Trip

 

(Track from 15:25 to 25:25. Headphones. Volume up.)

15:25 I step out onto the pavement and turn right.

I check out the kind of day and the kind of me in it.

How I will feel in it. How I do feel in it.

Straight away I know it is this kind of day and I am that kind of me and I’m ready for it.

There are cars and trees. I feel better than OK. I can open.

It’s almost cold. It’s sunny. I can feel the energy from the street, from the people. The people are full of energy today. I am falling into sync with it. With them. Walking. Looking straight ahead. Walking into straight ahead.

I’m moving forward. Moving forward into this space.

There is me and there’s air.

I see a man. He’s walking too. There’s a siren. And a dog. Moving forward through this day. Me too. Pushing through. Striding into next. With the dog and the man and feeling better than OK.

And seeing without looking. The rhythm of the day in my walk and in the sounds on the street and in the people.

It’s sunny. I’m cold. The energy is there on this street, coming from the people. Coming from the cars. They are falling into sync with me. I’m walking. Looking straight ahead. Walking into straight ahead. I’m being moved forward. Forward into this space.

There is air and there’s me and we join.

Breathing the man and his walk and no siren. Watching a girl and her phone. Watching her watch the pavement in the sun. Watching her move through this day.

Feeling it. Breathing it. Not waiting. Meeting. Could almost close my eyes looking out. Feeling out.

The air and I.

17:09 Wait wait there’s a shift. Am I shifting to inside. Turning in on my purpose. I could turn in now. I do do that. I turn. Away from the sun and the cars and trees. Into fiction. Inwards.

Whirring, whirring.

17:27 No, I decide, no. I brace. Embrace. I yield. Back here. Fully in this street. Now. Alive.

Moving forward.

Feeling the pavement. Hearing the sun.

18:00 Yes, and noticing the trees, hearing them ask me to notice them.

Honouring the asking trees.

Eye-kissing the sky.

18:17 And the birds. Feeling them, feeling now. Kissing the pavement.

Loving the birds.

Loving.

18:32 And gathering in this sun and feeling open. Opening. Smiling.

Opening the warmth on my face.

Smiling.

18:50 And there you are. You are. I see you there in the distance.

But I see no distance.

19:05 You are walking towards me. Walking forwards, towards.

Walking my air.

19:22 You call over. From over there. I feel deaf. You are all I hear. I meet you from this space.

Time streeeeeetches.

Dissoooooolves.

19:56 And you’re here. You arrive. We are parallel. We walk.

We walk in parallel.

20:12 We walk forward. Side by side. The trees and the birds and the energy.

You talk. You say loads.

You keep saying it.

You say nothing.

20:29 In amongst it, you say something.

You say something.

20:46 It’s a trip. I trip on what you said. What did you say. It was nothing. Was it something. I am walking and tripping.

I’m tripped up.

I’m suspended.

21:03 Because I’m smiling and talking. But I’m looking to the making of meaning.

To make an OK meaning of the nothing that you said that might have been something.

How it can be made OK.

Why it didn’t seem OK.

Working on it being OK.

21.19 Getting there.

Arriving. Arriving.

Striving.

21:53 Finally, I make the meaning fine. I bring in perspective. I bring you into perspective. I reject perspective. I stop tripping. I walk.

I’m back.

22:09 It’s OK and it’s OK because here is now and that’s all the fine meaning.

And it’s getting better and better.

I can feel the birds now. The trees are part of me. This road, this street is a part of me. The buildings are building into a part of me. I am building up to it. I’m inside it.

It’s all that matters.

I am saturated.

I am bliss.

I am air.

I am bliss.

22:44 And it could matter forever.

23:00 This could last forever. This is forever. Walking down here in this moment. In this life. In parallel. In this parallel life.

In this paved street with trees.

In this paved bliss with breathing trees.

23:32 And if you feel the whole of me, of all around us. If this energy, this pitch is part of you. If it is your total now. The vibration.

That the vibration could be no other than it is.

That it is.

That it does.

24:06 And we arrive. We are here. I am full. I am full of the trees and my blood.

No man. No dog.

But our blood.

24:50 And your blood begins withdrawal. It gathers in. You hear it gather in silence.

You hear now that darkness of goodbye. That deafness. That deathness.

But that is not the end of completion.

It is depth.

It is context.

It is resonance.

And there will be renewal.

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Taco Night

Tacos crop up in lots of American films.

