Scented candles on my home-made shabby chic bedside table and a
blank and fragile, indefinitely knowing nod from the silver Ophelia on
the art nouveau mirror stood on it. Down duvets in washed out,
grand-aunt florals , lilac though they were once purple. And minty
teeth. And eucalyptus shampoo. So fresh. The expansive feeling that I
have actually written the one book I always wanted to write, and I can
tell it goodbye sailor .