A Poem for Autumn

A Poem for Autumn 

Always the most magic of seasons is she

That begins to wipe clean the earth again.

With air consciously breathed and falling leaves;

It is not death, merely renewal.

Preparation for a period of want.

A cleansing, a harvest, a bonfire blazing.

As a child I sharpened new pencils inhaling their scent,

As the year begun in September as autumn hit 

And it still buzzes like new for me,
In these orange months.

Summer may have rendered us dozy,

Satiated with leisure and loving;
A lackadaisical life.

But September chills our bones and heats our souls,

And we throw ourselves into it again. 
With purpose.

It's a new term after all and we can begin.

Living with the leaves, grasping for their colour,

Just as we shirked from bright brilliance in summer behind shades.

What do you really want?

We harvest and we store.

We frighten at Halloween, the extreme.

And we burn, burn, burn,

And light up our sky for Guy.

Autumn is a pleasure, a warning, a human quest for...

I like things moving is all.

And we keep ourselves busy.

Enthralled. Till fall has finally fallen,

And we are left to live as ice-cold gluttons for one month, 

Eating and drinking and fucking till new year.

After, we disappear from behind our eyes for a while,

Barren land, bodies stooped, curmudgeonly;

Until spring dances her pretty feet across our path.

Cigarettes I've Smoked and Loved

It is probably too early to write this blog post as I am only 94 hours in and I have been ill for half of those days and its still a novelty. But here it is, my eulogy to my smoking self.

I have smoked since I was 16. I am now 29. For 11 of those 13 years, I would classify myself as a heavy smoker and by that I mean unless I was sick or badly hungover, I would get through at least ten a day (forty on day boozing sessions with follow-up evenings). None of this "only five nicked from someone else on a Friday night" for me. I was committed.

And I bloody love it if I'm being honest; a fact which has most definitely stopped me from trying to give up before. I have never once tried to quit or felt the inclination to and I didn't even care really. My attitude was sort of "that's great you want to - I don't - therefore leave me alone."

And then I started practising meditation and yoga just under a year-or-so ago and I started to crawl a bit with what smoking was - really what it was. A habit. A dirty habit that was killing me and was weak. It was killing my breath, which as anyone who has ever done yoga will tell you is your life source and the source of all life.

I started to wonder. I looked at my skin closer and noticed the greyness after a heavy smoking session. I'm 30 next year... Do I really want to be a 30-year-old-smoker? That always seemed so pathetic to me... it's not so sexy post-30.

And then I thought about my favourite cigarettes and I wavered...

Here they are for your information:

10: After the gym cigarette. Yes I mean it - I always feel I deserve it more.

9: With good Italian coffee in a street-side cafe in the crisp, dry London autumn.

8: After a large meal... or between main and pudding, excusing yourself from the table for a five minute "breather".

7: Driving... with the music really loud.

6: Post-coital (a habit picked up at university when my boyfriend at the time used to smoke in bed - hideous).

5: On a brief break from work during the day - a cigarette and a striding walk is guaranteed to calm me down when I want to kill a client or colleague.

4: On holiday - especially on the beach, but mostly in all those European countries who love smokers.

3: With the first wine of an evening.

2: The "smirting" cigarettes with a boy I fancy outside a bar, or meeting a boy I fancy through our collective need for a smoke outside anywhere. I may have to swear off dating smokers...

1: Cigarette or five or ten with my best friends, wine and plentttyyy of conversation. I will miss these ones the most (but may concentrate on the conversation even better if I am not worried about which of the others has stolen my lighter that I desperately need to light my next cigarette.)

Writing this has made me want to rethink again. All those lovely cigarettes.

However in reality this confirms to me even more how I must give up as I hate the idea of being such a slave to a habit. Also I have told A LOT of people in order that their jibes fuel my steely reserve and competition.

My last cigarette was on September 13th 2015, I hope that I will never have another and that if I slip up and do have one, or two, or a pack, I do not jump off the waggon totally and stay comitted to the resolve to quit. I do feel better already by at least wanting to quit. I feel better that I actually believe now that it isn't cool or arty or fashionably outsider to smoke... it's not. I want to succeed and I hope I'm strong enough.

