Browsing category blogging

a detached victorian and an organ in the attic


“You’d probably call me a communist.” No fur hat. No balalaika. “No. I probably wouldn’t.” A bottle of vodka in the cupboard. Some rye on a shelf. I looked at him. “Not Russian. Communist.” He carried my suitcase upstairs and left in search of duvets. —– I had answered an ad in the ‘Rooms Available’

i tell you what


I like stories. Full of everything-real and colour. Small, heavy words soaked with life. Words you can’t find in a dictionary and couldn’t spell even if you tried. Words that mean more than they ought – because they’re so little and all. I want to be a storyteller. But my tone is never right. My

what i saw. royal courts.


Royal Courts of Justice. The Strand Sometimes I come here for work. A few of the halls and entrance ways are powerful and posh but for the most part, it’s all built-for-purpose and pretty underwhelming*. You’d never know, if you just came in through the main gate. All those paintings and suits of armour and

???? and ????????


When I was 25 I spent the summer in the South of France. —– Nicky was a homeless rich kid who drove an overpriced sports car and blew his allowance on other necessities (i.e. gambling and girls). We became friends because he sometimes dated my housemate Claire, and lived in her room even when she

bellinis and babies


Lunch was air and bellinis. Three thirtysomethings and me (I’m holding tight to 29). Chaz is in PR. She’s good at it. They say she sold ice to an Eskimo. Twice. Luisa’s a banker. Investment. City firm. Chasing that £2million bonus. Julie’s the lawyer. She hates it, but she likes the money. The power. The

scary…in a good way


The Grudge. It’s that movie. You know the one. Sarah Michelle Gellar gets scared in Japan. Those Japanese directors really get it. They know there’s one thing scarier than the run and get killed, my pretty that we have in the west. Kids. Kids are scary as hell. That Ring movie – stupid. Still, I

uggh (not like the boots)


I’m too tired to make sense. Too tired to be creative and talk in a voice that isn’t mine. I’m back in the belly of the Corporate Beast (Let’s kill all the lawyers*) and my brain is already cooked to a tinder. A few things I’ve been reminded of this week. One. Some people have

pretty pretty


Sometimes a girl feels like pretty and a chippie. I can’t do the fish & more because I’m Livin La Vida Thurmond. But I can do pretty, and I can do it in a list. I read this morning that the average British woman spends over £180,000 (Transatlantic Translation: $302,400) in a lifetime on beauty

bone cold


My aunt is ballsy as hell. Whether that works for her or not these days, I don’t know. You’ll have to ask. But I know I loved it when I was thirteen. When she used to sneak boxes of romance novels (Serious contraband in my house) into my room and under my bed. The kind

moose and a mullet


I went to my senior prom with a guy named Moose. Only he wasn’t a Moose at the time. He was a Jason and my best friend’s brother. He wore a white tux with a red cumberbund and I put my hair up in a big pile of ‘what the hell’. Reggie laughed and said