Wednesday's Child.

Monday's child is fair of face,

Tuesday's child is full of grace,

Wednesday's child is full of woe,

Thursday's child has far to go,

Friday's child is loving and giving,

Saturday's child works hard for a living,

But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day,

Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

Christmas 2009.

I spent Christmas this year with Pickled Lily and The Stig, which, just as it did last year, made me ashamed of myself for feeling pathetically self-pitying and bitter in the run up to Christmas, as I do have a family of sorts to return to at the end of the year - in fact, I don't even need to return because they were there day to day throughout the year. And I can get very ungrateful and caught up in my own loneliness and occasionally forget this.

But, as a lovely reminder of my little mini urbanite family, I spent a chilled out Christmas Day with Pickled Lily and The Stig, and the Stig's brother, which we spent eating and opening presents and watching Doctor Who, and all the cosy things you're supposed to do for Christmas. Except for the getting gradually more drunk throughout the day tradition - as I was nursing a bit of a hangover from Christmas Eve, which I spent getting drunk at the office with one of my bosses (who I've developed a little unexpected connection with, but another story..)

Anyway, I had to work Boxing day so literally had the briefest of Christmasses ever - but it was perfect. Albeit last year may be the best Christmas I'll ever have, so this year was never going to match up, but all things considered, it was pretty perfect. Well, having to work Christmas Eve and Boxing Day, and Pickled Lily's mum not turning up, and having just missed out on a White Christmas opportunity, and nursing both a raging hangover and a blossoming mini crush on my boss - these things may not have been ideal, but somehow made sense considering the crazy year we've all had! So yes, Christmas of 2009 fit in just perfectly.

Fingers crossed New Year's doesn't kick us all in the bollocks.

------------

One of my presents from Pickled Lily was so good, I just had to brush it aside. You can tell when I really love something, like really truly love something that someone has given me, because I have to hide it away, mumble a quiet "thank-you", and pretend I'm not weeping with pure gratitude inside. For someone relatively vocal, I'm surprisingly bad at thank-you's. I always feel really self-conscious and slightly unworthy, and strangely embarrassed. And I felt exactly that when I opened it - it was a picture that Pickled Lily had drawn, of Death and Delirium, that was so.. well, beautifully drawn but it was I dunno, honest, and full of life and meaning (I sound ridiculous, but I'm really trying not to get gushy!) and something about the way she'd drawn Death's eyes just made me think of me (ok that sounded morbid, but it's not - there's a sort of sparkle, or light or something, to them that felt a bit like looking into a mirror - but everything about the picture was undeniably Pickled Lily, so it was - I dunno, it just felt like me and her through both our eyes, via her art. Fuck, I'm getting gushy and uncomprehensible. See, not so good at the thank-you's, even just in my own head. Plus I'm still in a bracket.) - There we go, out of the bracket.

Anyway, I got some lovely, sweet, funny presents this year, but that one might just be the best thing I've ever been given. Because it felt like me. And it felt like her. And lets not forget, this year I've been given a Tiffany necklace and a bottle of Moet! My point being, I haven't said more to her about it than "Ah thanks mate" - but I'm pretty sure she knows that in my language that means "I love it, and I love you, and that will go very nicely in the cosy room I keep for you in my heart with my cat and my music and the very few things that are precious and special to me - and only you would know how happy that just made me, and would have thought to do it in the first place".

Wings.

2005.

There once was a girl with silver in her skin, and blood in her lips. She wanted to fly. She hungered so desperately to be beautiful and alive. So she made herself wings, of the most tender material. Fur-trimmed lace and silk with tiny incandescent sparkles, in hues of scarlett and magenta and gold. Crystal bells at the tips with little diamonds inside which would tinkle delicately in the crisp, oceanic breeze. She tied them on securely around her waist -- And then she ran. She ran so fast she thought she might run into beauty. Beauty with sunlit hair, pearl fingertips and rose coloured lips. Beauty with butterflies abound in her wispy tresses. She could show her life, Beauty could. She could show her acceptance, and happiness. Treasures she never found in herself. So she ran, far away and over the edge of the earth, her wings catching and the breeze gliding her through the air, across the horizon for everlasting, timeless seconds. She could breathe. She could feel every atom in her body, she could feel the heat, the raw energy unleashed, barely contained within her flimsy skin. But she started to slip. Her wings were colouring themselves metallic. Raging, menacing bronze covered what was momentarily beautiful. Her sins were wearing her down towards the sea ..or was it gravity? She spiralled uncontrollably, ever closer to the jagged rocks guarding the boundaries of the ocean. The sound of the waves crashing down beneath her were drowning out the sound of the gulls. Those birds always shriek when there is a sacrifice. No, Beauty did not save her. There is no hope for girls with blood stained lips, so undeserving of wings.

To Breathe.

There once was a girl with mahogany hair and hollow eyes. She played the piano, and read interesting books & put flowers in her hair.

She wanted desperately to breathe.

-----------

2005.

Too Cold For A Scarf.

"We have a connection, me and you."

Hmm.

Still not sure about the scarf. I thought I was going to go for it but, well, it's really cold this time of year and I can't risk going out in just a scarf, it definitely wouldn't make me warm. I'll wait until the chill in the air passes, then maybe try it on for size again.

When it's this cold outside, the decision of scarf or jumper is irrelevant - I'm staying in altogether, and keeping myself warm!

Christmas Demands Proof Of Worth, And I Have None.

The things that are closest to my heart, I have the least proof of.

I have so much proof of all the stupid crap in my life that isn't actually worth a damn - the amount of photos I have of myself smiling and laughing on nights out that I've already forgotten, where I have one photo of my cat, and barely a few proper ones of me and Pickled Lily, and not even one of Ash. I know it's morbid, right, but I was thinking today - if my cat died, I would have basically no proof that he ever existed, but for my own memories and one out-of-focus photograph.

And if this period in my life was over - say if I quit my job ,which I adore, right now, it would be like it never existed, as if I never did it, because everything would be the same as if I hadn't - except for me. I'd have changed, grown, whatever, and there would be no evidence as to why. Well, I suppose the evidence would be me.

But then, Darcy. I was in a relationship with him. A proper, meeting of the hearts, melding of the days, relationship. At least of half of the year of 2009 was dedicated to him, in my life story. But I have no real proof of that period either. And when it was all over and done with, I was just left as me again. Not in a self-deprecating way just.. well, what was the point? The things you do in life should leave some sort of residue otherwise, well, it can't have been worth a half of a year of your life, surely?

Maybe I'm looking for something to stick, something to rock my world enough for it to not be exactly the same when it ends, as when it started. For me to not be the same when it's come and gone. Because then I may as well have not have done it. Can something really be worth a damn if your life would have been the same had you not done it as if you had?

Ok I'm getting a little confused with my own train of thought here, and this whole proof thing.

Just, I think I'm trying to grasp at things at the moment. Christmas always has this effect on me - that's what I hate about this time of year. It makes you feel like you have to evaluate who you are, and where you are, and what you have. Which, for the most part, is a hell of a lot less than you think.

Christmas always makes me sad for what I don't have, for what I haven't done, for the life I haven't made for myself. I don't know what it is, maybe this is just what happens when you don't have a family to retreat to, a home to return to at the end of the year. So you gather up what's around you, to see if it's home, if it feels like yours. And, if I'm honest, it never really does.

------------------------------------

I don't know what I've been waiting for,
But I know that I don't want to wait any more.

The Flying Scotsman

Just was flicking through good ol' Face-arse and came across an email conversation that made me laugh.

The Flying Scotsman was my psychology teacher at school, and the reason for my love of bridge, and the man responsible for many of the opinions that I hold, in particular my anti-medication stance in regards to psychological 'illnesses'. He also loves to rant (and smoke, and drink, and rant..) as much as I. And he does it all with a Glaswegian accent, which makes him endearing in a Frankie Boyle mildly offputting sort of way.



Wednesday's Girl 07 April 2008 at 15:26

The Flying Scotsman, hello!

Just thought I'd drop you a line and apologise for my lack of correspondance (sp? correspondence?), Ive been awol for a while now and only finally called Pickled Lily for the first time in 2 months last night! And there is of course the ever-present fact that I am just rubbish in general.

Anyway hope you're well, and that some day this century we'll make plans to meet up that will actually come to fruition! (sp? frution? - must stop using words I can't spell.)

xxx


The Flying Scotsman 07 April 2008 at 20:44

Believe me, this summer I am going to track you down and force you to sit at a table with a hand of cards. And a glass in the other hand.

Then I am going to make you suffer for your lack of correspondence by filling you in with every tedious detail of my life since the last time we met up. And let me tell you, it's not good.

You can run, but you can't hide...

xxx


Wednesday's Girl 09 April 2008 at 23:04

See you would love my pub lock-ins, which generally involve drink, cards and me and Looney Toon discussing our tedious lives - although why so "not good" your end? Do tell, I am a giant ear, waiting for your tales of..niceness. (sorry, Black Books quote)

Anyway, country life not treating you well? You just give me the word and I'll come round and kick its arse. (or is it that bad it can only be discussed amongst copious amounts of alcohol?)

xx

PS. Also, I found my bridge bible yesterday amonsgst my old FHS revision notes (my detailed gcse Biology revision notes on what I can only assume to be photosynthesis, consisting of an A4 piece of paper with the word SUN with a big arrow pointing at the word PLANTS)


The Flying Scotsman 10 April 2008 at 19:54

Do they let you smoke during a lock-in? If so, I'm there...

