Beware of the mad woman.

A matt that once sat on her doorstep, warning crossers of her threshold what to expect. And there’s no disputing it, she was mad. She probably is still bring utterly mental and brilliant somewhere else in the universe. I really believe that.

I still dream of her, in a prophetic way. And it scares me how alive she is. Telling me she’s too busy even in the afterlife. Cooking, making tea, washing, bitching. Forever a fingerprint of the woman I clung to growing up. And in her company, I was never afraid.

Four years later and hers is still the name on everyone’s lips. I could still easily piss myself laughing thinking of the things she said. Phrases so harsh and hilarious, said so vehemently in a flash of passion, then followed softly by a smile, aware of her audience’s reaction. From her I learnt all the harshest phrases; Shisto mavro, morre¬†butana, yamo tin havra sou, yamo tin ratsa sou and pushto betho. And I don’t need to translate these for you because even my English friends know what they mean.

Four years to the day that she left us all to get on with it and man up without her. I’m quite sure she’d have a thing or two to say about everything that’s been going on. Fuck knows she likes to tell me often enough in my dreams. But she always finish off with ‘I love you’ and that funny squawking excited noise she made when she kissed me goodbye, told me to stop eating so much and waved me off at the door. But I’m certain she’s¬†somewhere in the universe still, with Marroulla and my dad, with cousin Sugar and aunty Anastou, with Dylan and with Bapoo:winding eachbother up, cackling and wheezing, playing cards and being brilliant. Even if that place is only in my head.