Ode to albatrosses

Foam runs down the outside of the windows as I write. There's a dull roar from the jet wash as it sprays water at the car. It reminds me of carwashes when I was a kid. My sister and I used to sit in the front seat and pretend we were driving through a storm. We had overactive imaginations, as kids always seem to have, and there wasn't any situation we couldn't turn into a make believe disaster of some sort.

At the bottom of our garden (we had a BIG garden) there were these two trees. One was a really big fir, and the other was an old oak. The branches would cross over and formed a huge canopy that blocked out the sun. We'd climb up into the branches with long sticks and pretend we were pirates fighting off the enemy. Generally the enemy was the red squirrels for whom the trees were home, but occasionally my dad or brother would take the role when telling us to come in for tea.

As I sit in the car I can nearly feel my sister sitting beside me, telling me to drive faster, that if we weren't careful the lightening would hit us, telling me that we need to get home. She'd squeal in mock fright as the huge fluffy rollers came down over the windscreen, and we'd both giggle when our dad told us to quit playing around. Giggling was a large part of being a kid, and I guess it's the one thing that I don't think I'll ever let go of. I still giggle like a school girl given the chance, and though it's time to move past that, grow up a little, I don't think giggling is something I'll let myself give up.

She asked me the other day: "We used to be such great friends, we were so close, what happened to that?" And for a day I thought about it, went over all the reasons why we weren't close anymore, and then as we were getting ready to leave the house today I found the answer. I was sitting on the window sill looking out the window, and she was standing facing the mirror in the centre of the room preening.

"How do I look, does this top work? Am I showing too much flesh?" It isn't cold outside, but it's cool. There is a wind, and I chose to wear a scarf along with my layers today. She was stood in a black halter neck that showed both her navel and ninety nine per cent of her cleavage. Along with hipster three quarter length jeans and flip flops. You wouldn't say that I'm one who is scared of showing flesh, far from, but I am susceptible to the cold, even though I was brought up in Northumberland and girls around here are practically immune.

I didn't point this out to her though. I learnt long ago that telling a fifteen year old to wear a jacket is about as worth while as telling a morris dancer that the bells aren't actually compulsory and really they're starting to give you a headache. And anyway, I was pretty much the same at her age. What I realised as I sat there watching her getting ready was that I don't have anything to talk about with her anymore. We used to have insanity and a crazy imagination in common, it was us against the rest of the world- the grown ups, and we were all each other had. Now we're doing so very different things. We're still both incredibly creative, but she channels it into her appearance, whereas I use my writing as an outlet.

Friendships always seem to fall apart because people just drift. We do different things, meet different people, I spend very little time at home, and because of it our friendship has suffered. When you add in sibling rivalry it all just seems to collapse. And I miss it all. I miss being a kid, I miss playing at pirates, or princesses or dancing around the garden in summer singing along to the Spice Girls. I miss it so much, but it's never going to come back.

One day I'll be able to watch my own kids acting like loonies, and I guess that will make it better. Being an adult makes up for it, not thinking of men as something you either run away from or attack is pretty good. And being able to order coffee without the parent/ guardian frowning at me is good too. Though really I could do with someone to hamper my caffeine intake. It's getting silly.

Growing up is something that I'm starting to come to terms with. Leaving home being the biggest problem for me, but as I only have a month left... It has its perks, and I wouldn't go back no matter how much I miss it. I can't just stop myself from reminiscing whenever something jolts my memory.

Labels: dynasty, Past tense, Poetic licence

I’ll cry it from the roof tops with a smile on my face and joy in my heart, then I’ll down my double vodka, turn around, and fall backwards. It’s a double edged sword, to quote, trample, and obliterate a cliché. See, the thing is, no matter how happy you are, you still hate going home to an empty bed, being able to mark in your diary when the last time you have sex was, and the realisation that it was nearly two months ago.

And of course it isn’t (and this is a direct quote from Stacey, not cliché) all about sex. But when you don’t have to go without for longer than two days at a time, then yes, you do have the luxury of saying that. She is, of course, completely and utterly correct. But then, you could also say that life isn’t all about breathing. Breathing isn’t even something you think about until you stop being able to do it. And then it sort of catches up with you a little bit, you know? You start feeling a little light headed, you get tense, and you really can’t stop thinking about all this breathing you aren’t doing. A slightly exaggerated case I’ll admit, but the results are pretty similar.