The countryside is lovely (as you will see this summer when you come and visit me). However, the school I am at is grim. Although, being me, I am having some fun "playing" with them. Have you read my Myspace rants on this topic?

I will send you an invite to Flying-Scotsman-bury in due course.

xx


Wednesday's Girl 11 April 2008 at 01:57

lol Well you are always more than welcome my end - well tell you what, we can do a swap, I'll await your invite to seasonal sunny Flying-Scotsman-shire and I shall prove my worth by actually turning up (which in the world of me, is in fact a big deal) and in return I'll provide some drinking, carding and smoking indoors (thats right, Indoor Smoking still exists in pubs in The Vale after hours!)

But in the meantime I will read your myspace rantage in lieu of your company (I assume the tone of dismissive sarcasm mixed with justified cheeky superiority is still alive and well) and will try and build up my repertoire of working-with-autism anecdotes for our eventual meet/piss-up.

Until then - have you seen the bbc show about Sumerhill? I haven't had the nerve to watch it as I'm terrified they'll portray it as some adolescent anarchist free-for-all (in the bad sense)!

xxx


The Flying Scotsman 12 April 2008 at 10:28

I only managed to watch the first episode (since I have, like, a job to go to), but it was actually very good. The school was perhaps a bit too over-idealised, but the depiction of the government inspectors as evil, stuck-up gits was straight out of Roald Dahl...brilliant! xx


Wednesday's Girl 13 April 2008 at 01:42

No YOU're brilliant!

..And I'm drunk.


The Flying Scotsman 14 April 2008 at 18:22

From both of those statements, I can conclude - I taught you well. x

Charolastra No.1 Has No Hope..

..Yet refuses to be called a pessimist.

Had a slightly surreal conversation with Charolastra No.1 today about how her mind works. And about how mine works in such a different way so as to not entirely understand hers.

Essentially I was right in not knowing where she places her hope - because she doesn't have any. Or claims not to. I still don't fully believe/understand someone not having even the slightest hope/aspiration in regards to their life and what they want from it. Her argument, however, was that she isn't aiming to be happy - her ultimate goal isn't happiness. Her goal is only ever purely experience, in whatever form that may take. I don't fully believe her - well I do, obviously - but a part of me is evidently so innately hedonistic that it refuses to understand the core underlying agenda for everything not stemming from wanting to be happy, from wanting whatever it is that you think will make you happy.

But the quest/search/want for happiness, fulfillment, satisfaction, elation, whatever breed of joy - is this not, right down at the very core, the reason for all human behaviour, from the big life choices down to the very minutiae of daily life?

Maybe once she has all the world's experience that she wants (or doesn't want as such, rather just knows that she is going to get) under her belt, she will find herself wanting some things. But maybe, as somebody who has spent their whole life wanting more, I just can't quite understand contentment.

Or maybe, even after so many years, I still can't quite understand Charolastra No.1.

A Jumper Can Never Be A Scarf.

Talked things over for an abnormal amount of time with Pickled Lily tonight, for whatever reason, and one resounding conclusion emerged - I'm going to go with the scarf.

I'm an eternal optimist, and in the end I'm better with making mistakes than dealing with regret, and I have to do what is right for me, not what makes sense in everyone elses eyes. I've fallen into relationships and things before, just because I could, and you end up living an emotional facade - it's very lonely, and I'd never do it again. Not that that is on the cards, but the point being that I may have my moments of gloom, but I'm actually perfectly happy on my own. I'm certainly more happy on my own than with someone I don't completely want to be with - when I think back to my loneliest times, there was usually someone sitting right beside me.

I might not be sure about the scarf, and it might end up leaving me cold and uncomfortable and regretting not just wearing the jumper, but.. I really wanted it when I saw it. And it brings out the colour of my eyes. And maybe if I gave it a chance, it would become comfortable.

And fuck it, it made me feel special. Just once, when I tried it on, but if something makes you feel special and new even just once, isn't it worth really going for?

Sickness Makes Me Feel Homesick.

Spent the day in bed being ill. Which is fine, I think my body needed it - I slept 16 hours last night, and am still exhausted today.

But now it's 1am and I'm in bed feeling ill and crap, and for some reason can't stop thinking about all the people who ever treated me badly my entire life, and missing them. I dont dare think about what the fuck that says about me - but I just can't seem to stop myself! Just was dropping off to sleep and for some reason Looney Toon came into my head, and I felt myself really missing her.

Was remembering the little close things, like how her room felt like mine, and how we spent months sharing a bed because neither of us minded enough to be bothered to sort her room out, and how we'd have stupid conversations in the supermarket about why baked beans were in a different section to kidney beans, and why kidney beans were that shape - why would a bean be named after an internal part of the body, and which one was the liver and which one was the kidney anyway? And then there was all those times I'm pick her up from the local pub where she worked, and we'd pick up dinner and walk home discussing which film we were going to watch, always knowing we'd get home and just watch Family Guy until stupid o clock in the morning. Then we'd wake up the next day just in time for Neighbours and Jeremy Kyle, with just enough time in the breaks to make a half-arsed breakfast of tea and toast and some sort of microwaveable meat. And all those nights of ridiculous drinking and laughing and playing cards and meeting people, and all those mornings of going through our combined wardrobe for an hour to try and look different today, only to end up in the exact same outfits we always wore, but not giving a shit because we would have found some hilarious new joke of the day (or we'd made ourselves laugh by discovering a stupid advert on telly and making every sentence into a joke about it).

Fuck, it's weird, it seems so normal these days for her to not be in my life, in fact I barely even think of her, but when I think about it properly, I can't believe she's not in my life any more. But then my brain suddenly reminds me of all the other things, how our relationship deformed into something unrecognisable, how she became a stranger to me, her gradually spending more time in her room and not ever coming out with me and our friends, and then the big one - where her boyfriend hit on me and when I told her she rejected my words and refused to discuss it, and then for weeks and weeks there grew unease and this weird atmosphere developed, and I tried my very hardest to address it, and to clear it, and to fix it, but she just clammed up and denied anything was wrong, and just shut me out and made me feel like I was being paranoid and over-sensitive and needy - all the time she was moving her stuff out and mulling over things without telling me, then one day she was just gone.

..Fucking bitch! 8 years of being the closest of friends, then one day she just ups and leaves, and refuses to accept my attempts to rectify things. Then, when finally after months of confusion and hurt and wanting to fix things, I see that I've been screwed around and get angry about it, she acts as if I'm overreacting and that there was nothing ever wrong.

Man, I can't believe I'm going over this in my head right now. I think so little of it because it hurt too much to deal with, and I was partly in disbelief at the time, but I really can't be bothered with this in my head right now. Can't it just go away?

At the risk of sounding like a moany teenager - it's just not fair! It's not fucking fair that people like Looney Toon come into my life and make me love them, then they fuck off or treat me shitty and then fuck off, and it's not enough that I have to go through it - but I then have to deal with missing them. And it's never that I've played the victim, they're just bastards! That's just it though - theyre the bastards, they're the ones that fucked everything up, but somehow I'm the one thats suffering, that's lying awake at stupid o clock in the morning wondering where it all went wrong, and reminiscing about when it used to be good, and wishing it could go back to that. I even find myself considering calling her - then hate myself for it because why would I put myself through that - I would be some sort of masochistic fool to be missing somebody who hurt me so much.

Why is it always like that after they're gone though? When someone hurts you, you should just be left with that hurt - just purely remember the fact that they hurt you, and that they're a bastard. Not the good stuff - the makeup of the human brain should have at least a little compassion and have some sort of auto-erase system whereby you forget the good times where you loved them and they loved you and trips to the supermarket became the most fun you've ever had, so that when you find yourself thinking about them at stupid o clock in the morning, your brain doesn't think I wish you were in my life, rather your brain thinks you were a bastard, good riddance. Stupid brain isn't protecting me properly, after all these years.

I think this is all because I'm ill and slightly delirious - I always get emotional when I'm ill. I don't know what it is, but it's only when I'm ill that I get so massively self-pitying and weepy and needy (I hope!)

Maybe it's that I don't have the energy to hold back my deepest hurts and heartaches when I'm ill. I'm pretty sure when I wake up tomorrow or the next day fully recovered and feeling spritely, I won't miss Looney Toon in the slightest, and won't connect with this feeling at all, if even remember it. And calling her will seem a laughable thing to have thought to do, and the good times won't even cross my mind let alone affect me like this.

But in my current state of ailment, I miss her. And I feel pretty sad about it. And that sadness is just opening the floodgates for everyone else that I sometimes secretly long for.. Looney Toon.. Ash.. Rocket Boy (bit surprised at that one).. my cat..

Why can't it just go away? I'm so sick of missing people. Seriously, nobody has to miss people as bloody often as I do. And when I miss people like Looney Toon, and Ash, it feels more than just nostalgia, its like.. homesickness. That's it. Most people get that feeling when they're ill, when they long to be at home being taken care of by their mum, in bed eating soup. But I never had that, the only real home I've ever had has been certain people in my life. So when I'm ill and I want comfort and warmth, I long for the people that felt like home. It just so happens that the people that feel like home fucked off long ago.

For Christ's sake. I just reread that whole self-indulgent adolescent rant and had a flash of self-awareness - I really am going to stop using this blog for exorcising emotional demons, and instead write things that are clever and witty and insightful, that might pass for genuine urban subcultural commentary. Maybe I'll blog some more poetry, or put my gig reviews up here, maybe some thoughts on psychology books I've been reading..

Not right now though. Right now I'm going to chain smoke and listen to Ricky Gervais podcasts, while feeling homesick and glugging Night Nurse, until I fall asleep.

