Z has had to repeatedly restrain me from purchasing a kickass, mint-condition, record player (that i can't even remotely afford). the little boutique my obsession resides in is always filled with the distinct scratch and warble of a twenties-era singer. it makes me want to charleston away my time in our tiny flat, drinking hendrick's, and wearing loud-mouthed lipstick. how does Z manage to keep me from just doing it? he asks how sad i would be when i couldn't bring it home to the states with us. very. in the meantime, the super8 video footage a friend took of our wedding (complete with charleston first-dance action) should be arriving by post soon. i really cannot wait. tomorrow we're off to the geffrye museum for some poem research, so anticipate some middle-class living room posts soon.
p.s. when my back was turned, fall happened in london. it's even better than i could have imagined.
(image via thelastdisco)
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