Wish me luck and don't ask me to bum a cigarette.

PS: Anyone have any tips on staying off the fags, please tweet me @wordyloveslots.

PSS: I do not judge anyone else for their desire to smoke or not smoke. Thank you.

I Was Too Busy Falling in Love in August to Blog... Ti Amo Italia

  

This is not a travelogue or an account of a holiday, it is a love letter and I haven’t written many of those.

I didn’t realise it would happen like this. I thought only romantics fell in love with you. Carb-sluts, middle-aged divorced women, those who fall in amore all the time like I would like to, perfectly turned out men - gay and straight, people who pick Romeo and Juliet as their favourite Shakespeare play. 

I’d been to Florence before twelve years ago and two years ago, and she had already flirted with my mind and my spirit. But I was there both times with my greatest friends in the world and I could be anywhere with them and soar with laughter and a satisfied soul. So I think I ignored it a little. I ignored the feeling walking the streets gave me, the calmness and yet awe I felt in the presence of the great religious architecture. My affinity in the worship of coffee.

And then I went back there and slowly it crept up on me.

You Don't Need Your Heart When You're Dead

When I was younger, the concept of organ donation freaked me out when I thought about it, which was rarely. Having been blessed in never knowing anyone that had had a transplant it was not something I'd addressed really; I'd blame youth, but I think I was just me being self absorbed.

And then recently I had to renew my drivers' licence and one of the questions asked by the online form was to please tick the box if you would like to be added to the NHS Organ Donor list. I ticked it and then I thought about it. A lot.

When my card arrived to say I had been successfully added, its accompanying letter asked me to inform my next of kin that I was a card carrier. And so this is me doing this and also sending out a plea.

I am not really sure why organ donation is not opt out to be honest rather than opt in... I don't care what religion you are, most religions - if not all - preach helping others. However, not associating with any fomal religion myself, that is not my argument. Here it is...

We live our lives giving away parts of ourselves every day, some to people who deserve it and some who do not. We give away our hearts to lovers who leave us and those who become their caretakers till the end. We throw away our thoughts and our speech carelessly every day to companies and corporations we work for, or necessarily use these solely human gifts to go about our day to day life. We burn energy from our muscles in exercise and moving about. We hear everything that passes us, without prejudice. In youth these gifts seem unlimited and we do not always choose to use them wisely, perhaps until middle age moves to old age and they falter and we realise that we would like to carefully select - as much as we can - what we utilise them for.

This leads to time, our most precious, most limited resource which we give away everyday, even though we still need it. We give it with joy to people we love and to pursuits we enjoy, we give it with reluctance to perfunctory tasks, with resignation (sometimes) to the grinds of everyday life and careers. Often we give it to the world, to people we don't know, to charities, to good causes, to those in need, to help others even if if we never see the outcome. We often lose it uncontrollably when we are angry or sad or bad. We numb it with alcohol, food, drugs and television. We wish it away, we wait for the weekend, for the summer, for Christmas. CANNOT WAIT TO SEE YOU. When we examine our lives we muse on how to give our time better, to be of more value.

All of this is human and it's wonderful and it's part of what it is to have a human life. But tell me this, why, if you are happy - for the most part - to give away all these things when you still have need of them, are you reluctant to give away your bodily organs etc when you have not?

I hope as everyone does that I do not die young, but if I do, I would like my body to be a free for all for anyone who needs it. Take anything you want. I believe they are unlikely to want my lungs as I have smoked for ten years and even though I am going to give up this year, I still think they are unlikely to be transplant worthy. Other than this I would like to give everything away with no conditions. Obviously I would prefer if they went to "worthy" people, but if my liver is given to an alcoholic (tbf that might be pretty ropey too ;), or my kidneys to an ex-con then that is the way things go. Maybe they will take it and it might make their life so much better and the rest of me can be burnt and spread around the globe.

To be honest, I would just like to finish on you ALL signing up to the organ donation website.... PLEASE

....

The Art of Wasting Time

Dolce Far Niente - John William Waterhouse

I have often thought myself to be a Jack-of-all-Trades, the silent "Master of None", always quite audible to my mind. I was an all rounder at school (except sports which I forgoed as soon as I realised that my lack of co-ordination, read concentration, meant that I would have to work extra hard to be just average.