‘What kind of inordinate pleasure would unfold if we made them at home?’ I thought, and shared this with the kids.

‘Tacky’s?’ said Rufus.

‘Well…’

I feel sorry for Mexicans because of the way they get patronised.* (*that’s a ‘cute’ sentence; it’s wearing a beard and a buttoned-up plaid shirt.)

Stereotypes don’t flatter but the comical, lazy and short version dumped at the modern Mayans’ door never seems to get balanced with any better stuff.

Salma Hayek’s killing herself out there- a lone wolf battling the legacy of Speedy Gonzalez.

(Tangent: I thought Speedy was a kick-back character against the slow thing. I thought he might spawn Wolfgang the towel-folding pool attendant, or Pierre the garlic-hating vampire. Apparently he sprang from a joke about a Mexican man’s overly-eager bedroom performance. Man, do the Mexis get a bad rap.)

It’s hard to think of another country so comprehensively theme-wrapped; are Tex-Mex restaurants a result of this phenomenon or a contributory factor?

Historically, the only ones who chose these places for an evening were the maid of honour or best man who did the block booking.

They were a blur of Ay Caramba! throat-throttling music and Aztec dyed wall hangings, offset by the promise of salted margarita vorp.

Every item on the menu was a flour tortilla re-appearing Mr Benn-styley wrapped, crispy or deep-fried in cheese depending on your preference of heart attack- genius hangover food consumed while you’re in the throes of assembling one.

Take re-fried beans (and eat them; go on, just for a dare).

They manage to make something already inspirationally disagreeable and dial it up a notch.

Why did they stop there? Why wouldn’t ‘poo-marinated re-fried beans’ have worked harder towards another round of licking salt off your boyfriend’s neck only to marginally miss re-introducing tequila soup over it later in bed?

Anyway, there’s really no need to venture out for this kind of experience because Old El Paso have got it sewn up. In fact, you could say they’ve cornered the market; their trusty red and yellow food kits are available everywhere, including dry cleaners.

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Ahh, Old El Paso. Makes you want to smile just by-passing them on the food aisle every day for 10 years.

But not this week-end! On Saturday night, nostalgia won over. Today these leedle suckers, they come-a back-a to the casa wi me,’ I chortled to myself light of spirit in Tesco.

There’s not strictly speaking all that much inside Old El Paso boxes. They’re only that big so there’s space to fit in all the acidity regulators on the list of ingredients. If you turn off the lights the tough little casings glow in the dark.

Lock the kids in a cupboard so you can listen very carefully, and you’ll hear them singing a corrupt Mexican lullaby.

There were fajita building units too, though without the sizzling centrepiece skillet I knew there would be an excitement shortfall.

I also balked at the reconstituted guacamole possibly devised in the presence of an avocado but not necessarily inclusive of one (a large specimen of the Hass variety, for example, given an authoritative role as the substitute contents parade by: ‘Copydex? Yes.’ ‘Bile? Ok. ‘Psoriasis flakes?’ Wouldn’t be the same without them.’)

I darted between soured cream, tomatoes, grated cheese, limes and lettuce like Dale Winton doing Supermarket Sweep in a poncho.

I actually left with enough food to construct another winning development of luxury homes in Hammersmith (and with mostly the right materials).

And so it was I became that special kind of arse that feels the need to parcel every experience for kids as an event, in adherence with the secular commandment that they’re too numbed to enjoy something that can’t be made into a WordPress blog post.

TACO NIGHT was born and I knew it was going to be successful because we’ve got a pair of maracas and a wide-brimmed hat that’s been waiting all its life under the stairs for this opportunity.

I was going to bring Central America to W3. I was going to prop our desperate little evening. I probably wasn’t going to dress up as Frida Kahlo but, ‘See, kids, Mummy does ‘fun’. I told you I did, didn’t I? I did tell you that.’

Clock forward a few hours and the fiesta’s in the can, from whence barely 50% of it came.

The table’s a wreckage, strewn with the unsuccessful transportation of toppings to shell.

There was some anxiety about getting the ratio of guac to salsa wrong or, worse, forgetting the sprinkled cheese altogether on one of your ‘go’s’.

The jalapeno peppers were missed (forsaken because the overwhelming remainder would inevitably calcify in the fridge).

The powder-enhanced mince was tasty and if it rang of Soylent Green at all, you just put that out of your mind.

The re-fried beans- Sweet Jesus, the re-fried beans; the kids warned they’d issue a restraining order on them if necessary.

