Hello there transient, barely-there readership,
You know, after she came out of my head last week. I had a brief period where I thought I might not be pregnant anymore. I can't lie, I was relieved. The whole enterprise is very disruptive to my work. However, the standard unpleasant tests have put paid to that particular theory. I am still with child and, now, additionally with twin.
Wigmore B's progress is much slower than I would have liked. As her Twitter feed attests, she can use the tech: Twitter, the iphone, Chrome - she was doing that before she started forming complete sentences. However, I'm finding that she just refuses to communicate with me in any other medium than Tweets. It is most vexing because I don't go around dividing my essence into many bodies so that it can ignore my work schedule and piss about with goo on its face.
Her dwelling place.
Already the odour has achieved a distinct and near-chewable quality - I wonder if her smell is different to mine.
In addition to her refusal to work or speak, she hasn't yet washed herself, won't take off her filthy blue cardigan and has taken up residence on a pile of dirty laundry at the foot of my bed where she Tweets and sleeps with unnerving regularity.
I took this about an hour ago, when it began to snow.
She is hostile and confused by any change in the weather.
More disturbing than any of this however were the developments of yesterday. I decided, after a particularly dehibilating morning that resulted in several important footwear items being defiled, I decided to do what I have always done in times of duress: and swan off to the cinema. I went to Cinema City and saw 'Uncle Boonbee Who Can Recall His Past Lives' a Thai film selcted solely on the basis on its title and one still image of a dark presence with glowing eyes. My delight was later solidified when I read this, (now devastatingly excised, and me without my screencap) line from the Wikipedia entry:
'This film was well received by critics and the gays.'
I need no further encouragement, no greater aesthetic endorsement then that.
'This film was well received by critics and the gays.'
I need no further encouragement, no greater aesthetic endorsement then that.
The film itself was dreamlike and indistinct. Sons came back as ghost monkeys, an aged princesses masturbated with a live catfish, a monk had a shower and there was a five minute scene featuring the most tender cuddle I have yet seen on film.
My friend fell asleep through parts of it and I don't mind telling you, transient ghost reader, I was bored insane at just as many points as I was thrilled. That's dreams for you.
And that's by the by.
The thing is that I went back home to decorate the flat for Christmas with my other, non-clone housemate Marion. Marion is kind and practical and views an additional Wigmore as no particular worry as long as she contributes to the house fund, keeps the bathroom in a fit state. Marion is a blessing but this too is by the by.
The thing is that even though she was ensconced in her sticky bedroom-based den all day, Wigmore B could see the film. She knew it. I returned to find her muttering Thai and simulating the unfortunate princess/fish love tryst with one of my rucksacks. Her Twitter feed confirmed my suspicions:
How strange. How strange and useful from a phd research standpoint - I need only pay for one ticket. We don't appear to be linked in any other way. I haven't dreamed anything in such a long time and it seems like she does nothing but sleep and kick and whimper with some secret narrative or other. I haven't a clue what goes on inside this new head. She's as much a mystery to me as the baby.
Oh god. What if she's pregnant too?
