Between Essex & The North Circ

I got sunshine, on a cloudy day

When it’s cold outside, I got the month of may

And you’ll say what can make me feel this gay? My Kel

worzel and aunt s

She’s the adoring scarecrow to my dolly bitch. I want her head so that one day I’ll have a chance of being a real girl too. And I wanted to write about her today, because it’s no longer yesterday and today is finally mine.

We are somewhere imbedded in today, eternally. We occupy the space between the conscious and the unconscious, between here and there. The place that runs parallel to logic. The place where life and the afterlife are no longer split. Don’t be too concerned that sometimes the path to the shore is craggy, for in its wonky wobble you will find everything you need. And the view from the shore is spectacular. Geographically between Essex and the North Circ, even though the roundabout signs indicate else- where, trust your instincts and take the exit that you know leads there.

Around the time I began re-learning old facts: remembering that rhythm is a dancer, that it’s the soul’s companion and you can feel it everywhere. Around this time, she told me she’d make herself a badge that read ‘I’m in love with a bastard’ and my witch cackle tore through me. She’ll let me believe I’m evil, even though she calls me her angel. That’s what she does for me: lets me have it the way I want it, without trying to change me.

And what I’d aspire to do for her is far more necessary. I aspire to show her she is wanted. She is adored for who she is and not who she feels she should be. I want to show her, in time, that she can sow a seed and together we’ll watch it grow. She can sow as many fucking seeds as she wants, make our future garden as wild and colourful as she likes: I’ll keep them all growing with my green fingers and my Cypriot village hair. And the garden will be just as we dreamed.

So if I walk stiffly and drastically over-rouge, I hope you’ll understand that I like this warpaint. I like the bonnet and the fixed smile. I like to admit my guilt, where possibly. Not because I feel wrong but because I won’t waste time arguing if I know you’re right. And besides, I like the aftertaste it leaves me with.

So if her stuffing falls out and she pretends not to understand what you’re saying, I hope you’ll understand that she likes that Worzel-paint. She likes the straw and the simpler things in life. She likes to love you regardless what you’ll do for her. Besides, she likes the aftertaste it leaves.

We laugh till we can’t breathe. With her creaky knees and my Mutley wheeze, neither of us can make it quickly up the stairs. In jest I try to protest, but can’t be heard over the barrage of words. Because when she has something to say, you have no choice but to listen. And this is how she makes me feel most like myself. Like nothing else really matters but the moment when we’re laughing and even the spiders in the block don’t frighten us.

I want to hold onto her, tightly, like you wouldn’t believe. Not because I can’t be alone. But because she deserves to be held and kept and cherished. And the things I can give are bottomless and endless and I’ll keep giving it, for as long as she wants it.


Not just for the L of it.


Sexuality is fluid: like the pouring of a cold coke on a hot day. And haven’t I always said that ‘it’s about the peanut and not the shell’? So this new romance shouldn’t surprise those that know me. And if it does, well, what can I say, life is full of surprises.

So I fell for someone who wasn’t Phil. I never thought that would be possible. I didn’t want it to be possible, because moving on means you’re really finished…and I’ve never been good with endings. God knows I’ve said goodbye to too many people to now start doing it willingly. But life is a constant lesson in impermanence, and I feel like I’m learning it the hard way. He went one way, and I went the other. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. Looking over my shoulder constantly, remembering how sweet it used to be…before either of us knew really what devastation was. I drag myself forward kicking and screaming, the way my mother took me to school every day. I brat it up big style, sulking my fucking socks off till finally I look up: huffy, over the top of my glasses, arms folded, chin squashed to tits and what do I see? Something that was already there to begin with, right under my nose. The sympathetic blue of her eyes met with the begrudging brunt of my brown. A shining smiling patient beautiful soul that always saw something other than just darkness within me. Offering her hand, ‘come on you silly cow, get up’. And she was there. More ‘there’ than I ever allowed a friend to be. And although it took me a while, eventually I took her hand.

It’s been that way ever since. And now everyone knows about it and fuck knows what they really think but I’m not going to ask because quite frankly….I couldn’t give a flying fuck. Nope. Not one. I really couldn’t. All they really need to know is I’m happy…after a really long time. I’m happy. And no happiness it isn’t conducive to dark edgy writing and god knows this gay new image doesn’t suit the sorrow that’s been my shawl for so long. But fuck it, it’s what I need and it’s what I want. That should be all that matters but I know it isn’t always going to be to everyone, to some of the people who love me the most, to random fuckwits on the street. But I’m not repentant and I’m certainly not reluctant, instead I’m revelling in this romance that leaves me swooning like a sap and I’ll do everything I did when I dated a guy. I’ll hold hands in public, I wont refer to her ambiguously as my ‘partner’ or my ‘friend’ and I wont suddenly crop my long locks dyke short and act all geeze, ogling everybody’s tits thinking I can get away with it because I’m a girl. No I won’t, because my friends, this isn’t a political movement, it’s an eternal moment. It’s a romance between two souls and when all’s said and done surely THAT is the meaning of life. I don’t kiss her soft pink lips to make a political point. I don’t flaunt my attraction for her to show off or get attention or to rub anyone’s nose in it. I do it because it feels natural and it should be taken so. I do it because a new romance should always piss people off and nauseate with its cutesiness. A new romance is something to be thankful for because your friends can now stop worrying about you being bereft of a kindred. They can rest easy, knowing you’re looked after and the panic is over.

And what will be of him, I hear you ask? The him that will always have a special place in my heart. The him that was here before her. He will simply be. We chose this: he as well as I. And when the two of us meet there’s no hatred. A little sadness, sure, but that’s to be expected. We can smile and we can be honest and we have respect for one another and that is more than I could have ever asked for. That’s more than most ex-marriages have. I want it to be this way because I’m fucked if I lied before all the people we know and respect when I said ’till death do us part’. I meant it and I will always mean it. Granted, not in the same way, but certainly with the same strength and with the same conviction. And I know one day in the future I’ll be proud to say I loved both the best man AND the best woman. Through my terrible misfortune I’ll hopefully be able to come out the other side and say I was one lucky fucker to have had this.

If you saw her, you’d know how we came to be. Because she has a soul the size of a galaxy and a capacity for love and laughter that I cant help but adore. And me, with my tiny shrivelled sultana of a soul, how could I not be moved and amazing and quietly in awe? She is quite something in her own right and she sees both the wood AND the trees. When they get to know her, they’ll see she is both the birds AND the bees. I know they’ll instantly see what I see: a true sister of my soul. Hopefully then gender will be as irrelevant to them as the urinals that segregate it because the really worrying thing isn’t that I’m sleeping with a woman: it’s that I’m now listening to dance music!