually directed towards the baby blue box that the necklace came in. I love things like BeneFit and Stila cosmetics for the adorable little packages they come in and M.A.C for the sophistication of its black look; and of course, the chi-chi bags that you get to carry away and swing on your arm the rest of the day.

Yes yes, I am an eager and unabashed sucker for good marketing ploys, pretty packaging and judging books entirely by their cover. The Kookai bag is still sitting next to me as I write this, as yet unopened for fear of spoiling the illusion.


Saturday, October 16, 2004

In the PINK: of health 


The sore has healed, and Dolly is not toting around a baby on the inside.

This can only mean a prompt return to the japes and folly.


Friday, October 15, 2004

PINK: Babies 

I was taken to see the boy's six-week-old nephew the other day. I was terrified of course, that I would have to feign interest, be made to carry him, and have to make obligatory cooing noises. There's always that fear you'll drop them, their heads will roll off their tiny flimsy necks or the overwhelming urge to poke in the soft bits of their heads will prevail and you'll forever leave an unbecoming dent in his yet undeveloped brains.

I did alright, fortunately. My boy's mother and sister-in-law did insist I carry him; smiley digital photographs and coos of delight ensued. T'was all very jolly, and I was surprised to find that I took quite a liking to the little one. No violent tendencies or strong feelings of distaste, as is usually the case with me and anyone under 18. Still, hasn't made me anywhere near broody yet.
Oddly, friends are convinced that I shall be the "cluckiest of them all" which is worrying and for now, confusingly insulting. A friend wrote the other day to say he's already got me on a list of "breeders" and is very happy to play godfather. Thank you for the kind thoughts, but I can't even look after myself just yet, least of a small, soft-skulled critter who dribbles.

In fact, as I write this, I'm panicking that I may be pregnant for having taking my pill 12 hours too late a few days ago. Tomorrow shall tell if I'm on way to mother-henning.


Thursday, October 14, 2004


I had spent a significant amount of time in England to begin feeling that I wasn't as fat as I'd always previously believed.

Dolly is a British size 10/ Australian size 8/ American size 6. All quite normal apparently. I've even read that this is what is often referred to as the holy grail of dress sizes.

Then I went home to Malaysia and have since felt conspicuously like one of those people you would assume have some sort of growth hormone problem that makes them uncontrollaby larger(fatter)-than-usual. To take a size 10 off the hanger suddenly feels a little dirty, like you're not quite with it with the rest of the hipless size 6 average. Sales assistants would look disdainfully as I lumber like an elegant mammoth into a shop full of toy-sized clothes. "Sorry miss, that's our largest size", they would say, poker-faced and bored as I struggle into an extra-large. I am not a desirable customer.

Over dinner once, with my waif of a cousin and her husband, I expounded on my dilemma and how difficult it was to get clothes in this part of the world.

"I'm so huge over here," I bemoaned. "Back in England I'm usually a medium, sometimes even a small." To which the cousin's husband chortled in laughter with such disbelief he choked on his bruschetta. Poor thing, it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.


Wednesday, October 13, 2004

RED: Sore 

I recently bought a g-string which turned out to be a bit too snug. I’d already showered, dressed and was tucked up in bed with a book. Feeling too comfortable to get up and change, I decided the slight tightness will just have to do through the night.

A few days later, I discovered a sore in sensitive areas and have been hobbling about with pained expressions on my face.

The boy insisted I show him, as if the whole thing wasn’t already horrifying enough. I screeched a big no and pulled a distraught face. Unless you’re twisted into a sexy pretzel with your legs in the air and engaged in devastatingly wonderful sex, there is really no other reason for your partner to be inspecting your nether regions, especially not for something like seeing “if the sore really is that bad”. The thought of him 'going down' to look at a sore was as nauseating and humiliating as I imagine wetting your pants in primary school would been for timid 6-year-olds. And it’s not like he’d have been able to do anything about it anyway, except perhaps laugh and/or be so repulsed as to never touch me again. After all, these things can never be glamourous or pretty for anyone not medically trained.

I suggested I see a doctor if it got any worse (for I have terrible pain threshold and an abnormally acute fear of things like gangrene) to which the boy responded, “You’ll let a doctor look at your arse and not me?” He looked almost upset. Charming and almost funny, given the situation as I stood in his room flapping.

At least he cares, bless him.


Tuesday, October 12, 2004

BROWN: Unattractive people 

The boy’s flatmates are moving out in January and he has to find a new tenant, which has been worrying him a bit the past few days. Yesterday, in the middle of working he turned round to ask:

Him: You’d rather I lived with a guy wouldn’t you? Or an unattractive girl. I know I would feel a bit funny if you were living with a really attractive guy.

