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!



Symptom Recital: Dorothy isn’t always right.


I am not sick, I am not well, my quondam dreams are shot to hell. I shudder at the thought of men, I’m bound to fall in love again.

Loneliness is the sound of traffic in my head. Beeping screeching, shuffling, turning, grinding and it infiltrates my sleep, like the early morning dustbin men. All these years I thought it would be a quiet sound. Loneliness is coming too close to insanity. Creeping nearer and nearer the tighter you pull the knot.

I was lonely when I met him, plenty of people around me: faces, friends, places to go and things to fill the void with. But I was lonely for a kindred. Perpetually leaning against walls, hands deep in pockets, eyes fixed to the top left hand corner of my bored eyelids, searching the ceiling for something to save me. And in he walked with his dancing feet and the comedy Dave air about him, my hero. That’s how it is when you’re 19. Everything loaded with meaning, everything’s cool as fuck and fate isn’t the fickle fucker you later know him to be. I’d found him, my split-apart, the man that told me he was nothing without me, the first man to make me behave like a good girl. And now we’re not together, it’s like he put me back where he found me.

Taking that ring off my finger was hard. Because it meant the world to me. Although I always used to say I was too much woman to be bound by just one ring, finally succumbing to it was still something I took very seriously. One accessory less, like throwing down your cards in a polka match and fuck it full time, what else can you do when you’re no longer married. But if you’re interested I can tell you what’s the real fucker to cope with is, not the ring that’s for sure. The toughest shit to slide out the arse of this break up, is when I stop for a moment and think of him alone and heartbroken, that’s what really makes me hang my head. My share of the guilt for the thing we both abandoned and that’s really the bit I hate. He said I was used to being in a dark place and maybe this is why I can deal with my own hurt way easier than the thought of his. Maybe it’s because as a woman I’m genetically programmed to hold him in higher esteem than myself. Maybe it’s because when you love someone with all your heart, you never stop caring. O maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner, that I love London town.

Being without him is easier than I ever thought it would be. And I realise that all those times I said I couldn’t live without him, I was bollox-talking like a bound-up Geisha. What I really meant to say was ‘I’m choosing not to be without you’. I chose to cling to the relationship with all my might, fallen at your feet, clinging to your leg like a brat ‘don’t leave me’, drag me around on your ankle, you’re little ball and chain and in turn I’ll tie you tight to my apron strings and soothe your soul with the seduction that sits in mine. That’s what being in love is. Suck is the nature of a relationship. You fall into it willingly because the trap is the most wonderful place you could ever put yourself. It’s a fact we’re not looking for freedom: we’re all desperately seeking Susan and the S&M style stability of togetherness. It sounds like I’m badly berating all that I’ve broken, but I’m not. The sweetness of belonging is what floats all our boats. I’m never convinced when people say it isn’t. I cut my eye at them and raise my Elvis lip, rude girl stare them up and down, wondering what the fuck happened to them to make them chat such shit. And I wish it wasn’t so but it is.

This tough talking tongue sometimes ties, runs out of lies and when it does I decide to write myself a happy ending to finish with, my very own fiction baby fooling myself asleep with the fantasy that everything will be fine. Just fine. And I hope it is. I really do. Because I want something shiny and new and cocky and happy-worthy. I want a new plan, but not necessarily a new man. I want a fresh song and a wheeze free whistle. I want the sun to rise on the melancholy confusion of night and I want to be standing there bathed in it’s golden glow gasping at it’s beauty. Hair braided, jeans slung low, agile body and mind because I’m ready to bounce right back like the big beautiful bitch I always wanted to be.

The science of walking through windows.

So we gave up ‘forever’ for a principle. And now everything I feel is immediate. In the becoming of this new me, I am moment to moment. Like a wasp constantly beating myself against a window, never understanding the ‘science of walking through windows’. And they lie when they say that the ‘here and now’ is psychologically the best place to be. What do they fucking know? Shrinking everything down to the most fashionable phrase. A psychiatric finger on the pulse that monitors the vibe of the most recent global anxiety. It can be just as disorienting as the others, the here and now, and that’s the real reason new born babies cry: they have no concept of past and present. The now fucks with their little heads. I don’t know what I’m doing from one moment to the next. Because in ‘the moment’ there is no time for thought or planning, so you act on impulse and when your instincts drag you away from the party your brain was planning, it splits you in half. Who’s friend are you really? Where do you really want to be?