Let’s put this in language that any lame brain can understand: being single, in a word, sucks. It’s wonderful; I adore it, the freedom, the not having to worry about your boyfriend getting jealous, the not getting jealous yourself. All of that, great, isn’t it? But if it’s so fantastic, why are all these people going out there, being single, and trying to pull people? Surely if you were so fucking ecstatic with your status, you wouldn’t do anything to risk it? Yeah you can date and be single, I’m good at that. But if the date went really well, really really well, then you’d want to see that person again and enjoy their company for a second date, and then maybe a third.

And suddenly you end up realising that you’ve just spent the last however long with someone and that you’re going to get married. You loved being single so much, so you’re starting to wonder what happened to that a little bit. Not that you’d risk this utterly fantastic person for being able to sleep wherever you wanted, and eat pizza at two am with the random drunk person that you met five minutes ago who also didn’t pull this evening. Being with this person is worth more than that.

Who, more than me, has made being single into such an art that it’s practically a religion? I love my life. I adore it, and I wouldn’t give it up for anyone. But it doesn’t mean that I don’t feel slightly put off when I’m sitting on the bus alone, going home while my friend sits behind me and texts her boyfriend. You realise that the closest you’ve come to intimacy that night is a guy in the seat opposite you blatantly trying to see up your, admittedly too short, skirt.

You’ve gone to all this effort, tried to turn yourself out to look half decent, and you’ve got no one who cares. I don’t begrudge her having a boyfriend to text; I just wish that it could be as effortless for me too. I won’t give up being single right now. But that isn’t because I don’t miss the companionship. It’s for practical reasons like me having exams for the next month, and then me leaving for Germany five days after the exams finish.

I enjoy the life style, and I know that changing it is beyond stupid. I know that it isn’t all about sex, and that I’m still far too young for it to be of any consequence at all if I spend a few months dating a few people rather than in a proper relationship. Yeah, rational thought occasionally does take a detour through my brain. But I have my cracks; I can’t be vivacious, crazy or drunk all the time.

Sometimes I have to sit here and wish that I was more “plastic” so that if I did something as demanding as expected someone to buy me a drink, they wouldn’t run off after someone else as attractive, but less demanding. Call me sexist, or a gold digger, or just plain ugly, but that’s what I expect, and that you wouldn’t expect that too… I’m not sure whether to be insulted, or well, insulted. It’s actually pretty hard not to be.

So, while I keep being demanding and over confident in my appearance, I’ll also have to be sad. Sad that I’m alone, lonely, and hating coupled up people everywhere. I don’t hate you personally, I just don’t think that I want to leave the house or be subjected to your happiness for a while. It’s all very anti-social, but fuck it, if I’m going to be miserable, then I intend to do it properly.

This is me crying it from the roof tops. “I’m siiiiiinnnnnnnnnggggglllllllleeeeeee!” And it’s great. I love it, but yeah, sometimes turning around and seeing what it would be like to just fall backwards, that doesn’t seem so bad.

P.S. this is more metaphorical than real. I don’t hang out on roofs, and it isn’t in my nature to be suicidal.

Labels: Falling, Pleasure, Theatrics

When I’m cold and lonely, when only the local vicar visits me on a regular basis. When my face is not wrinkled, but so far past that the wrinkles have wrinkles of their own. When the world is a completely different place, where technology that seems miraculous to us now, is the norm. When my six cats are my constant companions and my grandchildren suffer my company with a frown.

When I live in a bungalow, and have my food made for me by a nurse. When I write my signature with a wobble of my wrist, and sorrow in my heart. When sitting down hurts, and standing up seems impossible. When I walk with a cane, and leave the house only when I really must. When every room smells of old people, and I grow to despise the young. When I feel awkward and useless, when I doze off in the sun.

When those I know now are all dying, when I throw out my clocks to forget the ticking. When children laugh as I walk by, when a slight fall could end my life. When arthritis is the devil’s work, and hospitals a regular drop in. When I turn to religion as a last resort, to hope that when it’s over, there is something.

