I was looking at a shelf full of obscure Diana Wynne Jones books. There were a number of them I had never read before. They all looked like library discards–nondescript dark hardcovers wrapped in crackling, half-torn plastic.

A woman and her beau, a handsome young man with dyed blonde hair, were taking a break in the back of the restaurant where they worked. Nobody was wearing pants, but everyone was wearing shirts. R. started dancing around with the woman and I got quite upset because they were coming into a lot of physical contact and didn’t have any pants on. Everybody thought I was being too uptight. I asked the beau about it, indignantly, and he said I should chill out. Then he and R. started making out. “That’s more like it!” I said, but then everyone had to go back to work. I think everyone was still pants-less.

I was on the phone trying to make plans with M. at the same time as I deep-fried potatoes in a pot; the oil was golden and bubbling gently, and I dropped in peeled cloves of garlic and a large fragrant sprig of rosemary after the pale sliced potatoes.

Two evil girls had conspired to kill their boss, but nobody cared because they had conspired to set up a house made of candy at the funeral. Everyone was busy picking candies off the walls and eating them. There was also a canoe covered in candy.