Unlike a civil war, my head and heart don’t aim to kill each other. But like a marriage, they nag at each other till neither can know with any certainty whose fault it was to begin with.  Two game-show contestants: slam-pressing that buzzer, sweat under their fringes, dry lips catching against snarled teeth. But the heart directs the body far faster than the brain can. And when the heart gets its way regardless of the rules, the brain feels begrudged and fights back. Restless nights, bad dreams, deep rooted anxiety and the uncomfortable inability to look at your own reflection. So instead you’ll bask in the gaze of others. And the better they see you: the better it suits you. But when you’re alone, that’s when it comes flooding back with full force. ‘you just wait till we get home, then I’ll give you something to cry about’.

The problem of ‘feeling’ is like a mesh of string. It’s hard to find the end…or the start…or how many other threads are tangled in with it. Do I miss him? I do. Do I regret my choices? Hard to say. I regret that the longer you are together the easier it is to stop seeing each other as you need to be seen, the less you can hear each other and the less likely you are to choose each other over everything else. Because when you have something so permanently and confidently, you stop seeing how easy it would be to lose it because you don’t really believe it can be lost. I regret that we couldn’t make it work…and suspect maybe it was just that we chose not to. But guilty is how I feel regardless and that has always been true way before the break up. Mediterranean blood in my veins dictates I’m either hungry, worried or guilty. Guilty your honour, because the smugness of my brain likes to remind the heart how kind and loving he was. Replaying scene by scene everything wonderful that he’d ever done for me. The whispered happiness in the ear of morning before your eyes are properly awake. The comfort and contentment that comes with having a joint plan, having a world and a lifetime together. Having had a history and a romantic photo album of memory to back everything up. Brick by brick, eventually you create a safe place to live together outside of the real world. Somewhere way better.

But romance is like a light turned off. Fades to black and retracts with the slow blink-tut of your eyes. Head turned shoulder-wards, body pointing towards the door: who’d have ever thought we’d both give up so easily? And who’d have thought I could be just as stubborn as him? We always said if we fought it would last a lifetime. And some days I feel I could settle for a foe in place of my Phil. Because it makes it easier to move on, and there is something cool about it to have loved and hated so intensely in the one lifetime. But in my heart I cant hate him. I’m talking bollox when I say I do. I am angry, don’t get me wrong I have the bitterness and anger and fury of a generation of in-held breaths and unspoken thoughts, why wouldn’t I? After all I’m a woman and I didn’t get the romantic ending to the fairy-tale romance that hours of Wimbledon and Love Actually promised me I would have. Of course I’m pissed off, who wouldn’t fucking be? But I have no valid reason to hate him, not in the true sense of the word. No matter how hard I try I just cant, and more succinctly put, I wont. Not just because he made me a mum and not just because he married me, but because we grew up together. Because we got stoned together. We saw corpses together. We dealt with heavy shit while we walked to work together. And eventually, after 16 beautiful brilliant hilarious unusual years together: we created one almighty mother fucker of a stalemate together. But truthfully and painfully and joyfully, I properly enjoyed the game while it lasted.   

The opposite of love’s indifference-and other new found songs.


Sentences spill out, somewhere punctuated with the word ‘fuck’. A gasp, a sigh, a constant delicious emotional ache. A psychological DOT DOT DOT, pause for thought. A questioning a wondering…a mosquito…a libido. And I’m the biggest fucking idiot that ever lived. I swear I am. Desperate to find a philosophy decent enought to hang this deviational ‘fuck it’ feeling onto. The closest I come is to think that the universe is indifferent…somewhere across the sea there is a culture of love and emotion without boundaries and rules.

And it’s all too much, precisely how I wanted and needed it to be. Because I AM a filthy tart: those that know the best and worst of me, know how true that is. Slutting all over this madly intense feeling because turbulence feeds the fucking life back into me and sticks a stubborn middle finger up at the shit-storm of bad news and dissapointments i’ve endured.  Like i’m finishing off something I started in puberty. A crush on curves and the undulating rhythms of this womanly world. Those ghosts coming back to haunt, taunt and tempt me. Reminding me there are still battles to be fought, urging me up from the sulky slumber and into the crisp morning’s light. Test my courage and my resolve and splatter it like spunk against the unwilling canvas of this modern world trap. And if only I could get my hands on a cock big enough to do the job properly.