When I genuinely forget important dates like my anniversary. When I keep a photo above the fireplace of the husband who is no longer with me. When a cake is no longer big enough to even hold half the candles that my years require. When a cool breeze sets a chill to my bones, and freezes my soul in summer. When forever becomes a myth and right now is not enough. When the immortality of youth seems a distant and pathetic illusion.

Remember me.

Labels: Poetic licence, Superstition

She sits on the edge of the seat. Her back is as far from the cold metal as she can while still technically sitting. Her fingers are clenched around the edge, balancing her as she perches. Her feet are held of the freezing concrete, bare and boasting manicured, though now slightly chipped, nails.

She’s going home. Her blistered feet look bruised, purple, strange in the morning light, and out of the heels that are now held in her hand. The skirt and top that made up her outfit last night now look crumpled, bare minus the accessories that are now stuffed in her bag. The unmade-up face is pale, miserable with her hangover.

I’ve done it so many times. Hair scragged back in the clip I remembered to cram into my bag two minutes before leaving the night before. Feet bleeding, the soles on fire. That’s why I hate winter so much- the number of times I’ve walked barefoot through snow rather than brave my shoes again. Rain is pretty awful, but snow is the worst.

So we sit, cold, miserable, and regretting the circumstances that put us here. We have flashbacks in our delirious, hung over state. Memories of misery, embarrassment, of the men who still lie in their beds content, but refuse to lie in ours.

I never seem to make the right choices. Love is like flight. It takes a while, and sometimes it can be hard work, but if it works then you’ll go places that you’ve never even dreamed of before. Albatrosses can fly for thousands of miles; they can go for however many kilometres without even flapping their wings. I’ll never be like the albatross, love is hard for me, awkward, in the flight scenario I’m probably going to end up more like a big clumsy duck than an albatross. But at least a duck can fly. I hurt too quickly, and every time I start to think that I might be taking off, something goes wrong.

I’ve chosen the wrong men, I’ve chosen to do things too early, too late, and with some I act too much like myself, with others not enough. It’s all too hard, too painful. I don’t want to try again, the first trial hurt too much. So I’ll sit here on my bench, in the cold, and waiting for my bus to arrive with the driver that barely speaks English and doesn’t know the difference between a single and a return. This is easier, this I’m used to, and though this is utterly killing me, its physical pain rather than mental, and that I can handle.

Labels: Falling, Flying, Introspection, Past tense, Poetic licence

"I wouldn't like to think that this had been one of those dates where you knew within the first ten minutes that it wasn't going to work out, and then spent the rest of the date looking at your watch and feeling really uncomfortable."

I immediately shifted my arm so that it didn't look like I'd been about to check the time, and flashed him a nervous grin. "Of course it wasn't like that! I've had fun."

He smiles, "Good, I didn't think, I was just checking, you seem happy enough."

Well, he was at least good at summing up the date in one sentence. Though horribly wrong at both body language and having even a bit of a clue about me.

It dragged. He was lovely, Confetti was hilarious, though marginally inappropriate as a first date film really, and the atmosphere was good. The only thing lacking was any chemistry whatsoever. Evidently he didn't feel the same. His parting comment: "All good things must come to an end... unfortunately." To which I hastily kissed him on the cheek and then ran down the bus with as much poise as I could on a moving bus and approximately two minutes before I would normally even contemplate getting up and wandering down the aisle. Generally I just press the button and make the driver wait for me, this time we had a nice chat about driving in the dark before he pulled in.

I was ready to go home at nine. I was tired, we'd seen the film, and I knew that it wasn't exactly a Romeo and Juliet match. And we would of, we were within metres of the bus station and freedom when he decided, "I feel like going for a drink." It was blurted, quick, he didn't want to go. So I let him drag me in for two hours. Two hours so that we could just catch the last bus, two hours of awkward silences and me inwardly berating myself for flirting with other men over his shoulder. And that was the worst thing about it all. Every other man in there could tell that I was bored stiff and cold for his company, except him. People were laughing. And when he started leaning in closer and steering the conversation towards sex, normally I'm in my element. Even my dad thinks I'm queen of the innuendo. But all I could do was nod, look uncomfortably about me for some sign of relief, and then decide it was time to take a toilet break. And come on, when someone starts talking about how they're really quite dirty...