Me: Well things could happen anyway even if it wasn’t an attractive girl.

Him: Nah. I’d never fuck an unattractive girl.

It was so absurdly, blatantly frank that I stumbled a bit over my hearing. The little political correctness part in me (for who can get away from it now what with all the incessant drilling from everywhere) buzzed about in my mind with the immediate throw back of what-about-personalities? what-about-the-poor-ugly-people? Hello-compassion!? Was the boy being unkind? What, so he’ll only sleep with the likes of Miss Gong Li et al? Should I be feeling oh-so-grateful that he picked me then? I was indignant. When you have spent as many years as I had being an unattractive child, ugliness is something you shall continue to feel defensive about for many years after.

But then. Wait. I did a trawl through my mental address book, pulling out all my close male friends with the wonderful personalities, and realized, with a rude shock that delightfully funny/intellectual/engaging as they are, I wouldn’t ever sleep with them because well, they just weren’t attractive really. The personality thing is a nice thought, but at the end of the day we’re not truly lusting after people like Danny Devito or Rowan Atkinson who are good for their laughs/intelligent banter. We all want beautiful people to share sheets with or show off on your arm as the latest accessory.

It’s all a bit subjective, I know. But, unless you’re a townie slapper from the remote British suburbs, you should be able to discern, to some degree, what constitutes being attractive or not. For example, all right thinking boys, girls and dollies should all know at least, there are three types of people:

1)The beautiful attractive– e.g. aforementioned Gong Li, Elizabeth Taylor, Catherine Zeta-Jones who will never 'cross over' to 2 or 3.
2)The middle ground not attractive/not unattractive – people who may be beautiful to some or just ordinary to others.
3) The (unattractive) rest - who we usually overlook

And as crass or sorry as it may sound, there is no denying, really, that when we’ve put aside our politesse, diplomacy and new age discussions on inner beauty, most of us won’t be sleeping with The Rest.

And yes, the unpolitically correct side of me admits that I shall feel largely relieved if indeed, the boy's future flatmate looked a real minger.


Monday, October 11, 2004

BLUE: Play 

Lubricants are a sticky matter. The proper selection of a good one, even more so. Mostly, it's left to chance and flash packaging, as always of course, makes absolutely no difference to how digsuting it tastes, or how much stringy residue it leaves on your bits.

Durex, however, have got it just right with their delightfully new bottled 'Play.' Just the right consistency, enough to stay smooth through the ride, and a (almost tasteless) flavour that doesn't make you want to gag and vomit all over your beloved's beloved. (Blow jobs are not ever gross for what they are in themselves, but more for whatever sickly-tasting lubricant is on that you might have to grin, bear and suck along with the rest.) The bottle comes with an innovative little pump too which is far more elegant than having to mess about with unscrewing caps off tubes and reduces the chances of squeezing out a ridiculous excess of lube all over your sheets and/or your eagerly-awaiting partner's inner thighs.

Also, in this case, the packaging is fabulous - just the right shade of milky blue, a simple though effective little logo design and cheeky looking font for the name of the product. 'Pleasure-enhancing lubricant' (as described on bottle) indeed! Yes, this is it, and it does, in fact, incite a great desire to come out and play.


Sunday, October 10, 2004

RED: (Un)erotic movies 

No, not porn (for a change - you don't all think I've really turned into a smutty housewife do you?!). I've decided not to let my intellect (!) melt while on holiday so rented out some foreign indie movies. The two I've watched so far have involved mad women with insatiable or crazy sex desires. We're not just talking about the likes of highly charged, highly sexualised, desirable women in porn. Sada, in Ai no corrida (The Realm of the senses) and Erika in La pianiste (The Piano Teacher) are plain crazies and their ideas of sex have been quite enough to put both the boy and myself off sex for quite a long while.

A little recap: The first tells the story of a woman who runs away with her (married) employer. They 'get married' in a simple ceremony at an inn and stay there for the rest of the movie having insatiable, continuous sex. Sounds delightful? Not when that's all that happens throughout the length of the movie - too much of a good thing, as it were. It does get tiresome - as they screech their way through (yet) another session, we're left waiting around for something more substantial to happen. So, they get up to all sorts - putting boiled eggs up private parts and strangling each other with a piece of rope. Eventually, in an act of sexed-up frenzy, Sada strangles her lover to death, cuts off his penis and balls and runs away.

In the second, a repressed piano teacher who lives with her domineering mother, shows us exactly what happens you keep your urges suppressed for too long... As she is emotionally and mentally pummelled by her dominating mother, she too develops masochistical fantasies. When one of her piano students eventually unleashes her sexual awakening, she writes him a letter detailing everything she wants him to do to her: hit her, tie her up, punch her in the stomach, lock her in her room. She's a deviant sort under her hard piano-teacher facade who self-mutilates her private parts and gets so turned on by the sight of people having sex at a drive-in that she has to squat down immediately to urinate. Very strange. Indeed.

