I bought a dress today, a dress that deserves a "the", a dress with its own soundtrack (The Boy With the Arab Strap, by Belle and Sebastian, I was thinking), a dress that changes the entire way you think about clothes. It was twenty pounds, and from H&M, both things that are odd for me. If you care, it's very 1950s, red with white dots, and button-down. It's brilliant.

For one reason or another, it reminds me of a day in a summer, maybe two years ago, maybe not even that, when OtherRobert (ur, SWP member, friend of the family. Nineteen, I think) was doing some gardening for my dad in exchange for our old armchair, and I was sitting on the new one, reading Female Chauvinist Pigs for the first time, while August and Everything After played on the ancient stereo. Life makes its own soundtrack, and there is a song for everything.

My father is the "shalalala" at the beggining of Mr. Jones; my mother Out Of Time (by Blur).

Everyone has a song.

And I always listen to The Good, The Bad and The Queen when I blog.

(This is the most musical blog you will ever get from me. I accept that at least half of you will hate at least half of the sons mentioned. This is because I only listen with half my brain, according to John Baker, who I must e-mail.)