So I sent Stacey a text saying that I wasn't going to earn my double points on this one, and then went out, downed my drink, and said that we'd better go catch the bus. Which meant another hour of awkward silences and me edging away from him in the seat, but at least we were in the home stretch. I did, admittedly, contemplate getting off the bus on the A1 somewhere and walking it when he brought up further dates, but I contained my urges to run, and not-so-subtly dropped hints that I had too much going on with the exams, and that my break up with the numpty was still fresh in my mind. Bullshit really, but even that was over his head. "You'll be able to get at least one night off sometime, you can't work all the time. And you need someone who will treat you better than he did." All true, so awkward to argue with.

And now I have to think of some way to let him down nicely. I can't just ignore his texts and phone calls because he's Stacey's boyfriend's best friend. Or one of them. And I see him in the pubs all the time. A lot of the time he's in the group that I'm going out with. He's going to be impossible to avoid, and he'll be crushed that I'm not interested. Damn.

Labels: Courting, Mistakes

I used to sit waiting for my phone to ring. I haven't been doing that recently. I guess He weaned me off that. Lately I really haven't cared. I guess it's due to my own insecurity, but I needed it to vibrate, I needed to be reminded that there was someone out there in the ether who gave the tiniest amount of a fuck about me. But recently none of it has mattered.

And the irony is that now someone actually does care about me. I've always got someone who is talking to me, someone who cares that little bit. I don't have the Bastard who made everything go wrong, or Him anymore. The Bastard made me insecure, but it took Him to make me cry. With Him everything just sort of fell apart at the edges. Everyone seems to be under the impression that with us it was just sex. And I don't know, it seemed more than that at the time.

There was a LOT of chemistry. But he also made me be myself. With others I'd felt so fake, like I was trying to be this person, this outgoing, happy person, who everyone would like. With him I could be the pedantic whiney child every so often and he didn't mind. We both let each other act like kids or adults depending on our moods. And sometimes it was too good, it felt like I could lose it at any time. We were good in a sort of explosive way. We didn't fight, but we were both moody and sometimes fighting can break the ice rather than have us both boiling under the surface, but not actually saying anything to each other about it. Not that it helped when I really got annoyed and told him who he was. That pissed him off more than anything else. He suddenly became too "busy" to call me, he only paid me any attention when he wanted sex, and he couldn't be arsed to see me for periods of up to two weeks at a time.

I look back with wistfulness at the good stuff. The ways he could make me feel when he was being nice, the times that we really clicked mentally, and the times when we joked around. And I miss him, but I always said that I wasn't going to let him make me cry. When he did I knew it was over. He made a lot of apologies, and excuses, and he did all the stuff. But he didn't care anymore, it was as fake as it had been with everyone else. And I guess that's what hurt more than anything else- that someone could just stop like that. The sex was still good, better even, but falling asleep afterwards, and waking up in the morning detracted from it all. I guess that the sex was only better because I felt like I had something to lose, so I tried harder to keep him there. And the mornings were so shit because I knew that it wasn't working. It was better, it was really good, but in the end it wasn't enough.

Thinking that it could be was naive, being hurt when it wasn't was stupid. It was a losing battle, and then I'd lost. I knew I'd lost when he went to his friend's, but he didn't want to see me. It dragged for a week and a half after that, but I knew it was over. Admittedly I didn't make things that much better. I treated it like it was over, and I had a flirtation with someone else that I wouldn't have let get that far had I not decided it was over. But he didn't know about it, and as it ended four days later I don't really think it was that relevant.

I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I feel like I'm drifting through men simply so I don't have to sit back, look at myself, and realise that I'm alone. Every time I receive a text, or phone call, I'm just thinking "what's the point?" It isn't him, and he's the only person that really matters. I've got a date tomorrow and I used to be enthused. I used to have hopes, I used to care. Now I'm only thinking about it in an "it's going to cost me this much for this, and more for that" way. I haven't even thought about what I'm going to wear yet.

I can't say that I don't like him, and that I don't like the idea of spending a night with him. But he won't be the same, he won't be as good, and I'm sitting here wishing for someone else. Why am I doing this at all?