If I could split like a fraction and live this life twice, like a time split, a parrallel universe of who I am and what I have: what else would I do? The answer comes thumping like a heartbeat clear, I’d do it ALL. Fucking absorb it all, experience everything. Have my children young and keep living and laughing till I dropped from the dance completely spent. A wild gypsy at heart, and for the life of me I cant think why that term chanted at me from a young age, offended me so much back then. I embrace her now, with all her stupidness and windsept hair. I fucking love her in all her freakish formidable glory, even if no other fucker does. And I’ll be her friend, tight and close and brain-spaced in all out cut-lucidness, like the hanging out of old friends. Like legs dangling from between banisters: teens finding odd new comfortable places to plonk. I’ll deliver a punch like a swinging steam-train into the faces of haters, i’ll defend her life like I never dared before. She needs no other but me and i’ll commit like a cunt, chasing chickens and chumps from her door: my snarling kiwi no longer the cute cockrest it once was. I’ll take my seat on top: perched comfortably like a proud pecking parrot casting my feathers a-wobble as I bounce to my hearts content. Bounce out a rhythm like the typing of a bestseller novel. Dig those ankle bells back out from the well and step out in a daring dance, barefoot and free as a tree. For this life is transient and you must take it up on all it’s offers while you still can.

Skunk Green Eyes And Fuck It, I Love Him.


Choose wisely who you give your heart to. The words sound out in my head but never in my mouth as I watch those closest to me fuck-arse their way through love. But they choose poorly, as they must. because love is unselective like that. And I suppose that’s what’s magical about it. It occurs to me while I sip my tea, that on this subject alone, I have an advantage. Because what I have is worth everything. Happily I’d forgo everything else for just this, if I really had to. And how many people can say that about their husbands?

The fittest man to ever walk the earth, and he’s all mine. My eyes lap him up like a tall glass of coke on a hot day. His hands so careful and precise, he chisels the real me out of the filthy alchemy that I once was. The mess of metal and stone and debris and now what we have here is a ruby. Together we excavated each other, like ruins brought back to life, like fishing nets suddenly mended and full of fish. As though we alone destroyed the falshood of differing genders. Discovered that the dick and the cunt are the same thing, doesn’t matter which witch holds the stick or the bag, the trick is just as good.

I could stretch out the edges of mouth till my face rips apart, scream to the heavens above till sound fills every crevice of this world, beat wildly with my fists against the horrible fate that every living thing must share. Open myself inside out, soul draping along the floor like the spilled yolk of an egg and I love him so violently and delicately and eternally that it’s everything that ever was and is. And there I said it. Call me dramatic, it’s how I feel. And fuck it that my love-lust for him embarrasses some, fuck it that it’s over the top and un-cool, fuck it that it’s not finger-on-the-pulse-londonfields-edgy. Fuck it because it’s real and it’s mine and it’s better than I ever deserved or could ever have hoped for.

So what is he, some sort of fucking god? I know the backlash before the words even leave my mouth and it makes me laugh. Because in this day and age you can’t say you’re gagging for your husband to fuck you without every woman on this earth thinking you’re pathetic. Because at this ripe middle-age housewives are more concerned with the acquisition of things. And penis-man is just the once screwed un-screwing tool that gets them everything they demand. The new daddy to accommodate for the princess brat in a way that a daddy’d never dare. So they con themselves out of genuine romantic proposals by first planting the seed, because we all know he never would have if you didn’t first impregnate his dumb-fuck little head with the idea in the first place. They push and push like all good midwives will tell them, to get the baby up there in the first place. Because those little boy-men would never have been ready otherwise. Let’s face it, if they hadn’t of gone to all those crazy covert secret lengths then they’d be whittling away their womb-fertile-years while some scrotom-scrounger leisurely takes his time, clutching his condoms tightly. I don’t blame or judge them for their manipulative little ways. I admire my sisters because it’s what it takes to get shit done. And woman are the true warriors and I’m not afraid to say those bitches terrify me. Because they could have one over on me as easily and quickly as I conjure fiction-fact anywhere I see it.

I scream-love him tightly like a fucking crazy bitch because I never had to be that way with him. The frankness that we share startles and shocks us and when he got down on one knee, I genuinely had no clue. When he proposed to me, with that in-expensive perfect silver ruby goth ring, I thought myself too much woman to be bound by it. And what a fool I was to not have realised sooner that marriage was more about belonging than possession and that in the space the ring created I’d find the real reason that us human’s have a soul.

I once said that I feared death solely because it was the one place I’d have to go without him. And it’s true. And does that make me less of a feminist. Fuck off does it. It just means that what we have between us is, even after all these years, so precious to me that without it the hands of time aren’t fearful. And I’m terrified of some cruel twist of fate taking him from me. Not because I’m afraid to be alone but because he is the best day of my life, he is the man who made me a mum, he is that guy with the skunk green eyes who I could barely hear on the bus all those years ago.

Be careful who you give your heart to, not because they could crush it, but because they might just not.