Since leaving University I have walked through my professional career believing that I am decent at most things I try my hand to, but not especially exceptional at anything. I have since realised that this is perhaps an ingrained mental belief in “not being good enough” that finds safety in hippity hopping between skills and completing them with passable ability rather than stepping out of the safe box and owning brilliance in something or other.

It is a classic trait of insecurity and something I am now trying to rectify. In leaving a traditional, full time, salaried job, I am having to learn to fight against all these learnt instincts. My life and career is now what I make of it and I need to believe I am the best person to do X, Y, Z.

This is especially true in the novel and play that I am writing. For the best friends of Jack-of-all-Trades are Unfinished Projects, Procrastination and the skill of Wasting Time.

The amount of times I have said I wanted to do something whether that be enter a particular writing competition, join a rowing club, a drama club, do the three peaks challenge etc and not completed it are innumerable. Sometimes it has taken me three hours to make a phone call to, for example, the dentist to make an appointment. My talent in time wasting is exemplary.

Gone West... Life is Peaceful Here

I'm currently in Cornwall. On my own. I'm still working for clients. And I'm trying to write. Trying really hard. The beauty of being freelance is that I can work from anywhere really, as long as there is a good WiFi connection and power. I can go anywhere.

So I decided to trundle off to Cornwall because I am lucky enough to be able to stay here free.. And it is beautiful. I am situated in a tiny village called Kingsand which is on the Cornwall / Devon border of the South West Coast path. I can walk for miles and miles with beautiful views over the coast and cliffs. I have already seen at least thirty butterflies since I have been here.

It's kind of my safe place. My place of firsts too, I've been coming here for 22 years. I saw my first brawl outside a pub, I also saw a stripper here when I was about ten; it was someones birthday in a pub and I stood on an outside table to see what was going on. I think I first got really drunk here when I was 15 too.

Shamed by Clutter

Even the word clutter makes me shiver with anxiety. Its onomatopoeic potency - at least to me - is such that I imagine myself being buried alive by piles of paperwork, old fancy dress costumes and chargers for unknown phones or laptops that I am just too scared to throw away.

The thing is - as you may realise - I actually don't like clutter, but for some reason in the last three years I have let the stuff accumulate. And in the last few months before I quit my job, it was so bad there were just some drawers I wouldn't dare open.

This past week, I have been spending a lot of "freelance time" sorting, throwing away, tidying, cleaning. I have discovered a cacophony of obscure objects that bring back memories, but crowd my space. Three Union Jack flags from the Jubilee, two fancy dress soldiers' hats, three sets of Christmas lights, mail belonging to housemates that lived with me three years ago, health drinks that went off in 2013. Parking tickets and solitary placemats, candles with no wick and calendars well past their dates. Numerous bits of electricals and nails and scraps of paper, crusty nail varnishes, men's scarves, a book on the Karma Sutra that I definitely didn't buy...

The thing is, I'm trying to clear my head - to clear my vision. Working from home and trying to write a novel as well as searching for commercial work, I need an inspiring environment. And all this chattering clutter is not helping. Objects remind you of times gone by, of feelings gone by, they shame me with the person I have been sometimes. I don't need them here... haunting me, taunting me. I'm detoxing my life... and most of it has got to go.

So that's why I haven't written for a while... I've been in the midst of clutter Cold Turkey and it's killed my voice for a bit. But I feel it's back, stronger and more sure of itself now. 12 steps of freedom.

xx

Search Party

 