Labels: Coquetry, Falling, Mistakes

• Holding hands
• Sex
• Phoning up and boasting about how brilliant I am because I've had a great interview, etc.
  
• Having someone tell me I'm sexy.
• Acting smug around my friends (who are now getting it more than me, so returning the favour).
• Looking into their eyes and thinking "I love you."
• Kissing in the rain
• Kissing over the bar
• Kissing anywhere
• Laughing at him for loving his car too much.
• Telling him you'd love a threesome: does he know any men who'd be interested?
• Getting Valentine's cards (though I know it's not February).
• Having to put heels on to kiss him.
• Falling off the bed and him pulling me back up with one hand because I'm so light.
• Being carried home on a saturday night because my feet are all cut up from my heels.
• Having arguments about which is better: Guinness or Southern Comfort?
• Him criticising me for reading Terry Pratchett, me criticising him for his inability to read the DaVinci code without falling asleep.
• Drunkenly both singing along to Wheetus "Teenage Dirtbag", and Guns 'n Roses "Sweet Child of Mine".
• Being hit on the head by my friend for acting indecently in public.
• Having someone hold me round my waist and putting his head down on mine so we're nose to nose and looking into each other's eyes.
• Being kissed at the base of my neck.
• Waking up with someone's arms around me.
• Playing with the dogs and him laughing when one jumped on to me and pushed me over.
• Walking through the snow together.
• Conversations about how I'd like to own a farm and he'd like a zoo.
• Arguing over where Portugal is.
• Me sitting under his arm while he played on the playstation, and him keeping me there even though I'd offered to move and it meant that he lost, just because he liked me being there.
• Deciding that for his next birthday I would buy him a train.
• Cooking pasta together.
• Him.
  

Labels: Being the Duck

I have a large red folder marked “Poetry.” In this folder there are approximately two hundred different poems varying from crappy to relatively readable. I don’t write poetry that often as I find making up worlds and sticking them down on paper is preferable. It helps me to escape better. But poetry is better for summing things up. Over ninety per cent of them are to do with relationships, longing, lust, love. Most of them are miserable.

There’s a guy. He’s… sweet. I met him back in September, but at the time I wasn’t interested. As usual I was chasing after someone who was bad for me and generally turned into a disaster. I didn’t even start to get to know him until I was with Dave, another disaster. Now I’m changing my mind. But I’m also incredibly confused. I’ve never even considered him as potential boyfriend material simply because he’s nice, and nice isn’t exactly what I go for. It is in fact, the complete opposite. But I’ve got to the point where I’ve realised that I can’t complain about being treated like shit when I deliberately go out looking for men who are going to treat me badly. I’ve got to change the men I go after.

But he’s too nice. Waaaaaaay too nice. And I couldn’t just have a fling with him. I don’t think I’m ready for anything more than a fling. I hate looking through that big red folder and getting flash backs. I hate being tied to one man when what I really want to do is act completely scandalously. But I prefer to have certain things on tap, and I miss the companionship.

I’m being horrifically selfish. If I didn’t think that I could leave it for a few weeks and still come back to him then I wouldn’t be taking so much time deciding. I’d have already made a final decision: yes or no. I guess what puts me off is that I’d have to chase him. Generally I like to be chased to a certain extent. But again, look at the men that I’ve been with before. They chased me, but in the end…

I’m thinking things through too much when what I should really be doing is just seeing what happens. I’m breaking all of my own rules by agonising over this, and I’m not really acting anything like myself. But the poems have worried me. I’ve put everything into them; every stupid piece of imagery. Every bloody sentence shows how hurt I’ve been, how much in love, how fucking stupid. I don’t know if I can do that all over again. This time it isn’t the rejection I’m scared of. It’s the fact that if I let him in then I’m giving him permission to hurt me. Permission to cause me the same pain all over again. And I just don’t know if I want to give anyone permission to do that ever again.

Labels: Coquetry, Falling, Theatrics

Woke up and the phone was ringing. Looked at the clock, ten thirty. On a Saturday morning. Caller ID: Ryan. Huh??? Do I know someone called Ryan?

"Hi, do you remember me from last night?" deep male voice. Ah.

