“Mirrorball” by Mary Gaitskill

Is a damn fine short story.

That’s all for now. The weather has broken, the cold has started in earnest. Am doing lots of manual labour around the house, and an obscene amount of writing. Blockages gone, like the warmth that has reigned over Kiev for the last few weeks. I’d be happy about it, but my stuff hasn’t arrive from Amman yet, so am obnoxiously borrowing mummy’s sweaters, which are mostly Ralph Lauren and make me look like I should be in some WASPy catalogue set on some douchebag’s yacht – well, unless you count the inherent streak of eurotrash. It’s like stripes on a chipmunk.