Comfort vs. Excitement

So November. It's kind of flown past. Every day of it has been dense and concentrated, but somehow as a month it's escaped me. It's nearly Pickled Lily's birthday - which always seems to just creep up and smack me in the face. Every year, Pickled Lily's birthday is a surprise to me. Much as the early months of the year drag on forever and you feel as if icy spring will never pass, the last months of the year seem to speed up making you feel if you don't hold on quick, they'll run away without you.

I had a bit of a crazy weekend actually. Work has been my entire focus for weeks now, and this week I could feel it settling, feel myself able to not have to be on 100% all the time and just let loose my grip on the wheel a bit. So went out Friday night for drinks with the girls, which turned into quite a crazy one in which I ended up having an intense night with an American boy (singer in a rock band. Will I ever shake musicians..?) resulting in a mild personal dilemma - comfort vs excitement.

I love talking to people about music, and even more so I love talking to attractive guys about music - if someone I'm speaking to/flirting with says "oh you know who I love - Athlete", I get uncontainably excited and kid-in-a-candy-store giddy, and feel my heart just reach out to them and cuddle them. And I feel a tangible bond and a sort of heart-racing warmth in a way that nothing else makes me feel towards another person. Not like it happens a lot, but it's happened a few times (I think I attract boys who know how to get under my skin) and to me, there is nothing like it. I think maybe I chat to randomers often enough just in case I happen upon one of those "shit, you know that band? that album changed my life!" moments.. Because the after-moment, when you both look at each other, chuffed to have something that excites and inflames you, in common with another person - honestly, it's the biggest rush. And, to me, the biggest turn-on, in every way.

So once I've had that with someone, it's like a drug - I want more. I love it, and it feels like nothing will feel as good. And whatever I can do to continue feeling it, or to feel it again, I will do - happily. And when I connect someone with that feeling, it's hard to shake being drawn to them. The connection, even if fleeting, lingers on in my memory. And me, I'm a very singular person, there's very little I want that I can't get from/within myself - but that feeling is what keeps me from a life of seclusion.

But that bond, that rush is still just that - a rush. It isn't ever really more than that. It can't really grow into anything, all it can do is exist in that particular moment, and if you're lucky, ever so slightly bond you with someone else.

But is it a fake bond? Is it some way that humans have evolved socially to find a mate/procreate - by creating a momentary closeness. Oh, I like this, you like this, we must be soulmates. Oh wait, no, now we've shagged and actually it no longer matters that you love Athlete - because sitting across from the breakfast table from you in the morning is awkward, and in the cold light of day, you're still a stranger to me. Much as you may love Athlete. And much as last night we may have been soulmates and when you knew that lyric that I love I then subsequently directed that love your way, this morning I find no comfort in that. And you made me feel alive, and roused into life, and awakened, and aroused. But this morning I'm tired, and don't want to feel roused and excited, I want to feel comfortable and cosy and cared for. And I feel a little duped that you don't make me feel that way, because you love Athlete, thus I felt close to you because you love something that is close to me. What more honest connection is there? But am I confusing a spiritual connection with just assosciative memory. The warmth and familiarity I have with something I have warmth and familiarity with something that my brain has now connected with you, thus wrongly made the connection that I must share that warmth and familiarity with you also.

Somehow, I'm left uneasy.

Now picture an alternative scene. I'm sitting with a guy, we've been to the cinema, or dinner, and now we're having a drink. And he's nice, and cute, and we're finding ourselves with things to talk about - he's really cool, and has lots of really interesting qualities, and thinks that I do too. And we smile at each other occasionally, and we're both slightly conscious of being on a date. But we converse, we debate things, we swap stories about upbringing and friends and family, and it's all perfectly.. nice. I feel at ease, and I go with it.

And in the morning, in the cold light of day, nothing has changed. I don't feel a void, a come-down, a retraction of warmth on either side. I'm comfortable at breakfast, and I don't feel like I'm somebody else, I've still got a grip on who I am - he hasn't gotten under my skin and shaken me up inside, even remotely, not leaving me feeling unstrung in the morning. But.. he hasn't shaken me up inside.

Somehow, I'm left unsatisfied.

Uneasy or unsatisfied - when did those become the options?

The thing that runs through my head when I think of the latter is that there's just no heat in the air. But what am I, 16 - do I still need the heat in the air? We don't actually have that much in common. We're not hugely dissimilar, and we get along, and we've probably got a lot of common ground - we're both Londoners, for example. But there's never been even one of those "oh my god, that's my favourite film too! Have you read the book??" moments. I've always lazily thought that it's what you like that counts, not what you are like. And if any man ever got that that was a High Fidelity reference, I may well marry him on the spot.

But maybe that's just what I'm like - for someone to really get me, they have to get what I'm into. But isn't everyone like that? Oh, I'm so confused.

I don't think I'm ever going to not be, at least a little bit, sex drugs and rock 'n roll. And the excitement that comes with that comes so very naturally to me. Will I ever find comfort? How will I ever find comfort? And when I do, will I ever stop wanting inflamement?

And how will I know which is the more worthy? The thing with the momentary (music-based in my case) connection is that somehow it feels more tangible at the time. Like it's a proper, real connection. How can something that doesn't really count for anything feel so much more real than what is actually real. Maybe brushing it aside isn't giving it its dues though, as well - fuck it, maybe the moment is real, the connection - but what we do with it is what fucks it up. God I bet its as simple as sex fucks it up.

Or maybe it's so real that it feels like intimacy. That's it - bonding with someone in that way is a type of intimacy and it makes you forget that they're essentially a stranger, so once the excitement dies down you're left with the fact that that particular intimacy isn't really applicable in life really, you can't really do anything with it but feel it. And move on.

or.. build something on it?

But that sort of intimacy is exciting and heart-racing, but it doesn't make you comfortable with someone at the breakfast table. Then again being comfortable with someone at the breakfast table isn't ever going to make your heart race or invoke that passion. So which one is the more tangible, the more worth attaining..? Dammit!

Meow

I really, really miss my cat..!

Respect And Esteem And All The Unfamiliarity Therein.

Right now Bluebelle, the Sales Manager who trained me, whom I've become fast friends with, and who promoted and trusted me so very quickly, has gone away on holiday - and everyone was freaking out. The GM's, Head Office, our Area Manager - all freaking out that Bluebelle's going away for the most important 3 booking weeks in the year for any bar/restaurant/club.. Christmas.

Bluebelle, however, appointed me her replacement and told everyone that even though I was the new girl, I was perfectly capable, they weren't to worry. But they did, I could tell. Gradually though, over the next few weeks, I won the respect of both the general managers, and managed to get my name mentioned at Head Office (a relatively big deal for a reservationist)

Had a big day at work today - first meeting with the area manager, me being in the sales manager role. I felt a bit like a little girl playing at being a grownup in the actual meeting, but everyone took me seriously and I think I got away with it. It's not even that I got away with it, it's that I was prepared. I had been worried about it all week, so I prepared -and when asked questions about figures/bookings/minimum spends, I knew the answers. And it felt good - I'm getting lots of respect from everyone at work, it's a novel new feeling. And I won't stop to think too hard about why it feels so unfamiliar, being respected and thought well of.

In the 2 months I've been there, starting as a minor reservationist, I've been made Christmas Co-ordinator, then Head Reservationist, then Sales Manager replacement, then Sales Manager in training. And it's not an easy place to move up - the two General Managers in particular are hard to impress and tough cookies to crack, but it would appear I've done so. But what gets me is that I keep wondering 'how'? How are they respecting me? And I feel a bit like maybe I'm getting away with something, or that I'm riding some sort of luck - when actually, it's because I've been working fucking hard, and putting my arse into it, and genuinely care about doing my job well, even if it is just a stupid reservationist job.

Absolute Peter, the big boss who commands the highest levels of respect in the office (and who looks a lot like Aragorn, if Aragorn were bald and wore a suit and jeans), gave me a raise yesterday - we were interviewing a new girl for the reservations team on Monday, and we were discussing what pay she would get - £7 an hour, and Absolute Peter said to me on the side "How much do you get?" and I told him, £7. He nodded, and I assumed he was checking how much reservationists get paid. The next day he came in and wrote me a little note during our morning meeting - "You're now on £7.50 an hour". I tried to thank him silently, but he wouldn't look at me. When I broached the subject later he scoffed and said "Well it's not right that you'd make the same amount as her", nodding at the new reservationist.

It's not much, but coming from Absolute Peter it is - he would never offer someone a raise if he didn't think they deserved it, he's not that kind of guy. He would never directly tell somebody that they were doing a good job, but he would make sure they were rewarded for it. He's a good boss like that. Still makes me nervous being around him though, he just commands so much respect, and I've got to a level of piss-taking and playing around with everyone else at the office - the other 2 managers are fantastically flirty-bantery French guys who, while still being in command, play around a bit. Earning their affection was easy, then earning their professional respect was worthwhile, and I still revel in the fact that they take me and my opinion seriously and see me on a level now at work. But winning Absolute Peter's unspoken ever-so-slight acknowledgement makes me genuinely pleased with myself. Like I just got an A+ at school, and my headteacher has patted me on the head.

Anyway, I'm ranting about work like a bit of a weirdo, and I know it sounds stupid for me to make such a big deal out of it but - I dunno, it may not be a big deal to other people, but it's been such a long time since anyone has taken me seriously in a professional capacity, and I've always had this thing where for some reason people think the worst of me and think me incapable. And it's so rarely acknowledged how much I put my heart into things, that when its suddenly acknowledged and praised so freely, I don't think I know what to do with it. It's so unfamiliar.