It was eleven o clock. Katy had phoned her mum and we had half an hour before we had to go home. Why do I suddenly have a flashback to when I was fifteen? Katy had had too much to drink, and wasn't really up to standing up without leaning on something, and dancing was out of the question. I was still sober.

He was shorter than I usually go for. By five inches. Actually, that isn't fair. I have a history of adoring men who are stupidly tall. The last three were 6'5'', 6'4'' and 6'3''. He was the acceptably average height of approximately 5'11''. The same height as me in heels basically. Dark hair, maybe a seven out of ten. An extra few inches and we could up that to an eight and a half. Though I usually make a point of avoiding men who have piercings, especially two. But they were on his ear (one ear, not a piercing per ear). I'm not sure how acceptable that is. His defining feature was that he was watching me like cats watch ducklings with broken wings.

He'd walked past me a few times with solid eye contact, but we'd been there for about forty five minutes and it looked like it'd take him at least that again before he got the nerve to come and talk to me. I hate men like that. Though apparently not enough to stop myself from turning to Katy, "I'll be back in a minute."

Edged myself in between his friends, "Hi, I'm Harriet. You got a girlfriend?"
Large smile, "I'm Ryan, and no I don't. You got a boyfriend?"
"No. I..." changed my mind about admitting how recent that particular change in social status was. The last thing I want people to think is that I'm on the rebound.
He looked shocked and puts his arm around me, "Really? I can't believe that. Are you sure a girl like you doesn't have a boyfriend? I've been watching you for the last two hours."

He obviously wasn't much of one for accuracy as I hadn't been there for two hours, but I gave him my number anyway and left with a falling over Katy. He's going back to work on Tuesday. I don't know where work is for him, but I'm assuming that it means that I won't see him for a while. The information I got was sketchy due to him having absolutely no reception wherever he was calling from, and also the fact that he was horrifically hung over. He wants to see me before Tuesday.

There's a house across the way from me. The guy who lives in it pulled last night. I know this because we're directly opposite and there is a girl standing in the window in a top that she quite obviously was wearing last night, applying make up. I miss that guy laughing at me when I said goodbye on the doorstep to Dave on a Saturday morning. The privacy isn't spectacular for anyone around here. But I miss having reason to wish that it was better. Later I'll laugh at him.

A relationship is the last thing that I'm going to allow myself to get into at the minute. But celibacy is pretty high on the list of things that I don't wish to be at the minute as well. So maybe I'll see Ryan before Tuesday. He's nice, and he phoned me at half ten in the morning. The morning after I met him. He's either insane or extremely interested.

I need some kind of distraction, and if he takes the form of a distraction for me then, for a while, that might be alright.

Labels: Courting

If my life were a movie, and not just a giant disaster, these are the songs that would be featured on it.

1. Bittersweet Syphony - The Verve
2. Colourblind - Counting Crows
3. I don't want to miss a thing - Aerosmith
4. Gone Going - Blackeyed Peas
5. Iris - The Goo Goo Dolls
6. Dancing in the Moonlight - Toploader
7. Like a Star - Corinne Bailey Rae
8. Mardy Bum - Arctic Monkeys
9. Stop Crying Your Heart Out - Oasis
10. Everybody Hurts - REM
11. Even Angels Fall - Jessica Riddle
12. Song 2 - Blur
13. Forever Young - The Youth Group
14. Buck Rogers - Feeder
15. Hurt - Johnny Cash
    

Labels: Stuff

You know you're still in love when:

1. You still read his horoscope right after yours.
2. You dance outrageously where you know he can see you just so he knows that you're over him.
3. You still get happy, though now slightly bitter, flashbacks of sitting on the train with him, waking up in his arms, getting into mock fights with him, etc.
4. You have to delete a whole load of songs from your ipod because they remind you far too much of him.
5. You cry when you hear a song that reminds you of him.
6. You sit around all day making stupid lists.
7. You turn your phone on silent and turn vibrate off just so that if he calls you, you aren't tempted to pick up.
8. You dye your hair a stupid colour just because it would really really piss him off.
9. You're listening to the Moulin Rouge soundtrack while writing this.
10. Somehow you can manage to hate him completely, while still miss him so much that it physically hurts.
11. You really want to punch the monitor right now.
    

Labels: Being the Duck