My morning tempers often transcend into day tempers and eventually in unadulterated pure magical hatred towards the mere existence of other human organisms if left untreated. I remember walking down the isle of a supermarket (true — a really dreadful place to be) and seeing someone standing right in the middle where I couldn’t pass. What this person did, this defiant act of just standing, got under my nails and skin and right through my head and set my hair on fire in a moment’s time. I realised how ridiculous I was feeling so all there was left to do was curl up into a ball and read. That day, I finished reading The Hearing Trumpet in a patch of sun with my mother’s eighties sunglasses on because the sun was so perfectly bright and then all was brilliant and beautiful.
The main thing that lifted my spirits was obviously Leonora Carrington’s writing.