Search Party

I think you're lost little darling,
Your soul has wandered off.
The blank stares,
No trivial cares,
Quiet and then the rage
That sits within you sometimes -
Ignore the rhymes.
What I'm trying to say is that I'm here,
To listen to your woes, dispel your imaginary foes.
There is something in you that calls out to me,
I just want to soothe you until you see
How fucking unique -
A fascinating freak
You are.
Because what you have done and achieved,
You helped others breathe
And created a space where people felt worthy.
To me, you are magic
Your story isn't tragic.
Stop making it so.
The most complicated, mixed-up minds in life
The ones that create and help the most
Are often left sobbing when they're not playing host,
But you can choose a different way.
Cliches say,
Live day-to-day.
Choose joy instead of self-flagellation;
Pass by that station.
Put your shoes on and step out today,
(No need to make hay)
Don't absorb the world's troubles.
Think about glitter and bubbles,
Feather boas and plasticine,
Other things that make one scream
With joy at the nonsensical silliness of it all.
And if that doesn't work my friend,
You can depend
On the many that love you.
Who would sit and count sheep
Or listen to music on repeat
Or talk and talk and talk and talk
Until the planes begin to fly again.
I am one of those my darling, you know it too.
I would spend my lifetime helping you find your soul.
I would paint pictures of joyful things,
Write you stories, buy you beautiful gifts.
I would stay up all night Googling happy news for you to read
Give a speech on your qualities, whether you agreed -
Or not.
Your magic, your kindness, that limitless smile.
Your souls is not lost,
It has only gone away for a while.

The Last Hurrah - Glastonbury Sunday

Apologies for the delay in this post. The thing is we left Our campsite at 5am on Monday morning after three and a half hours sleep and then I felt like I had jet lag all day Monday and Tuesday not much better. 

The final day was magical really. We started off with a subtle set from Hozier, his voice is OMFG. 

After that we spotted Alexa Chung and Pixie Geldof backstage smoking and a little while later, Caroline Flack who is beautiful and Polly Pocket sized. I almost bumped in to her when I came out of the loos she's is so small. Sorry I didn't take any photos but I was too busy trying to look unbothered behind my raybans. And yes for whoever is asking (my mates), Alexa was v v skinny and doll beautiful.

Freedom and Fainting - Glastonbury Saturday

I'm too tired to write much today. So essentially, I am just going to post a few of my shaky photos. Highlights yesterday were George Ezra and Pharrell. I nearly fainted during Kanye. I didn't but I felt faint and so we left half way through. I don't think it was his performance. I tried to spot Kim's bottom but I couldn't. 

Florence, Pete and Mark - Glastonbury Friday

Day 1 was everything I expected and nothing like I did. I don't know what I expected to be honest, but it was beautiful.

Our minibuses from the campsite dropped us at Gate 3 which was amazing because it meant we were able to walk straight in to the thick of it. 

We started in the theatre and circus field which provided muchos entertainment as there is basically every kind of act possible wondering around. It is almost assaulting. 

At Glasto with My Mother and I Have Green Hair...

I am at Glastonbury for the first time ever and my hair is GREEN at the ends. It was mean to be blue but obvs the dye did not react well with my dirty blonde ombré. Oh well, it will wash out, in the meantime I will be covering it with as much pink hairspray as I can deal with. 

I have been here for around fourteen hours so far and at the moment we have just been chilling on our campsite, enjoying several glasses of wine last night. We are on the Winding Lake campsite in a caravan because my love of hygiene is probably why I have never been to Glastonbury before. Glamping you see. 

Oh and I'm with my Mum and my sister which is pretty cool. I mean it is pretty cool that I have the kind of mother who I can do things like this with. In fact she is so much cooler than me as she has been coming for about ten years. 

On Going With Your Gut

Have you ever had that feeling in your stomach, an automatic reaction to a person, a situation, a problem, an idea - sometimes before you are even in the moment of making a decision on it? I'm not talking about the brain-led voice of your ego that constantly chatters away to you, I'm not comfortable, I won't succeed, this won't be good for me, I want people to like me therefore I'll avoid this....

My Salcombe

I have been going to Salcombe with one of my favourite family's in the world for 12 years, since I was 17. It is a ritual, a part of my summer and always, ALWAYS a good time... 

When we were in our teens and early twenties, me and my best friend shamelessly ogled the Salcombe Boat Hire boys with their bleached hair and sea tans, dying inside if they so much as looked our way. Days were spent in head-to-toe Jack Wills on the beach and buying underage ciders from the handsome barmen at The Ferry Inn. It is a teenager's playground in the summer, a chance to flirt and stay out late in one of the safest places you can be. Early mornings were spent in the local club - Fusion it used to be called - in nearby Kingsbridge where we danced to cheesy music and counted out our pounds for WKDs, before returning back to Salcombe on the coach at 3am.