They aped solidified diarrhoea in appearance, tasted like a Bushtucker trial and used their unmistakable scent to falsely advertise the imminent satisfaction of a dog’s appetite: a 360 degree sensory experience of unparalleled invidiousness.

But overall, it was a minor novelty sensation.

Geth was the architect of structurally sound taco towers, with shredded lettuce roof terraces; Bruno discovered (and wore) his new favourite food; Rufus didn’t understand what the hell was going on but gave a nod to the deconstructed serving approach; and I got indigestion by taking incessant photographs but mostly enjoyed the inordinate pleasure unfolding.

2024 we’ll be back: Ariba, ariba! Andale, andale!

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Cosy

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I’m in love

with an object

and I’m done for

’cause it’s not done

to lust and pine

for what’s not Divine

-

To put on a pedestal

what’s socially risible

historically hysterical

what’s hairy

but scarily

polite

-

Whose knit one purl one

hurries the sisterhood

back to the scullery

the flowers to flow

through Cath Kidston’s

wet dreams

-

To adore

an angoran idol

that warms with whimsy

the Lady Grey

the catty ladies’ gossip

chills

-

To journey

from the urbane

into the brain

of a Bronte

the soft scone-filled belly

of Beatrix Potter

-

It was a gift (this humbly-hued honey)

not required

but desired

large-scale perfection

shrunk to poke

the cynic’s ribs

-

I’m done for

me

but not done yet

with my cosy

tiny teapot

pet

*

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PLENTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Because Christmas isn’t Lent, for God’s sake. It’s a Stuff Festival. So tear off all your clothes and get amongst it. Rip it open, gorge it down, guzzle from a ginormous tinsel-wrapped funnel. Don’t be a pussy. Push it, push it. Deep-fill those lard-laced pies. Shovel them down with extra-brandied clotted-artery bull’s cream and if the cheese is passing on a platter arrest its arse and have that away too. Wheel in a wodge of varnish-soaked Christmas pud violated with pence pieces, from Fortnum and Harrod’s. Get in with the chocolate. Get IN. Not the boring sort (for later, guarded in multiple packs by snowy friends) I mean the very extremely dark foil-wrapped sort that’s so much idiotic fun it tells cracker jokes just by parking itself on a red and gold napkin. Inject its tiny cavity with alcohol- there’s plenty of room, go on RAM IT IN- you’re not a fucking monk. Eat it after the Baileys that came after the port that precedes the cooked grease breakfast. Do it! No I’m serious, do it. Celebrate. Line up spirits and mixers and get out the champagne glasses. All of them. The SPECIAL ONES. Your good humour depends on it. (Try overwhelming a tree with austerity, see how you get on.) I want to watch the entire drinks department of John Lewis Waitrose spill from cabinet to counter top NOW. Get utterly casseroled in many, MANY locations of good cheer. Do it with carols, annex a Nativity- I really don’t care. Have friends over, fall over on friends, find strangers in Churches and gargle mulled wine over them too. Do mania, do hysteria in local shops serving prosseco with peach juice, with cassis. It’s community. It’s charity. It’s Hahahahahahahahaha, Christmas!!!!! Do you understand now? Do you get the theme? Say too much. Splurge your desires on innocents at parties. Make your speech pregnant with roast teal and spiced chutney- no room at the inn, just one pissed pantomime donkey. Spew out words and thoughts of superabundant vulgarity because this is the time of giving. Here- take, eat. This is my body that I’ve intoxicated for you- a large, ravenous beast of unending appetites to which I’ve sacrificed chestnuts and glazed fruits that you may feast, with red-wine stains on your teeth and stilton on your tie. This is my blood that I’ve saturated for you with liquid Heaven. Shaken. Dirty. House-blended.

And now New Year and you come to me with that drippy look on your stupid, puffy, hopeful face. Stinking of strategies and regret, a head bursting with notions of greatness and survival, gut writhing in the gravy of More. Forging plans, scribbling lists, grabbing at your rested juicer with pious aggression. Buy, buy, sell, sell! Let go! Take it up! Have 4 days off. Take the weight back. Have a sex change.

You are SO funny. I LOVE it.

*

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Intro to Massage Workshop

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Yesterday, I did a 5-hour introductory massage course in Covent Garden, with a view to ingratiating myself with kin and well-behaved house guests over the cold Winter months.

On arrival it wasn’t that dissimilar in feel to the Speed Awareness one I did a few months back, but for being held in a tropically-heated basement, attendees clutching a towel and baby wipes.

