it’s volvo sunday, a day to keep off the streets of oxford, as the kiddiwinks arrive en masse for michaelmas, their parents’ cars laden with the essentials of student life. (which, in the past eight years, seems to have evolved from “kettle, toaster, tape player” to “kettle, mobile phone, laptop and separates system”. after all, toasters are banned here now.) and so I hide away and draw the curtains, only now realising that it’s about time I reacquainted myself with my music collection, with the aid of a decent cd player and some fuck-off headphones.
for some reason, other than the gallons of coffee in my system, I’m buzzing. possibly enthused by the utter acid-trip party that closed the olympics, or just by a vague sense of possibilities. time to plot my escape, truly.
It helps that cds sound so much better than mp3s.