Twelve years later and I still love it... Our collective group of early twenties - early thirties plus some of the older generation now tends to take up two properties and has entranced numerous newbies throughout the years. We also have a few routine activities which we partake in every year and places where we visit and as I've just come back from a weeks holiday, I thought I would do a post with a few tips. So here's my Salcombe guide... (please note this is not a guide for young kids as we don't happened to have had any of those yet - so if you do this may not be the guide for you...)

Little Scraps of Wisdom

Yesterday was Father's Day and I didn't see my father. I had just got back from a week's holiday in Devon and he was away. I texted him late in the evening, but I haven't given him a card or present. I struggle every year on both Mother's Day and Father's Day with buying gifts, because how do you really say thank you for a lifetime... or even for a year. How is there only one day to express gratitude for everything they have given you.

Last year on his birthday I wrote a piece on Things My Father Has Taught Me (So Far), something I recycled and added to in a speech I gave at his recent 60th birthday party. This Father's Day, I was at a loss as to what I could write to explain how grateful I am, then I came across this quote online... 

“I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren't trying to teach us. We are formed by little scraps of wisdom.”

― Umberto Eco, Foucault's Pendulum

It has inspired me to try to write a poem on these little scraps... so here it is... and Happy Father's Day, Daddy - a day late - I know...

Little Scraps of Wisdom

Safety is the best feeling you can give someone, safety and calm;

When I had nightmares you took me under your arm.

And now when I speak to others, I try to help them feel as secure

In the moment, the conversation, in themselves.

For fear disarms us.

Little gestures of kindness that I never acknowledged at the time

Punctuated my days with you. 

And now I try to be generous everyday too.

You never let me win any game, even aged five

And debated with me even then.

Now I'm a fighter.

Our conversations went on for hours, still do.

So if you didn't have time to finish it, you wouldn't start it.

A lesson I'm still learning.

You were proud of me when I did well, but not sycophantic;

You knew what I was capable of, even as young as I once was.

I loved to hear tales about your travels about all the people around the world,

That you'd met, that you'd spoken to.

You made me dream of travelling far and wide across the earth.

And you never thought you were better, so neither did I.

Despite the privileges afforded to me.

Bad language wasn't clever you said, it's an easy way out.

You have so much at your disposal, no need to sound like a lout.

There's never an easy way to achieve something great.

Whether money or success or respect, you have to graft.

You did graft.

Making the effort with family often seemed like a chore to me.

You respected the bonds of history.

And I loved having all those people around,

And I love to love.

You always have opinions on everything, with fire in your eyes.

Yet you told me of how you were dyslexic and shy.

I never saw it when I was young;

Except when you asked me to spell things.

To me you seemed like a lion, loved by all.

Yet you never made me feel small.

*******

Apologies for the lack of posts. I have fallen of the waggon in my #100DaysofWriting. Getting back on it now...

 

I Mean... Writer's Block

 

Is it writers block or is it laziness, this feeling that overwhelms my fingertips. They buzz like they want to work, but they're disconnected from my brain which seems to have nothing.

Nothing.

Life is full of wonders it really is. I know that. My eyes say that. Meditation class, yoga, books, nature has taught me that. Life is FULL. Yet, when I want to buzz with the wonder and my hands are ready, my brain is reluctant; like a petulant teen, it says "No, not today. Today we have nothing for you. We're just going to lie here and muse about what we want to eat later..."

Is it laziness though? Or is it self-esteem? Something is telling me that however much my finger tips buzz and I write... it will not be good enough, maybe that's why I stop.

Or maybe it will be good enough and that is what I am frightened of. 

Who knows?

Are you good enough at your job?

If you are a writer do you write enough?

The other thing is the mood... I am trying to write a sad scene but my brain is elated, full of happiness, full of life... it can't write the solemness for this passage... or it is scared of it...

Or the opposite.

Which is worse...

I am melancholic.

How can I write anything but sadness, depression, anxiety... how?

But a good writer - (says my ego) - a good writer could write all the time, anything they are - or they are not - feeling...

"NO", argues my soul, "no", it's better when you are soothed. Are you soothed?

Go to bed, talk, laugh; soothe your soul darling...

Your writers block is not laziness, it is you fighting yourself darling, that is what it is.