The online blurb described a theory-weighted programme with some have-a-go hands action at the end.

In the flesh, soothing vegetarian music and amber lights made it 2 chromosomes short of a Gentle Touch sex workshop.

We were 16 souls, mostly paired: friends, office workmates, yoga mom and punky daughter- amongst which at least 3 individuals quietly desirous of unleashing lessons learned on a hottie, armed with some vanilla-scented candles and Michael Buble’s Best Hits.

Oh, and not forgetting (though trying to avoid making eye contact with) one peaceful, hand-locked couple a few wheatgrass shots down, on the cusp of asking if Spiritual Lovemaking would be covered before or after lunch.

I could have been partnered with the Keen Bean hellbent on getting his knuckle-fold just so, whilst grappling with premature expression syndrome.

Or the middle-aged Swinger Hopeful in the graphic personality shirt confusing his Eastern European gal pal with What’s My Line? mime artist moves around her shoulder area during Circle Friction.

Lady Luck dealt me instead a well-built Muscovite in a cycling shirt, reassuringly functional in approach, with the look of Putin’s kinder brother.

Our instructor- let’s call her Karen- was an affable Liverpudlian who started every sentence with ‘Obviously’ even having established that none of us knew a massage from a vulnerable Kellogg’s employee.

She sure as eggs wasn’t going to let preparation get in the way of proceedings, taking deep breaths in – looking at her instruction sheet as if at virgin news- before exhaling all the apparently irrelevant info on the out breath, in order to ‘freestyle’.

For friends-and-family casual pummeling tips it’s all about the moves, she affirmed. So sleeves were rolled up within 10 minutes and our clothed orgy was out of the starting blocks.

It’s quite weird laying hands on a stranger you probably gave the evil eye to on the Tube 20 minutes earlier. Weirder still how quickly it becomes normal.

Corny yes, but how many wars would be waged after a summit of back rubbing? Obama leaning into a bit of Merkel shoulder pinching?

Karen made it all look like hand ballet, flowing wrist actions easing supplicant ‘receivers’ into The Land of Grateful Surrender.

Now, I wouldn’t say I was hurting Vlad per se but he wasn’t moaning ‘more more’ either and it mightn’t be a stretch to imagine he was hoping I wasn’t the escort he’d booked for the evening based on my assault of his seated torso.

Thankfully, when he did give feedback he was solicitous for it to contain all the emotion of a shipping forecast- a code to which each of us adhered like George Alagiah (the heady couple excepted, with their all-too-audible whispers of ‘Ooh yeah, do it like that, that’s how I like it. Jesus…’)

When we progressed onto ‘Hands’ it felt like mine and Vlad’s relationship had moved to second base, forearm stroking proving more intimate than neck squeezing, via the slopping on of baby oil.

One student slightly hit the nail on the head by asking, ‘What’s the point of pulling fingers?’ but Karen hammered it down harder, a soft Paul McCartney fresh from a Youtube philosophy tutorial : ‘Basically, it’s just nice to be touched.’

‘Feet’ took it up an even steeper notch, after which my partner (the proverbial last man a few hours prior) started to look like a cocoa-dusted Ryan Gosling, from which the conclusion I’d be romantically drawn to a dog if it could see its way to a bit of light effleurage (with the paddy bit of its paws, question mark)

Feet, though: not for everyone- an oddly shameful body part never allowed wholly to dissociate from Odor Eaters…

The guard of the group is down at this stage.

Some personal information is being divulged behind me and eager Sam is laughing an awful lot, while Vlad and I are relieved to find ourselves walking the tightrope of warmth and coolth without wobbling.

We’ve made some technical improvements in a short amount of time. I’ve told him not to do the thing when he sticks his finger in my Achilles heel tendon; he’s discouraged my karate chops, moving them away from brutality toward punishment.

To be honest, I reckon that our therapeutic foray has the potential to turn into a more full-blooded education without substantial resistance from the majority, given an extra 24 hours in residence and a few carefully chosen refreshments* (*included).

But for the time-being we remember ourselves and there’s only half an hour left…how to close this bite-sized sensory adventure?

With what other than the sublime Indian Head Massage, possibly still illegal in Alabama.

Involving a litany of finger titillation so scrummy it’d be a wonder if a few weren’t left gasping ‘Jurassic Park’, it’s hard to joke down this smorgasbord of sensuality; temple-encircling, scalp tapping, dry shampooing- all there for the taking.