But I like it, and I want to get used to it. Because it scares me a bit, how pleased I am by essentially being treated with a normal level of respect and esteem, when others just expect it, don't even give it a second thought. It's not that I'm hugely insecure, because I'm not, I just.. it's probably residual secondary school roleplay but when it comes to a work or education related hierarchy I still expect to be treated like I always have been - bottom of the rung. Smart but lazy. Or funny but dumb. Whatever it is that people seem to see, I've never played up to it but I've never been surprised by it. I'm aware that I'm a female, and that I can be pretty, and that I can be funny, and that I can have a personality. For some reason any given one of these things make people assume me to be incapable. People never see the package.

Somehow, they do now. And, it sounds stupid, but they're fond of me here. They're fond of me, but this doesn't make them take me any less seriously. It's like I'm finally being seen the way I've tried to be seen for years in the workplace, and I don't understand it! And it's not that I'm particularly good at this - well I am, but not any better than I was at psychology research for example, or at charity work, or even at bloody gcses. Just for whatever reason, these people can see it. Or I'm just in the right industry. Where looking good and being fun is just as important as knowing your shit, it's not a hindrance.

Anyway, the point being - I'm enjoying being respected and taken seriously at work, and I want to get used to it. And damn it, I will.

It Goes To Show You Never Can Tell

So there's a new guy on the scene.

I met him properly a few weeks ago at the Halloween party, and we've been on 2 dates since - I'm still getting to grips with the 'dating' thing. Anyway, I like him. Quite a bit, actually. It's all been pretty easy with him, in a good way - no Rocket Boy esque mind games, no Darcy esque pretending, just two people spending some time together getting to know each other. And chatting a lot about music. It did occur to me actually at Halloween, that I had promised myself I would stop talking to cute boys about music, because it gets me into trouble. But this one ain't trouble.

We went on our first date last week, which was perfect - just went to a local bar and chatted all night about, well mainly about music and London and how important/amazing they are. He was the perfect gentleman, paid for everything, opened doors for me, but not in a show-off or try-hard way, just because he's nice like that. It was a little awkward at first, in a sweet first-date way, but once we got to chatting he impressed me by being so easy to be with, and I impressed him by proclaiming my preference for analog sound over digital. I'm not sure how that came about, but we were talking about vinyl and Stevie Wonder's Superstition and Pulp Fiction, both the film and the soundtrack, and much nerding out about sound later (he's a dj and sound technician, and may just love music more than I do - and he has the bollocks to actually persue it properly) I found myself slightly tipsy, sitting at the table listening to him talk, and wanting to just grab him and kiss him. But he was mid-sentence so that would have been rude (though as Charolastra No.1 pointed out, I'm sure he wouldn't have minded).

We were in this cocktail bar opposite my flat, and as he went up to get some drinks, You Never Can Tell by Chuck Berry came on. When he got back, I joked about him missing the perfect opportunity for a very cool first-date Pulp Fiction kiss, to which he agreed but replied he would kiss me anyway, regardless of the song (good answer). I started to launch into a jokey rant about how, as a music man, he should agree that that's the sort of thing that can make or break a good kiss, when Stevie Wonder's Superstition came on. We smiled at each other, knowing that would be the perfect song to kiss to, but we were bothly strangely too shy to make the move. I'm pretty sure talking about kissing on a first date is a sure-fire way to make any kiss-appropriate moment immensely awkward! See, I'm learning about dating..

There's something quite internal about him. He's strong-minded, and quietly ambitious, and it's charmingly unobtrusive.

I'm not sure how sexual he is though. Not that I'm some sort of nymphomaniac, but I'm a pretty tactile person and on some base level I gage my personal relationships with people by how comfortable they are to the touch. And though he is receptive, as in if I go to kiss him he'll kiss back, and when I nestle into him he'll put his arms around me and nestle back, but he hasn't initiated anything. Yesterday I spent the majority of the night in his arms but he never tried to kiss me. And as such, I can't quite gage how attracted to me he is.

But still, this feels like one to look out for..

Young Hearts Run Free.. While Some Of Us Have To Go To Work.

Ok so this is depressing.

It is quarter to 8 in the morning, and I am already depressed. Mainly because I am, and have been for the last half an hour, sitting in my bedroom waiting for my new flatmate and his lovely girlfriend to stop having hot shower sex so that I can have a shower before I go to work. They've been in there for nearly 45 bloody minutes (the shower, by the way, is right next to my room) and I can hear the stifled giggles.

I've been up for an hour - should never have had that morning cigarette in bed, should have gone straight into the bathroom.. then I would have been able to jump in and out before they woke up, and right now would be putting on eyeliner and making breakfast, rather than staring into space and feeling old for being annoyed at selfish young people shagging willy nilly all over the place, when some of us have to go to work dammit! I bet they'll have used up all the hot water.

Ugh god, I've just realised.. they're not gonna clean up. I'm going to be washing my hair, knowing minutes ago it was a dirty sex-shower. Except that they're not dirty. And it would have been beautiful, romantic sweet couple sex. Great, I'm going to feel so boring and inferior in there now. Sorry shower, it's only me again, just shaving my legs today, nothin to see here. Oh, must remember not to touch the showerhead..

God, this is depressing. I could not feel more old. Or single. Or tragic.

..I can't remember the last time I had sex in a shower.

Crimes Against Fair Flirting.

Well this is just fucking ridiculous. Obviously.

So I spend weeks (lets pretend it's not months) waiting for Rocket Boy to ask me out. And he doesn't because - well first because he has a girlfriend, and then because he's just broken up with his girlfriend, and then because he's just really shit, and then because he's scared of me or whatever, and then because he's out finding a new girlfriend. And a while passes, and when I next see him he somehow makes me ask him out, which obviously never materialises because, surprise surprise - he's as shit as ever.

Then I decide actually I can't be bothered with drama and confusion and all the stuff that goes with having shitty people in your life/head, so I forget about it and start an amazing job, and move to a brilliant flat, and after a month or so of settling in and being a social hermit for the benefit of my sanity, I emerge from my cocoon to go to a party and (courtesy of a beautiful, wonderful girl I know through Charolastra No.1) spend the night chatting to a cute, nice guy. Who is so interesting that I find myself having such a good time that I forget to leave the party, and find myself kissing him at the bus stop. And I'm pleasantly reminded of what it's like to be attracted to a guy who isn't completely fucking useless. So I spend the next few days casually wondering if he might call, and if he was serious about going for that drink.. Then guess who I get a text from?

Yeah, you got it. Stupid useless even-shittier-this-time Rocket Boy.. 'Hello poppet. How are you? What are you doing tonight? x'

So I text him back, then realise that because I've accidentally left my phone off I've gotten his text 2 days late - so the moment has passed. He finally nearly, sort of, almost asks me out, and I miss it. And now I'm going to spend the next week (lets pretend it's not a month) waiting for him to text me. Which he won't. Because he's shit. And even though I know this, I'll still be annoyed that he hasn't texted. And if by some miracle he does text me, I'll be so relieved that I'll forget that I was so annoyed and I'll text him straight back, and he won't reply because he's so shit.. and the whole thing will just never end until either he finally grows some bollocks and asks me out, or I finally crack and execute him for crimes against fair flirting.

For fucks sake.

Looney Toon

I thought about calling Looney Toon today. In fact I didn't just think about it, I got my phone out. I was leaving Ruby Blue (weekly work conference thing) and was walking to Piccadilly station to go back to the bar, and I laughed out loud at a joke I once made up. And right then, I wanted to call her and tell her.

And for a second, I genuinely considered it. It didn't seem like a bad idea.

Maybe I should give this one some thought.

..or maybe I should forget this one entirely.

I don't know any more.

I'm Man United And He's A Spoon.

So I saw Rocket Boy the other day. Even amongst my 'cutting out all things crap' phase he managed to slip through somehow. It's not really worth a proper blog post, but I thought I'd copy down an email I just sent to Pickled Lily, as I'm sure some time in the future this will be a hilarious parlour story to tell on bad dates/girls nights, or a case study for The Guide, and as such should be at least mildly documented.

--------------------------------

Sent: 23/10/2009 00:47

Subject: Rubbish.

Ok so I just started writing you a text, then halfway through discovered it was nearly 4 text-pages long so tried to downsize and take out words etc, but I just couldn't cut my ranting - so decided to email instead.. I'm sure you're thrilled lol. But here it is anyway..

So I'm pretty sure Rocket Boy has a girlfriend.

*pause for 'sudden but inevitable saw-that-one-coming' sound effect*

I am so stupid! Seriously man, like whole new levels of insane semi-masochistic are-you-retarded levels of stupid that I seem to keep surpassing by the bloody day! And yeah I probably shouldn't be as annoyed/affected as I am, but I don't care, it's just so ridiculous! I mean the thing that gets me is this - I am so much better than him. Like sooooo much better than him. In SO many ways I am out of his league - I'm like Premier League dammit!! In fact I'm so out of his league, his league is just redundant. His league may as well be.. a spoon. Yep, I'm Man United and he's a spoon. That's how out of his league I am!

Anyway, my ranting is turning a little surreal so that's a sign I shouldn't do a 12-hr shift then flick through random Facebooks until I inevitably stumble upon things I don't want to know.

Stupid wanker.