You are not listening....

Listen, please.

It will get easier if you do...

#The100DayProject, #100DaysofWriting, Day 21

Four Weddings and Added Instagram Hashtags

When I watched Four Weddings and a Funeral as a young teenager, I yearned for the time of weddings, for country houses and London receptions and all best friends having LOLs over champagne. I couldn’t wait for the romance and the Mini Coopers and the hats. Now I have officially entered wedding life season, here are a few observations that I would like to make about how my childhood dream has been destroyed...: 

1) They do not warn you about the money. I know everyone complains about this... but FFS. 

Starting with 

A) The Hen/Stag Do: It is in the South of France with MOH e-mailing everyone “Hi Guys! Please all transfer me £500.00 all-in for Buttercup’s hen. Also please all prepare a stand-up comedy routine / original song / handmade quilt for Buttercup as a gift. Will be such LOLS. Also send me stories about Buttercup.” – I don’t know any fucking stories she’s an old work colleague that I didn’t much like. My only stories about her revolve around her lunch choices and the occasional time she’d get pissed on a work night out and flirt with the intern.

Things Left Unsaid to a Lover 1: I Wish You Were More Intelligent

I wrote this as a a monologue response to a playwriting workshop I did today. We were asked to write down as many "things left unsaid to a lover" in a minute and then we picked one to write something on in ten mins. Mine was, I Wish You Were More Intelligent... Maybe you'll see a version of it or the sentiment as part of a play one day.

I'm tempted to turn it into a series... There are many things in life left unsaid to lovers...

"I used to find it endearing the way that you are. That you laugh at everything, that you'll do anything your mates tell you in the pub. Just for the hell of it. I used to watch and think, there's my puppy. Now I think you're like the court's fool.

I watched you throw up, you were so pissed the other day because you downed 10 jäger bombs cos someone asked you to. It wasn't even like you lost a bet. And then you didn't sleep all night because obviously... And I didn't sleep because you didn't and there you were vomit-scented and caffeine-fitting beside me..

I think your friends take advantage of you. 

I wish that you would talk to me about REAL THINGS, you know like art, literature, politics, the news. I don't think we can survive on sex and mutual pisshead friends anymore, I just don't.

You said you've only read one book since school.

I don't think it's bad that I want more. I don't. I'm not an intellect snob. You're so kind and you make me feel safe and you are so beautiful... But it's not enough for me.

I just wish you were more intelligent..."

Dedicated to the Ones Who Know Us Best

If you've got them you know, you know who they are. Without question. They're the ones that sense when something's wrong and call even if they're 100 miles away. Who let you borrow their shoes, even if you stretch them. They send you links of stuff they'd think you'd like and buy you silly cheap presents that are memories of a long-forgotten holiday. They think you're sparkling, so much so that you wonder where you'll find a lover who will reflect back such a magnificent picture. They know your drink order.

They'll talk to you about the same problem you've had for ten years with patience, but they'll call you on your bullshit too. You can spend hours with them in silence, and their parents have your mobile number. They'd happily invite you along on their date nights and vice versa.

You've enjoyed many a kitchen disco.

If you called them at 3am and they picked up, you know they'd help you with whatever you needed. They remember what you were like at 14, 16, 18, 21 and know that you still carry some of that uncomfortable adolescent in you, beneath the banter and blow dry.

They know your type from a mile off and steer you away if he's ill-advised.

If they wanted to they could say things that would pierce your deepest insecurities. But they never would, even during the most heated row.

You've laughed with them for thousands of hours of your life.

Travelled across the globe with them.

Know where the chocolate is kept at their parents house.

Sometimes when you're wtith them you feel s heated glow that tickles your spine, like you've drunk a bottle of wine. It's comfort and giggles and overwhelming emotion all at the same time.

Sometimes you want to smack them or tell them, to shut. the fuck. up. And you let them know. Sometimes you miss not seeing them EVERY SINGLE DAY, like at school.

The best foundations of your adult self.

Baribà, Battersea

In my quest for seeking joy and fabulous London spots and being a freelancer who works on-the-go, I am always looking out for places that have great food, staff, coffee and free Wi-Fi... Today, I thought I would recommend somewhere that is pretty local to me, Baribà, 571 Battersea Park Road.