I may have been babbling ‘Keep pulling my hair’ or ‘say something in Russian’ as Karen was bringing us back into the room, back into the room with hand-outs and the offer to spend more tutored Sundays ducking the responsibility of ferrying kids to birthday parties.

A day spent well, no doubt. Its projected legacy beyond the inexpert grappling of those foolish enough to stray within my fervent reach?

The certainty that massage is a truly skilful skill and that even when asked to apply more pressure, you need to keep the best interests of your thumbs at heart.

Unless the person asking is a circumspect Russian with a wide neck; in which case best not to take any chances.

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Confessions of a ‘Fattie’

Last week I found this email I sent in 2004 when living in Seattle.

It was in reply to a Craigslist posting entitled ‘Confessions of a ‘Fattie”* by a woman who said she was struggling with over-eating.

(* I think I might have added the inverted commas in an attempt to flag up the labeling.)

Fattie, I found your posting sad but positive that you see you have a problem in your life- it’s the first step to sorting it out.

You already know about exercise and eating better food and cutting down so here is my tip, which I thought of in the car today after I bought a cake:

You have to realize that- in this country at least- hunger is a desire rather than a need. Just because you feel you would like more ice-cream doesn’t mean you have to actually go and eat it any more than you think you would like to go on vacation to the Bahamas and find yourself at the airport buying a ticket.

Instead, you have to remind yourself that the need to lose weight and re-gain self-esteem, health, a love life etc. is a real need and not just a desire.

Then you have to ask yourself if it makes sense in any way to prioritize a desire over a need.

The answer is no.

And as soon as you get hold of that concept and do something brave with it you can start giving in to some of that desire again, only this time in more moderation.

Good luck.

From which these observations:

1. I’m struck by how much I sound like me even though my perception is that 9 years ago I was a different me in a number of substantial ways.

Over time, we tend to change fundamentally the way we see things far more than we change things about our fundamental selves. I think I think.

2. I can acknowledge that my Advice Tourettes is at least in part a semi-conscious coping strategy for myself developed in response to a historically anxious disposition.

This could make it a screwy proposition but mostly doesn’t (I’d protest defensively) because services offered by those personally invested in them are, on the whole, better.

3. Can you offer a genuinely valuable opinion on a personal situation of which you have had no real experience?

I think yes, if it contains some truth that might resonate…

… but that it might resonate better if it is a truth that has originated from experience.

(Based on an amalgamation of answers 1. and 2., the nirvana of reaching out to others helpfully should be, therefore, at the Venn diagram intersection of Advice Tourettes and Personal Experience.)

4. The American spellings and references take me back to the acclimatisation/ acclimating issues of living in another country from which your homeland is divided by the same language.

Come the 75th time you say ‘glass’ as ‘glarse’, and no-one understands (or knowing you have been living in America for a while imagines you are trying and failing to be charming by persisting in repeating a word you know no-one will understand), do you relent and try a mutoid ‘gllasse’?

I lost chunks of teenage time to Mum and Dad’s serial debate over the pronunciation of my Cumbrian school Casterton, with Mum sticking to the Southern vowels and Dad going the ‘When in Rome’ route.

Mum would exhibit signs of escalating irritation on each occasion, before shouting at a volume which should be reserved by rights for the discovery of a fire somewhere other than a fireplace: ‘You don’t say Casstor sugar, do you, FOR GOD’S SAKE?’

(… from which the sub-observation that recurring points of contention on minor issues in a relationship are de facto absurd and so funny.)

It’s the old ‘Paris, Paree’ conundrum that never seems to go away.

5. Was the cake mentioning a good move? Presumably it was ‘Hey, I know cake love, I’m like you’ but might have jarred in the same way as a note to a heroin addict that opens, ‘I thought of this while shooting up yesterday…’

6. Does desire originate in need or are they polar opposites? Does desire become a need and if so, when? Is desire more urgent than a need because it is about wanting rather than fulfillment- demand rather than supply? Is desire always greedy? Is desire in moderation still desire? Is it worthwhile? Shouldn’t it wear its colours authentically, with the buttons pinging off its blouse?

7. Craigslist is brilliant in a small city because everyone’s recommending chiropractors who live in your apartment block, and selling stuff you can just trot around the corner to pick up.

London Craigslist is like going outside your front door and shouting, ‘Anyone in the London area know where I can buy a good washing machine?’