"Will you text me some time and we'll go for a drink, I promise I'll be less shit this time.." - what, so this is you being less shit is it, Rocket Boy? Hmm?? Less shit involves being a total weirdo with me, does it? Being as up and down as a psychotic yo-yo on speed, hmmm?? Being rude, then awkward, then flirting with me and humming Paramore songs under your breath in what I can only imagine is your strange way of yet again cryptically referencing/telling me things that I don't bloody understand, making me feel like I'm the crazy one, hmmmm?? You 'being less shit' is finally asking me for a drink - or actually, making it so that I'm the one who has to ask you for a drink, then leaving me hanging, only to discover during this entire time you've casually developed a girlfriend?? Less shit, are you, Rocket Boy? Hmmmmmm?? Really?? HMMMMMMMMM?????

Right so before you start calling the men in white coats to get me sanctioned, take a second to laugh defeatedly here with me, mate.

Seriously, I'm not kidding.

...


You good? Nodding and shaking your head with a slight for-fucks-sake expression? Good. I feel less alone now.

Man, I slightly can't believe we're not at the Lion right now, with a bottle of wine and a pack of cigarettes - rather, I'm in my bed, wired, at 1 in the morning knowing I have to be up in 5 hours, and the next chance I'll have to sit in the Lion with you and a bottle of wine, is at least 2 days away.

I'll call you tomorrow at a more normal time, with a more normal frame of mind.

Sorry for the rant - what would I do without you to rant at? Even when you're not here..!

xxxx

ps. Thanks for not being rubbish. Other people are rubbish. Everyone else is rubbish - well, mainly Rocket Boy, but everyone else too.

..For fucks sake, if anything he's more shit this time!

--------------------------------

Behold.. My Mr Willoughby

All these midnight meetings,
Have built you up to be
The man who tells me what I want to hear
But never will proceed.
Behold.. my Mr. Willoughby.

Now I remember the time
When I first met you in the warehouse.
In my mind we were dancing until daylight
And singing in the streets,
Arm in arm and cheek to cheek.

But now it's been a while since we first met,
And every time we meet,
You always promise me promises you dont keep.

Like your promise of a bike ride,
Or that vegetarian food.
You said you would be with me by late July,
You just had to get your hands untied..
But it's Autumn now and the leaves are brown
And you, and you still keep letting me down.

Now I remember the time
When we were standing by the water,
You pushed me up against the wall
And kissed me in a way
No man has ever kissed a woman before.

You can't do these things to me,
You can't make me feel like I'm in a film
When there's another that you bluff,
And your promises are dust,
But will I ever get enough of Willoughby?

For now there is a man pursuing me..
And he is open, he is honest, he is probably what I need
But still I cling to your shackles, I don't wanna be freed.
Because I'm a secret optimist -
It's probably the most annoying thing I could be.

..But where's my bloody bike ride?
Where's my vegetarian food?
You said you would be with me by late July
You just had to get your hands untied
But its Autumn now and the leaves are brown
And you, and you still keep letting me down.

And why are you so like my father?
I should've noticed from the start
That youre a Scorpio man.
And Scorpio men,
They only ever meddle with my heart.

No More.

So I predicted this in a lazy rambling manner in a post a few months back, in August in fact..

".. quite probably the next time my feet touch the ground and everything settles down, it will be into a life that is completely different"

Man, I must know the crazy patterns of my life better than I ever thought. I write this now from my room in a new flat in West Hampstead, on my day off from a new full-time job, with an entirely different head space going on. I'm currently settling in to a new routine, a new flat, a new job and a new life ideally, in which I've decided to clear out all the muck from my regular routine/life/head, and just take care of myself and my life.

The first 2 weeks of October were a bit mental, with going out all the time and packing and moving out, and moving in, and unpacking, and I somehow managed to find a job in the space of 2 days. So starting said job, still only half packed and half moved in, with little/no money and no real idea of how I'd ended up moving house and starting a new job on the same day - this all made October a little hectic to say the least. I then had a bit of a breakdown at work last week and had to be hospitalised with exhaustion, and was poked and prodded even more and generally had the worst day ever - at St. bloody Mary's of course, and had to get Pickled Lily to pick me up and cab me home (against doctor's orders of 2 weeks bed rest).

The main shock to the system about that one was that when doctors were trying to assess how I'd gotten to the level of clinical exhaustion, we went through my daily routine, which while busy and technically stress-packed, wasn't stressing me out enough to keep me up at night, or to drain me that much - and gradually the penny dropped (its taken 22-odd years) that it's all the other bullshit in my life that fucks me up. Everything I've ever done to get by - all the different work, education, moving flats/houses, all of that I deal with as and when, and I'm bloody good at adapting so it doesn't stress my brain and body out. I can look back at any given time in my life and see all the mental work/school/housing related situations and the unbelievable stress levels that went along with them, and conclude that it's that part of my life that makes me so stressed. But I've been fucking wrong. I'm going to write that sentence again because it's rare you'll hear me say it.

I've been fucking wrong.

It's never been moving in and out of places, or having no money, or dropping in and out of education that's worn me out. It's the other bullshit. My mother being one, my friends being another, various lovers and passing men, my own stupid head, meeting the expectations of eeeveryone from my family to strangers to my own insane expectations of myself.. but mainly, it's been everyone else.

I sat in the hospital, feeling uneblievably vulnerable and unbelievably stupid and even more annoyed at myself for taking so long to realise - why do I have these things/people in my life? Why do I always have to do everything for everyone else? Sort everyone elses shit out, everyone elses life problems, money situations, nights out, why do I feel the need to fill the gaps in everyone elses lives and heads, which leave me too drained to deal with my own? I'm such an idiot.

Anyway much more internal ranting and disbelief at my own idiocy and weakness later, I found myself in my new little room with an ill-advised but much-needed glass of wine, after just another appalling day in the hospital, thinking no more. No fucking more.

So I'm going to try and cut everything out of my life that I don't want in it. I'm slightly scared of making too much of a statement about this because of the amount of times throughout my life I've said no more and then fallen straight back into the old routines of trying desperately to please everyone around me - but this is my point, I kind of know I'm a bit too weak willed and a bit too old-habits-die-hard to stop trying to please everyone around me, so I'm left with the option of just making sure the only people around me are those who won't demand anything from me that I don't want to give freely.

Basically, I'm downsizing. Starting afresh as best I can, by stopping trying to change my head, instead trying to change my life and hope my head just adapts. Which it always does. Things in my life go mental so much through the years, so regularly and so abruptly and my head has always just gone with it, dealt with every time my life changes. So it's nothing new really. Except that this time I'm going to be the one that changes it.

Because otherwise I'm going to wake up in 10 years and find myself in the exact same bloody situation, and will probably be surprised. And I don't know why I'm always surprised when this happens.. I've heard it said that the very definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results - so I must be fucking mental.

Ok, enough analysis and enough italics and enough grand statements. I'm just going to note down, very quietly to myself, that taking care of yourself isn't selfish. And so what if it is - everyone's gotta be a little selfish. I don't need to look out for everyone. Just me and mine.

Currently that involves just keeping my head down, not going out because I feel like I should or I owe my friends anything, and just working - my new job has been mildly enlightening in this respect actually. It's been entirely new to me to be in an environment where no-one judges me on anything but my own mind/actions, and respect is given freely when due, and where I'm just another person. No-one's saving grace, or punching bag. It's been a lovely reminder of how I should be treated. Why does it take a perfectly normal working environment to make me realise I don't deserve to be treated like shit? And honestly, when I leave work, even after a 12-hour shift of running to and from offices and bars and making a hundred phonecalls and sending a hundred emails and decorating and carrying shit around and having no lunch break to speak of - I never leave feeling emotionally drained. Physically drained, maybe - but that's not what gets me in a state where I'm in the hospital with exhaustion. One 5-minute conversation with my mother does that bit.

Fuck it, at the risk of making too grand a statement, putting too much pressure on myself, and yet again setting up too high an expectation, I'm just gonna say it and hope for the best - no more.

No more.

Me vs. My Life

So I have absolutely no inclination towards partying or drinking or having any fun at the moment. After all my buildup of turning-23 anxiety, and restlessness, I now only want to stay in bed watching tv.

I'm slightly worried that this is the natural pattern of me vs. my life - for as long as I can remember it goes like this. I have to deal with life and all the crap therein, so I do, I spend months/years sorting out whatever job/family/money-related disasters that are inevitably going on, which takes its toll and makes me hate being so in control and dealing with everything, so I long to let loose and fly free and other such cliches, and I finally do for a while (canada being the longest period of this kind to date - 2 months) but then life smacks me in the face with whatever work/family/money/heart related disaster I now need to sort out, and I'm back to dealing-with-it mode.

It's fine though, soon I'll be tired of dealing with it, and long to let loose and fly free and other such cliches.. and so on and so forth. Until I split into 2 different people entirely - one who runs around sorting everything out, being sensible and careful and mechanical, with the world on her shoulders, and another who gets drunk and parties and laughs all the time, and doesn't give a shit about anything but drinking and partying and laughing.

I don't want to be either of those girls.

A Cobain/Grohl/Novoselic Induced Musical Orgasm

I've spent the last hour just lying on my back, on my bed, with my legs crossed, staring at the ceiling, and listening to Nirvana's In Utero.

Every few years or so, I get a bit restless with my music, and I can't ever seem to find the right song/album/playlist. And for a while I scour my old reliables (Sia, Aqualung, Muse, Athlete, Stevie Wonder) and while they satisfy my thirst for good music, I still don't feel like it does the trick. So I turn to music I've been into recently to see if that fits (Noisettes, Glasvegas, Nitin Sawhney, Paramore, Hip Parade) but I've already been through the discovery christ-how-good-is-this-album period, so I start to grow tired of them, at which point I take them off my ipod/playlists immediately for fear of ruining them (which I've already done with the Noisettes latest album. It was too good, and I overdid it. And now, heartbreakingly, I've forgotten how good it is because I'm too familiar with it and it's started to annoy me.)