So. We're a bit off the sex at the moment. It's been quite a few disturbing days...


Tuesday, October 05, 2004

WHITE: Discretion II 

I've been inconsiderate of late. When I'm on holiday I tend to throw caution to the wind, and turn somewhat Paris Hilton in The Simple Life (fascinating for its showcasing of stupidity and spoilt demeanour).

I haven't bothered, you see, with "keeping it down" in the bedroom. I'd like to point out though that while I'd been making what I'd considered just enough noise to keep the juices flowing, as it were, I have not been screaming like a pornographic Japanese banshee. (That's for when there's really no-one else home). Relative to being caught up in the throes of things, I didn't think I was being too silly about it. Apparently though, my definition of "enough" is what the boy considers plenty to gross out his poor long-suffering flatmates.

I think having a place of one's own is most certainly the way forward for the uninhibited yelling that can be indulged in. Whenever the boy and I are together (after much long distance and pining) we're either in my parents' house, his parents' house or an apartment-with-flatmates. It does get tedious having to settle with making noises silently in your own head and I shall need to resort to Munch's screaming man for inspiration very soon. I wonder if there are health problems associated with not being able to be vocal when you want/need to be?


Saturday, October 02, 2004

PINK: Dildos 

Discretion is not my forte it seems. I have developed an ungainly habit of leaving my dildos around for people to chance upon by mistake.

This is how it works. After washing, I leave them out to dry either on the sink or by my bedside table- usually because I'm too lazy to just dry them off properly and pack them away into their pretty (though by now rather flimsy, dog-eared) boxes. You know how it is, the effects of playtime are delectably soporific. I then promptly forget about them, and leave them out for accidental public viewing.

Cue daddy dearest barging into my bedroom on a sleepy weekend morning to say hello and good morning before a golf game. The realisation that the playthings are standing there quite glaringly pink and erect dawns far too late for me to do anything about it without drawing even more attention to it, and myself. I can't be sure if father did see anything - it is fortunately that is usually quite unobsesrvant. However, should he have, it would have sent him into a paralytic reaction. His response to tampons-in-the-bathroom or the-boy-and-I-in-the-same-room has already been adverse enough for me to feel bad for the added strain on his poor 51-year-old faculties.

Today, again, I left the pink one on the boy's bathroom sink to dry. The washing machine is in his bathroom though and as his flatmate walked in to pick up her laundry, I heard a hesistant though discreet little chuckle of warning and a "erm... well luckily I didn't ask P (her boyfriend) to take the clothes in." Lots of giggling, and feeling grateful for a change that boys like P are usually more into their X-Box than watching the timer on the dryer. I, on the other hand, shall have to be more vigilant about little domestic slip-ups like these, and keep more of a watchful eye on things I leave around to dry.

It shan't happen again. In future: for my eyes only.


Friday, October 01, 2004

SILVER: Mirrors 

Fortunately, no overdose of pasta or cold weather today so sex was on the cards. I'm now sleepy and sated, with a cup of tea (made kindly by a most indulging boy) as company.

Anyway, the sliding wardrobe doors in the boy's room are surfaced entirely by mirrors which makes for tantalising glimpses of oneself in compromising positions. (thanks to the boy's best friend whose apartment it is - excellent choice in apartment for the sexy mirrors - though I'm not sure he won't be grossed out for knowing of these goings-on in his highly-prized investment.)

The special thing about these mirrors is that because they're sliding doors, they can be adjusted accordingly, to as little or as much as you want to see (of yourself, your partner, both, or just the bits). I chanced upon this lucky discovery as I happened to glance over and see only lower half of myself with the boy from behind reflected partially in the mirror. Thrilling for what cannot be seen, in an almost porny sort of way (though less cheese of course, since it's not just random people you're looking at with ridiculous names). It does help of course to have mirrors that are flattering so as to even out the bits and make skin surfaces look smooth enough to feature on one of BeNefit's promotional catalogues for sheeny skin products.

There is a scene in Alasdair Gray's mammoth book, Lanark, where a character finds himself in a room made entirely of mirrors. It was the only thing that any of the girls in our Contemporary Narrative class remembered about the stupid book. It must just be a terribly self-indulgent narcissistic thing, where you catch yourself (and other) looking "unexpectedly" desirable. Not for the self-conscious, but oooh so delectable for the rest. Here's to looking 'atcha, kid, strike your loveliest pose.


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