Open Tuesday - Sunday from 7am-7.30pm, it is run by warm, friendly and knowledgeable staff, who will happily point out the specialities of the day. They serve delicious sharing platters, for example Italian Deli cheese and Italian Deli Cold Cuts (£9.00 and £12.00 respectively), they will make you pretty much any Panini or Foccacia option that you can think of and their coffee is some of the best I have tasted in London.

They also make great hot dishes including lasagna and vegan options! They make their own olive oil which is so delicious that I had to buy a bottle for home.

They also have a good wine list for that cheeky glass on an afternoon.

Find their full menu here, but please note, it changes daily according to the best ingredients they can find. Based on dishes and cooking methods from the Puglia region of Italy, as they explain, it is "a home-based cuisine based on home cooking, traditionally created by women cooking at home rather than chefs in professional kitchens. It is a cuisine without rules and regulations, based solely on what’s in the family larder, which is then stretched and expanded to feed those who may show up all’improvviso, at the unplanned last minute.".

Go along and try it, if you are in the area. 

Additionally, they have fabulous Wi-Fi and I once stayed there with my laptop for hours with only a large Americano and they were quite happy to let me get on. Plus lots of Italians came in, whilst I was there.. always a good sign.

PS: You must try their Burratina, it is heaven-food.

Baribà Italian Deli

571 Battersea Park Road, SW11 3BJ

02072230328

www.bariba.co.uk 

Thoughts Too Much

Thoughts Too Much

Thoughts, thoughts all the time, inescapable...

Locked inside, but so loud.

Thinking not sleeping, sleeping while walking,

So loud.

People don’t see, don’t know, don’t ask.

Externally calm and poised.

The chic woman on the tube with the slightly red hands.

The house on the hill, the door never opened.

Boxes and boxes of stuff, endless phone calls.

Rituals that become your life,

So, so loud.

Nonsensical, but it doesn’t stop you, does it.

Disney films and sleeping pills and late night conversations,

Might placate them for a while.

Self-medicating stills them for a while, but is inadvisable,

They return louder and more detailed than before.

Fighting them every way they come, vehemently fighting them.

But this doesn’t help in the end.

In the end, you just have to let them go...

Don’t fight anymore and the volume turns down.

Until you learn to mute them.

#The100DayProject, #100DaysofWriting, Day 16

What Books Made You?

Yesterday, I went to Bailey's Women's Prize For Fiction and Grazia present #ThisBookClub Live, a panel discussion by five notable women and readers on the two books that they believe had the most influence on their careers and lives and shaped them to be who they are today. The discussion was part of a week's celebration of reading and authors in the run-up to the announcement of the winner of the Women's Prize for Fiction on Wednesday.

Chaired by renowned author, Kate Mosse, the panel was made up of columnist and author, Grace Dent; Shami Chakrabarti, Director of Liberty and chair of the 2015 Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction judges; Polly Vernon, Grazia columnist and author of Hot Feminist; Aminatta Forna, award-winning author and Jane Shepherdson Chief Executive of Whistles.

The discussion was lively, the women were intelligent, insightful and a joy to listen to; I was especially spellbound by Aminatta Forna who I must admit I had never read and who has the most mellifluous voice that I ever did hear and smart, lucid opions (must buy her book). Grace Dent is delightfully witty as you would expect from her columns and Polly Vernon is part-girly, part fierce-honesty. Shami Chakrabarti I love, I have heard talk before and she must be one of the wittiest lawyers that has lived... (sorry cheap lawyer joke there). Jane Shepherson, an incredibly impressive business woman came across warm and bright. Kate Mosse, was just well, the narrator/chair that charmed us all, as she does in her books.

Of the two books they chose each, I had read four of ten, the rest are on my reading list now... I will list these at the bottom.

However, what the discussion really left me with, was what books had affected me in the same way? What literature had shaped my life in some way.... obviously there are numerous, but as 60% of these were wiped out of their stipulations, due to the fact that they were written by men, I at least could cut my list a little shorter. Here, after some soul-searching, are my two...