Anyway, then I listen to any old thing on shuffle because when I try to think what music I want, it just escapes me. I go through genres and subgenres (soft rock, hard rock, glam rock, pop rock, indie, americana, blues, soundtracks, classical, motown, soul, 50s girl groups, jazz, hiphop, triphop, funk, rnb, rap, barbershop, disco, electro, garage, break beat..) and nothing seems to fit.

So I conclude that what's happened is I'm just not aware of all the cool music out there because I've been so lax about discovering new music, so have become bored of my own music collection. So I scour for new music, which does the trick for a while (Belleruche, Lux Lisbon, Airplane, some Nico stuff I never knew existed, TM Juke and the Jack Baker Trio..) but while that excites and interests me, it still doesn't satisfy - in the course of a day, when I get my ipod out, put my headphones in, light up a ciggie and prepare to walk to wherever I'm going, I need (always have, and always will) the perfect soundtrack to my life. In fact, I do at any given time, but at these times the most. I am at my happiest when walking along the street anonymously, watching the scenery pass by, smoking a cigarette and being simultaneously connected to everything around me and everything inside me via the sounds coming through my headphones and into my brainium.

And that only happens when I've got music that gets me, at whatever stage of my life/day/span of emotions I'm in at that very moment. So not having this little but vital comfort puts me on edge, and feeling weird, to say the least. And I start to treat my ipod as background noise, and find myself not adjusting the noise level/bass/headphone positioning every other minute as usual, rather shoving the headphones in and zoning out.

And then one random day, out of nowhere, from absolutely the very back corner of my cluttered mind, a thought appears - Nirvana.

And I brush it aside, as you would a band that you connect so intrinsically with the very fibre of your adolescence and all that that entailed (angst, insecurity, anger, confusion, hormones, school, utter stupidity..) and of course a band that are so hyped and overhyped and overcovered through the musical ages that you almost forget that there was a reason you once shamelessly wore a Nevermind tshirt to death, like every other angst-ridden wanting-to-be-unique greasy-haired Camden teenager, and that even though your musical preferences weren't as well-honed and well-travelled as they are now, sometimes the crowd is right. Sometimes, ever so rarely, but sometimes, things are as good as the hype, and shouldn't be too harshly judged on the repercussions they've reaped upon the mainstream (Nirvana are, in my mind, entirely responsible for at least 4 years of appalling NME-encouraged meaningless scenester grunge music that would have made the Jesus and Mary Chain vomit in shame for punk rock)

See, I loved Nirvana at that same point in my life where everyone loves Nirvana - unhappy cliche'd adolescence. They were the beginning of my journey into endless branches of music discovery, and to this day I lazily bracket them as too obvious and thus irrelevant. Because what self-respecting music fan would ever put Nevermind in a Top 5 Albums list? None. That's for people who think that Creed were heavy metal, and that the Arctic Monkeys are punk. A real indie music lover's top 5 list would consist of four obscure offbeat albums, with one cult classic for good measure. Much as we'll never admit it, us music lovers are damn elitists and point-scorers. Hence, as a people, us not being able to handle a band becoming successful - the 'selling out' issue being that we just can't bear to see people who haven't researched and studied and carefully considered and referenced every album they buy, liking the bands that we've claimed as our own. We've felt so very snooty all this time with our little musical secrets, and the plebs of the general populus shouldn't just be able to get how good a band are because it lowers their value if they do. We've worked hard to be able to appreciate real music and we have very little else in our lives, dammit!

Anyway, what am I talking about? I'm ranting now somehow - what was my point?

Ah yes, my point was this. Rediscovering Nirvana. A mix of nostalgia, comforting familiarity, and pure musical awe (and shame for doubting, and then forgetting, just how good they actually were) - I know this because about an hour and a half ago, I randomly and tentatively put In Utero on, and immediately felt at home. I had forgotten..

Broken hymen of your highness, I'm left black
Hey - wait - I got a new complaint
Forever in debt to your priceless advice
She eyes me like a Pisces when i am weak
I've been locked inside your heart shaped box for weeks
Hey - wait - I got a new complaint
Forever in debt to your priceless advice
Your advice..
Your adviiieeece..

Ahhhh man, Heart Shaped Box. Used to be my favourite song (obviously. Yes I was a cliche, £5 Levi's and Ramones tshirt and all..) when I was about 15, and I had genuinely forgotten how good it is. There's something so fundamentally honest about listening to Nirvana, at any age, on your own, in your bed, smoking a cigarette and smiling to yourself at the rusty familiarity of every chord progression, every bit of distortion or little yelp from Kurt..

I miss the comfort in being saaaad..

Anyway, I'm getting quite carried away and have already lost most of my evening to rediscovering the Nirv' so I'm going to go and start on Bleach, maybe sing along to About A Girl (I need an easy friend, I do, with an ear to lend, I do think you fit this shoe, I do, won't you have a clue.. take advantage while you hang me out to dry.. Free, I do.. ), and finish off with some MTV Unplugged. I just know, when the first few bars of The Man Who Sold The World kicks in, I'm going to have some sort of aural Bowie/Cobain-induced orgasm.

Ahhhhh their cover of Son Of A Gun off of Incesticide, I'd forgotten how good this makes me feel, it's literally the musical equivalent to a threesome. I'm being double-teamed at full blast by Kurt Cobain and the Vaselines, and I am loving it!

Coming Down With The Affluenza.

I'm done with being dirty.

I want to be clean now. I've just started a new job, am in the process of moving out, am trying to sort out my money situation (the situation being that I have less than none), and my head just can't cope with it all in it's dirty state. I partied my arse off last week, and drank a lot, and drugged a lot, and didn't give a toss, and it was good. And now I'm done.

At least for now.

All I want to do currently is sit in bed eating and watch tv, with my cat curled up on my lap, and have some time to unclench for a bit. But, annoyingly, these next few weeks are undoubtedly going to be hassle and a half. I downloaded the 2nd series of Gilmore Girls the other day, and earlier I tried to think of a night this week where I can stay in bed and watch it, but I couldn't even find a bracket of an hour to watch one episode. Because every hour I have is filled with something infinitely more important like packing/moving, or working, or doctors appointments, or working. And I am hating it.

It's always like this when you try and change your life though. The initial period is always the worst. I can't wait until everything settles down, then maybe I won't have this sick feeling at the pit of my stomach all the time.

Ugh, I can actually hear myself, and I realise that self-deprecation when it borders on self-pity is a most unappealing quality, and I hate it in myself, but I can't help it. I feel crappy and stressed, and yet again I feel like it's only ever going to be me, alone, fighting to be better. With only my own stupid thoughts to keep me company at night, and on the bus, and at dinnertimes, and at all the times I wish I had someone to ease the burden.

Does everyone feel like this? Sometimes I think everyone feels like this. In the most selfish, wanting-to-be-part-of-something way, I hope everyone does feel like this. Because then this constant fear/feeling of isolation is actually part of the human condition, not just part of my poorly conditioned brain.

Maybe I'm just coming down with the Affluenza.

(Maybe I'm just coming down)

Martha Knows.

Tonight I had my the day alone with time to myself in my flat, for the first time in ages. I was enjoying just hanging out in my room listening to music and generally lounging around, and got to offhandedly thinking about every man ever to pass through my life, and this Martha Wainwright song I'd forgotten I had came on, as if sent from the musical heavens. So I sang along with Martha, feeling carefree and a bit righteous, if it's at all possible to feel those two things simultaneously, and I couldn't help but smile. Martha knew.

Damn This Wild Young Heart

It's 3am and after having had just over half an hour of sleep, my stupid brain decided to wake me up and spin me around some more. So now I'm drawing up a draft tech spec to send bands when I book them - a document that does need to be done, but with no particular urgency, and definitely not at 3am on a Tuesday morning. Yet, here I am.

This is all because I'm so restless at the moment. Literally, as well as figuratively. I can't get to sleep for ages, then when I do I wake up a half hour later and immediately am flooded with racing flashes of things I have to do, things I should be doing, things I forgot to do, people I forgot to call, stuff that happened last night, stuff that happened last week, stupid things I've said this month, stupid things I've done this month, everyone in my life, Darcy, Rocket Boy, The Cats, Pickled Lily, my boss, the postman, eeeeeeeverything that my brain could possibly think of throughout the day just spills out into one giant overpowering thought which smacks me in the face out of nowhere, and I can't get back to sleep. Which is funny because the combination of these thoughts makes me want to put a pillow over my head and crawl under the covers and suck my thumb until everything goes away.

Besides that, everything is pretty okay. I'm still craving the dirty side of life at the moment, and have gotten satisfactorily grubby out on the town with the girls recently. Have also encountered a few appropriately inappropriate boys along the way, which has been fun (for the most part). But I'm still feeling restless. I'm itching for something, for I dunno, hedonism. And letting go, and being reckless and shameless and not giving a damn. I'm craving the life equivalent of a line of tequila slammers. Or maybe I'm just craving the slammers. Either way, I need to let loose.

I am also, and I know how ridiculous this sounds (as i do with most things I say. I may be ridiculous and mildly melodramatic, but I'm perfectly self-aware!) - but I'm freaking the fuck out about turning 23.