The combination of this blunderbuss targeting with a gigantic and eclectic pool of humanity makes the Missed Connections section, in particular, scintillating and weird.

Here are two examples from today’s:

Looking for that woman who gave me a handjob today in 259 bus- m4w-27 (N15)

If u see this please reply because I really want to finish what you started:) I hope you see it because I can’t get u out of my head

*

Gorgeous Girl Walking in Enfield 02/11/13 Around 13.50- m4w-24 (Enfield)

Gorgeous Girl Walking In Enfield I Was In My Black Car And Turned To Se You We Made Eye Contact
I Was Wearing A White Shirt.

You Were Wearing All Black And Holding An Black Umbrella

If You Read This Send Me Your Photo And I You Are That Certain Girl I Will Send My Details

*

I need to get out more. Or start making eye contact with men everywhere I go, then racing home to see if someone who starts each word with a capital letter wants to track me down online for a long-term intimate relationship.

8. Where is Fattie? Who is Fattie? How did Fattie feel about this response? Has Fattie wrapped herself around more or less than 1,000 cakes in the last 9 years? (a bit more than 2 a week)

Is Fattie Thinnie now?

Or is Fattie on a cloud catching bites of mist promising she’ll spend the rest of Eternity giving God lovebites if only he’ll let her return to Washington State for just one afternoon; to dash around saying, ‘Hi, hi’ breathlessly to family but basically to sit down for one last mesmerising 3-hour session with a fresh cinnamon bun.

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You and me and boring the arse off each other

Unless you’re sad or I’ve found an alien in the bathroom, we bore the arse off each other, you and I.

Us, we talk the loneliness out of life. We paper over the fear that nothing matters by making stuff matter because we need mattering to be the point.

Each given 10 minutes and a piece of blank conversation paper to draw a monster or write our names in the best handwriting.

We do it well. It’s a convincing thing we do.

You’ll laugh or repeat it.

You’ll rip it to shreds with reflection.

You’ll re-feel it until you’ve worn down the thrill.

I’ll believe I’ve grown because of it.

We’ll march off satisfied.

I’ve just gone about existing with some excellent words.

The reward centre of our brains gets a Twix.

We chose these bits, not those. We picked the cherries.

The only small thing is

- try not to take this the wrong way-

you’re not a dream performance artist.

You won’t mime my recurring childhood nightmare to an audience.

My husband hasn’t been found murdered in a vat of his own wine.

You don’t wear a gimp mask and touch me.

Unless, wait! Unless we pretend.

We’ll have missed an entire evening of boring the real arse off each other but we can catch it up, we totally can. I’ll call you in the morning to do it.

(Last night I burnt a tiny bit more electricity off my bill, I’ll tell you. Good, you’ll say. Must mean we’re still taking in air, still breathing.)

Tonite, though, TONIGHT.

I’ll go to Secret Cinema and people with blood on their coats will come to talk to me. I’ll witness office workers doing exercises and visit a room made out of newspaper.

And you will solve a murder in my dining room. You’ll talk to a wine critic with a grudge, wearing a wig.

And we’ll go to a fetish club, just underwear no wig. We’ll watch people swing from hooks in their flesh.

Because since- and here’s the thing- since I’ve had a computer in my study I am a photographer.

I’m a writer and a critic.

I’m an activist.

And now I’d like to be an actor. To play for real. To be a something.

To ask strangers what colour best represents them. To see them cringe about lunging at their tutor on Graduation Day.

I’ll be in an experience that’s had a team of people- a team- dedicated to vivifying a movie that’s had a team dedicated to making it vivid.

I’ll be in France for the night, a grieving giggling widow.

I’ll engage a cross-dressing accountant who likes to watch.

Earlier, earlier I was at a piano lesson and fine.

But I know there are people, there are people who glue on mustaches and who run around buildings.

There are people who don’t know about my Santander bank account.

There are people wearing masks in a room full of white plaster heads who couldn’t give a flying monkey about my Santander bank account.

(Although I know you do and I’ll call you in the morning and tell you about it, oh and plus the electricity.)

And do you know what we can even do one day? I’m excited already.

We can act like we’re boring the arse off each other but because it’s at a remove and we won’t be doing it straight, there’ll be an extra frisson.

Hyper, supra real. Winky funny. Ironicana.

Super amuse bouche.

Living life in fancy dress.

For that

- That-

is what matters.

what’s the point.

why’s we breathe in.

That IS the reward centre

of us.

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