1) Frankenstein, Mary Shelley

Frankenstein was one of the books I chose to write my dissertation on; a ten-thousand word rambling on motherhood, taking in the novels of Mary Wollstonecraft and her daughter, Mary Shelley, as well as Wollstonecraft's pioneering text, A Vindication of the Rights of Women. My dissertation, was not as good as it should of been, crafted in my third year at university where I was a little lost in a spiral of slight depression and - as I now recognise - quite bad OCD.

However, Frankenstein sung out to me when I read it... Billed as a horror story, I thought I would not like it, but in fact, I loved every part of it. The creature's narrative especially, which is written in the most beautiful language thrilled me to the core. Shelley is so gifted in telling the story, but she also teaches through it. She teaches about the danger of unnatural creation, the danger of leaving women by the way-side, the story of nature vs nurture. To me Frankenstein, is a story about a lost child and Shelley herself had an absent mother - dead as she was. With all the impressive themes that the novel delivers, what I most gained from it at the time, I think, was the beauty of language, of description and of narrative. The narratives of the three main protagonists of the novel are all written so differently. She is a wonder storyteller is Shelley.

2) Harry Potter series JK Rowling

Ok, I ummed an ahhed about this second choice, there are novels by Toni Morrison, Sylvia Plath, Margaret Atwood and Alice Walker which all shaped my "womanhood" and how I grew up, how I learnt about feminism and how I learnt about myself. But if we are really looking at books that glare out at me through the years, that I remember and reread. It is this series. From the first book, published when I was 11 to the last which I read proudly at 21, there was ten years of growing up, of fighting with my sister about who got to read the family copy first, of learning. I aged with Harry and Hermione (kick-ass female if ever there was one) and the rest.

There are two main points that I still take from these books, even as I read them now. Firstly Rowling inspires me as a writer because of her ability to tell stories, she is a great story teller, telling tales that span years with multiple characters and plot lines... I envy this and I praise that it can be done so well. 

Secondly, it is the magic. I have always loved the idea of magic existing alongside the humdrum of day-to-day life. Those are the best stories, to me. And at times when I felt adolescent and misunderstood and later when I felt sad and I didn't know why, these stories took me to a world that I wanted to believe was true. Now, older and not wiser and as I still attempt life and still make plenty of mistakes, I like to believe and live in the magic of everyday. And when I read Rowling, she still helps me to remember this.

So tell me please... what books made you who you are?

Books chosen by the panel:

Grace Dent: 

The Pursuit of Love - Nancy Mitford

Station Eleven - Emily St. John Mandel

Shami Chakrabarti

To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee

The Biography of Eleanor Marx - Rachel Holmes

Jane Shepherdson

The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath

Union Street - Pat Barker

Aminatta Forna

The  Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood

All God's Children Need Travelling Shoes - Maya Angelou

Polly Vernon

Lace - Shelley Conran

The Signature of All Things - Elizabeth Gilbert

All available in good book shops and online.

#The100DayProject, #100DaysofWriting, Day 15

On Courage

Another poem today. 

Courage 

"Have courage, my dear. Have courage, be brave;"

Words that slip into our psyches from childhood.

Through Disney films and fairytales

And scraped knees in the playground.

"Be brave, be a big girl for me, won’t you."

Fear, fear of the dark

And of monsters under the bed, or in our head.

Scared of characters from books

And dirty looks

From the coolest girl at school.

My sister hated dogs, I ran from clowns.

Still avoid the circus.

I am a big girl now, not scraped my knee in years.

But I’m less brave than I ever was, I think.

Scared of failure, rejection, not knowing what I want.

I run from confrontation, from an altercation.

From dates.

I am scared to feel awkward.

I’d say,

I don’t think I’m brave in any way.

Courage is a word I long for, a lion’s heart.

It’s easier for me to write my deepest thoughts online

Than it is to ask for what I want from someone.

Still scared of the dark and the monsters in my head.

Though unless you live where you fight daily for basic human rights,

Where your fears are hunger, violence, lack of freedom,

Unless you live this.

Unless your life is an extreme obstacle race.

Then facing ourselves is the biggest fear we ever face.

Have courage, my dear. Have courage, be brave;

Walk into the dark and see what’s there,

And love it.

That’s courage.

#The100DayProject, #100Daysof Writing, Day 14