I never thought I had a 'scary age', and if I did I assumed it was something normal like 30, or 40. But for whatever reason, 23 I find fucking terrifying, and I had no idea until now. I've been talking with Pickled Lily about this, and have established that it's because 23 is officially the end of being a big kid/student/girl/layabout. I don't know why, because technically the whole teenager transition between youth and young manhood is at 21, but it's not. 22 is even still in that bracket. But when you hit 23, you're no longer in the bracket with the 18 yr olds and the youngsters, you're officially a 20-something. You are a young adult. And you can't get away with being as fucking ridiculous as you can be up til 22. And I'm suddenly terrified of wasting time. Of losing out on the opportunity to be ridiculous, and young and stupid and naive, because having spent my life being smart and mature and knowing better, and being (and feeling) older than my years, I think maybe I've missed out on naivety these last few years. I've spent my life being grown up, and now it's here I don't want to be a grownup! I've been one for so long now, and as ever I only ever notice what I've got when it's slipping away! See because when you're ridiculous when you're 19, it's endearing, you're young and foolish. But when you're ridiculous past 23, you're just a fool.

I want to do all the things I'll be too old to do when I'm hitting 30. Literally, everything. I can't randomly move in and out of my flat, or get silly about boys, or decide to drop my career and degree to piss around for a year, or dance in grotty clubs and not give a damn, and stay out drinking and drugging for days on end when I'm hitting 30.Well, I could, but it would be tragic. Because these sort of things would be perfectly acceptable at say 22, but not at 29.

I know, it's stupid, and I never really have given a damn about society's expectations, never have even considered them to be honest, and I don't actually apply these insane standards to anyone but myself - but I do hold them for myself. And the only person whose standards I'm terrified of not meeting are my own.

So as such, I'm terrified of 23. Because it's the end of an era, and I'm terrified of looking back on it and knowing I didn't be everything I should have been, everything I could have been.

But even this is fucking pointless, because I'm not 29, I'm 22. I am still young enough to be whoever I want to be, yet I'm not actually doing anything about it, I'm wasting being 22. By worrying about being 29 and looking back and regretting wasting being 22.

Anyway, these are all stupid 3am thoughts that will evaporate in the morning with the first sip of coffee and drag of a cigarette.

..and will resurface come midnight tomorrow night, but I shall continue to push them all away until the next morning coffee and a cigarette and so forth until one day, I push them so far back in my head that I get a brain tumour.

I really want to go out right now. I could do with a line of shots and a thumping bassline.

Three Olives, Shake It Up - I Like It Dirty.

So I went out with the girls last night, and hadn't quite shaken the feeling I had during the date with Clark Gable - I was on a mission to get down and dirty. So we did. Lots of black eyeliner, rounds of shots, live music, sweaty bars and sweaty guys later, mission accomplished. I woke up this morning with my head in the toilet, a sticker saying 'Shimmy' on it and a flattened white lily on my chest, and a smile on my face. This is where I belong. I know my place.

And as such, I've decided dirty is the answer. Dirty boys, dirty bars, dirty music, dirty talk, dirty shots, dirty minds.. diiiiirrrty.

I will be acting upon this thought/epiphany by fully submitting myself to the dirty side.

So let's get dirty.

At least until I can be bothered to clean up.

No Butterflies For Clark Gable.

So I had a hot date tonight, with a hot lifeguard. Yet I find myself approaching midnight in my bed, eating pistachios and chain smoking, feeling equally weary and restless as ever.

It was nice. We went to a little Moroccan restaurant that I'd suggested when he called me a few days ago. I met him at the gym last week, when I went for a swim. He showed me to the yoga class room, and we had a lovely chat and a bit of a flirt, and swapped numbers. He's really really cute - blonde, blue eyes, slender but toned, clean-cut. Not my type, but in terms of hot male of the species, he's ticking all the boxes so far.. When I first saw him it was like watching an American teen movie and seeing 'the cute guy' come on screen, you know, where you just know you're supposed to find him cute. Especially in his little red shorts and lifeguard whistle! But when he had his normal clothes on (Ramones t-shirt, old school Levi's, a funky little brown hat - ticking more boxes) he seemed much more my type. I then discovered he's a singer, and a songwriter, and he smokes (tick, tick, tick..) so was more than happy to arrange a date - which was surprisingly easy. I'd actually been out with the girls in Camden the night before, and had been discussing how nobody asks people out on dates any more, so I was pleasantly surprised at how easily and comfortably we arranged to meet up.

Anyway, on to the actual date. I'd been massively nonplussed about the whole thing these last few days, which worried me to be honest. I've always been really easily flustered and excited and girly and giggly about boy-related situations, big or small, and always found it quite fun getting all a-flutter about boys (I blame the adolescent influence of Charolastra No.1 for that one) but this was the first time since I could remember where a boy situation had cropped up and I hadn't been remotely reactive. Even getting ready for the date, no butterflies, no self-doubt, no fussing over hair/outfit, no excited texts to the girls - nothing. Walking to the restaurant with a sexy strut, listening to 'Sexy Boy' by Air to try and pump myself up - nothin'. Sitting at the table, waiting for him to arrive - nada. Usually I'm putting on lip gloss obsessively, nervously checking my phone, holding down the butterflies, smiling to myself, or the waiter, or anyone in sight - but tonight.. nothin.

Anyway so he arrives, cute as I remember, in dark jeans and classic black shirt rolled up at the sleeves (my favourite sartorial combination on a man) and is even more attractive up close, under candlelight and romantic faux-Moroccan backdrop. It's all really comfortable immediately. We order a bottle of wine and some things I don't understand from the menu, and we get to chatting about Ancient Greece, and the demise of chivalry, and Die Hard, and the first records we ever bought - the conversation is sparkling, and flowing, and not at all forced, and we could not be more interesting, or interested.

The night continues like this, and at one point I realise he's leaning back watching me talk and looking at me sexily, and I'm smiling at him knowingly, toying with my wine glass while his foot touches mine under the table. It's all very sexy, and there's a definite spark in the air.. But still no butterflies.

We then talk about music, which never ceases to excite and arouse me (which is why I had decided to stop talking about music with cute boys, it gets me into trouble and makes me a little overexcited) - and he has great music taste, and really interesting opinions on why certain music works with a political agenda, and we discuss political relevance in music throughout the ages. He's smart, and opinionated, and open-minded, and loves music as much as I do, and is getting more attractive by the minute. Still no butterflies.

We get through the first bottle of wine, and the second course, and he asks about my life. I tell him about work, and my friends, and funny anecdotes about my childhood. He tells me about his family, and his work outside the gym, and the dog he had growing up. It's the perfect first date so far, and I can't help but notice how swimmingly it's all going, with a surprising disappointed feeling in my stomach (in lieu of the still notably absent butterflies). I quash a thought that creeps up on me while he's talking - Am I only attracted to guys that make me nervous? Do I secretly thrive on conflict?

The restaurant is beautiful, white painted brick walls with deep red and yellow handmade tapestries draped on the walls, low-lit lamps hung from low ceilings, and I feel like I'm in an exotic distant land with Lawrence of Arabia.

I get up to go to the ladies', and I catch a glimpse of us in a mirror. We make a beautiful, sophisticated pair, him in his black shirt and Clark Gable hair, me in a classic brown silk dress and immaculate Sofia Loren makeup, at our quiet intimate table complete with exotic setting. As I walk to the toilet, I pass the open front door. A cold sharp breeze wafts over me and I get a sudden urge to run out. I quell the urge, and as I walk back to the table I feel stifled and a little claustrophobic.

Now, I cannot stress this enough - this boy is perfect. Gorgeous, interesting, smart, funny, quietly confident but not remotely arrogant, easy to chat to, interested in me.. but as we continue to sit at the table, sipping our wine having fascinating, culturally stimulating conversation, I find myself suppressing an urge to just tear my dress off, pull on some ripped black jeans and eyeliner and run to the nearest dirty rock bar, grab the nearest dirty rock boy, snog his face off, then do a line of tequila slammers and dance the night away to some dirty hardcore basslines.

We finish the meal and, like the perfect gentleman, he offers to pay. But he accepts me wanting to split the bill and makes a brilliantly tongue-in-cheek joke about 'chivalry being killed off by women', and he offers to walk me home, like the perfect gentleman. So we walk back to mine, arm in arm (both of our free hands holding a cigarette) and we chat and smoke in the warm evening air. He walks me to my door, and deals with me not leaning in for the kiss so smoothly - he kisses me on the cheek, like the perfect gentleman, and as he walks away, our hands brush against each other and he strokes my hand ever so softly. It's very sexy, and our eyes linger on each other as he walks away.

As I walk through my front door I can't help but notice..
Still no butterflies.

Everything That Matters Is Just About To Happen.

A Drink In The Vale Shames Me A Little.

Met Mystery today for a drink in the Vale, which was surprisingly nice.

I forget that when he's not being overly analytical and needy, he's a pretty sound guy. Plus, he's going to prove very useful in terms of male perspective for the Guide that me and Charolastra No.1 are writing (The Guide To The Misguided: Misinterpreted, Misguided, Or Just Plain Useless..? - a social document about men and women interacting, and all the confusion therein) as, if there's any weird sexual/social situation out there, you can bet your bottom dollar Mystery has been in it. And has analysed it from every possible angle. Twice. And then again for good measure.

