I have a back-garden.

Well - I've always known in a kind of abstract way that I've had a back-garden. I've seen my housemates wander into it to have a ciggie. Jane's popped out there occasionally. The slugs that occasionally invade the kitchen floor have to had come from somewhere. It's just that the garden's existed in a kind of realm of possibility - like girls changing rooms at school - where I know it exists, and have seen its effects but can't ever imagine it infringing upon my life.

This has changed today when I realised that my window isn't actually sealed shut by judicuous use of nails or something - all I needed was a tiny key to get it open. So now, I sit at my desk and can clearly see that I have a fucking garden. I see a barbeque. I see a low-stone wall. I see all manner of unidentifiable green shit. A verdant garden to observe as I write.

Not only that - the window's effects have lead to fresh air streaming across my bed-chamber. The constant smell of damp disperses from this squalor which I've found myself. It's almost pleasant.

Forget that - it is pleasant. I listen to Rakin and Eric B. I see my garden. I write gibberish.

I am happy. Quickly, someone, have me stuffed and framed.