Anyway, was sitting at the table, chain smoking and easing into a conversation about the possible existence of the elusive 'Middle Man' (somewhere in between a fuck buddy and a boyfriend - someone you're attracted to and get along with, have good chat/banter with, and who you shag, with no strings, but with whom it's not entirely meaningless. Anyone who successfully fits this bill, please apply here..) when I realise that Mystery is the only man I'm still in contact with who has seen me naked. And it freaks me the fuck out! It's entirely irrelevant, and I'm not even fussed about it - my past with Mystery feels like some school play I was in years ago, so any residual memories are vaguely blurry with nostalgia and nausea. But for a split second, I wondered what it would be like if all the men I'd ever slept with were in one room, looking at me. Then I thought, I would basically be naked. I may as well stand there, naked.

Then I laughed, which was a bit weird as Mystery was mid-sentence talking about some girl or something. And when I laughed, I spat a mouthful of wine onto the table then fell off my chair. Seriously. Mate, I think I'm actually getting more ridiculous by the day. In fact I'm getting so ridiculous, I just called my secret online blog 'mate'.

Anyway, after having spat wine all over myself and fallen off my chair, we chatted about old times and relationship issues and Neil Gaiman (Mystery's managed to blag us both extras parts in a short film Neil Gaiman is filming next week - us both being the most massive nerdlingers when it comes to comic books/graphic novels, and much of our relationship being based on geeking out about The Sandman) - and I'm offhandedly talking about the difference between being attracted to somebody immediately and finding somebody interesting, thus becoming attracted to them. And Mystery throws this one on the table..

"You know, I don't remember if I was attracted to you immediately. I mean, you're gorgeous.. but you got more beautiful to me the more I got to know you."

Blew me away, that one did. Maybe it's because nobody ever calls me beautiful, particularly in such a casual matter-of-fact sort of way (ie. not calling me beautiful to get my pants off), but even so. That may be the nicest thing anyone's said to me this year.

Anyway, it made me feel a bit stupid about having so many guys in my head, as the only one who isn't in my head at all, is in my life, as a real person who just told me he finds me beautiful, because he knows me. So I decided to stop sitting there only half-listening to Mystery, while answering calls from Darcy, thinking about Rocket Boy, and trying not to think about Ash, and instead give Mystery my full attention. So I did, and we chatted about sci-fi and comic books, and love and sex, and music. It's been a while since I've given Mystery my full attention, and it was nice. I'm not sure why I'm so stingy with my time and energy with him, yet hand out all my attention and time to boys who never bother to get to know me, thus never manage to find me beautiful.

Okay, so maybe the offhand comment has gone to my head a little! But I honestly did feel a bit ashamed, and a bit mean for always being so hard on Mystery. So 1st Note-To-Self of September : whatever little time/energy/self you have to give, make sure you're putting it in the right places, to the right people.

Now, so this doesn't get too self-help Bridget Jonesy, here's a picture of a frog wearing a snail as a hat..

The Dawning Of A New Era. Or Something.

So it is officially September.

More importantly, it is no longer August.

August is bollocks. As I've established, it's a weird transitional month where you realise the days of Summer Holiday are over, as despite the residual school's-out-for-Summer feeling, in fact everything is the same. And being a grownup means not being able to take a break from your life every Summer.

Also, nobody really knows what August is there for. Half the population goes on holiday or to festivals, and the other half stay behind doing their normal life, wondering where everyone is, and why they're not having all this fun everybody else seems to be having. It's not a proper self-respecting month, August.

Anyway, the point is - this past month has been shite for me. Just absolutely sheeeiiiite. And I could not be more happy to welcome September in with open arms, and stick two fingers up to August as I watch it pass by. Fuck you, August!!

So it is quarter past midnight, and I am having a celebratory drink and a cigarette, because I made it through August. It was shite, and I made it through. Pickled Lily and I have decided that we are going to celebrate the passing of August every year, as August is limbo. And whether September is heaven or hell, at least we'll know where we stand!

So cheers. Here's to September, and the dawning of a new era. Or something a little less epic, but just as meaningful.

-----------------------

I've never said the word 'August' so much before.

Remember (Walking In The Sand)

August is the strangest month of the year. It's limbo. My life is in limbo, and I blame August.

Ash died on the 20-somethingth of August. One of these days. You'd think that would be a date that I'd remember, but I don't.

It occured to me today, sitting in Oxfam, staring out the window mindlessly listening to Sade's By Your Side and feeling a little romantically nostalgic, that Ash exists nowhere but inside my head, inside my dusty memories. It's a weird thought. I mean of course his parents remember him, and the odd friend of his either in Ireland or Soho, but their memories aren't of him - only I really, truly knew who he was as a person. So he only truly lives on in my memories. It's a strange, lonely thought that brings me no comfort.

I can't bear the burden sometimes. Of having to do justice to him by remembering him not just how I want to remember him, but to remember him for who he was, accurately and honestly. Not to paint him in too shiny a gloss, neither to dull down his colours. I think it's only right that somebody in the world owes him that. Admittedly I'm bad at the middle ground and find myself either keeping him in my head as this figure of incomparable love and warmth, the elusive 'first love', or a figure of darkness and abandonment forever holding me back, the monkey on my back.

That's only when I think really deeply about it though - I've actually made my peace with what happened and funnily enough, out of all of life's experiences, this one isn't one that haunts me. It happened, and I got over it. And now I have some beautiful, terrible memories, of a boy who loved a girl and never got to know her as a woman. If only everything were that simple to figure out.

But,

I don't remember the colour of his eyes.

Right now I find that sad and confusing, but natural. But it's okay because I remember other, more important things. Like how he looked to me when I first saw him, sitting on a bench in the midst of a crowded, busy Oxford Street, wearing his black 'Ash on tour' t-shirt and eating cherries from a blue plastic bag looking, to me, so very still. An oasis of calm amidst a sea of rushing, blurring faces. When his eyes met mine, I felt stilled. I remember it like it was a photograph, or a scene from a favourite film. I even remember the soundtrack - I had 'Some Day' playing on my cd player.

And I remember exactly how he kissed me. In the beginning, before everything got so.. messy. He would pull me close, always, so our faces were right in front of each other, and his eyes would linger on mine, just for a split second too long, so that when our lips met it was never just a kiss, rather a meeting of the souls. Every time he kissed me, I fell a little bit more in love with him.

And I remember the sound of his voice, his lilting accent, the way his dark hair fell across his brow, the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly when he was concentrating on something, the way our eyes met like confidantes when he would light my cigarette and then his own. I remember his scrawling handwriting when he scribbled down lyrics as I lazily played piano, and how he couldn't make a decent cup of tea no matter how hard he tried, and how he would watch me when I spoke about things and I knew he was actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk.

And I remember how sad and how quiet he could get sometimes. And how useless I would feel just sitting there, watching him look out the window, smoking, with this distant, faraway look in his eyes. Sometimes I catch myself looking out of windows with that same look in my eyes, and to this day I wonder what it was that made him look like that.

I remember the change in him when he drank too much, how he became aggressive and self-centered and would treat everything, including me, with a bitter disdain. And how I hated him. And how my life fell apart, and re-made itself around him. And how naive we were, and felt, even in the grown-up situations we found ourselves in. And I remember how separate he was from everything, from everyone else - and how much I loved being without him sometimes, knowing that what we had was mine. My own, private secret treasure.

I remember what he was wearing the last time I saw him alive. He had a suit jacket on, and a little silver earring, he hadn't shaved and he had tears in his eyes. He was a young man of 19, but to me he was a little, lost boy. I remember him walking past me, guitar and backpack in hand, and I felt the tiniest gust of cold air as he brushed past. Even then, he was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

I remember running down hospital corridors, pushing open doors, the smell of sanitised death and illness, the little dank room with its hard metal tables, the sudden greyness of everything, the greyness of his skin, the stillness of the air, the sick irony of my heart pounding so loudly in my ears and the heat from my breath going in and out of my mouth so quickly, when he was so cold and still.

It's funny, all these memories sit comfortably in my heart, in my past, in a movie of somebody else's life. They don't bother me, and I don't bother them. And when I do think of him, it's with fondness but surprisingly little raw emotion. I've sort of got other things to worry about these days like, well, my life. And the real, living people that are in it. Which, five years down the line, is healthy to say the least!

But every now and then, I'll wake up in the middle of the night in a panic. And I'll wrack my brain for memories, and destroy my room looking for pictures of him, or diary entries, and desperately work myself into a frenzy. Because I can't remember what colour his eyes are..

And if I don't remember what colour his eyes were, that's lost forever.

Maybe I am a little haunted.

But that's alright, because I remember the important things. And if living my life and making new memories means that old ones get pushed aside, or rewritten, or start to fade.. then that's just the way it's got to be. I may now have forgotten the colour of his eyes, and maybe some day I'll forget his smile, or the way he laughed, or that thing he said to me once upon a time, but he will always be a part of my story. Even if just as a fleeting image of a boy, sitting on a bench, eating cherries from a blue plastic bag.

So here's to you, babe. You were, and continue to be, the only boy this lonely girl ever really loved. Even if you only now exist in dusty, sad memories of better times.


Some day, we'll leave this town.
It wears us down.
We'll leave somehow..
All it's harms, and all it's charms.

Oh some day, we'll leave behind
All this time that has turned sour,
Far behind and out of mind

Some day,
We'll leave this life far behind,
And fade in time.
We'll look down on this sad town, some day.

Safe from harm.. Was it a dream I had?
Was it a dream I had?
When did it turn bad?
Oh safe from harm.. Was it a dream?

Some day we'll leave behind this sad life
And all it's lies
All it's harm, and all it's charms

Some day, we shall see with clarity
And we won't look back.