back up blog

“But you know I could never date you seriously, don’t you?” he said. I lifted my head from his bare chest.  “ Really ?”  I arched an eyebrow in an attempt to be playful. I thought he was kidding. “I mean, you’re fun and all, but…” I sat upright, slowly pulling my thighs to my breasts. Protection against nakedness in nakedness. “Wait- are you serious?”  I pulled at my hair to cover my shoulders, understanding, suddenly, that he was absolutely serious.  He tickled the small of my back with his fingertips gently, tenderly, betraying the mortifying sentiment of what he was saying.  “Well,” he said, perfectly seriously, “You’re not exactly the type I could introduce to my mum. You’re trying to sell a sex memoir .” When you’ve just woken up with a man, that’s probably about as humiliating a thing you could ever not want to hear. I was being told, I think, that because of my perceived sexual history, I was not worth this guy's time outside of the bedroom. It was so degrading that I couldn

“And what’s the purpose of your visit to the United States, M’am?”  The question came from a handsome thirtysomething man in official uniform as I handed him my passport to enter America last week. “I’ve come to tell a boy that I love him,” I replied. The Passport Control Man looked up. “What, M’am?” I smiled.  “I said I’ve come to tell a boy that I love him.” There. I've said it. I’VE TOLD YOU ALL. I WENT TO NEW YORK TO TELL A BOY THAT I LOVE HIM. I should have done it when I had chance . Tell him, I mean. Not you. I should’ve done it when he stood opposite me after a summer of making memories and shaping the landscape of one another’s lives. But we’d never kissed, never held hands, just…  learnt from each other. So I told myself it wasn’t romantic. Then I realised that actually, it was. But I also knew that I couldn’t tell him . I was celibate . He was American. I was older. He was seeing somebody. The Atlantic Ocean is really big. Etc. None of it made sense; logisticall

Did I blog from New York ? Nope. Have I blogged since I got back from New York? Nope. Internet, it's just taking me a while to put the stories into actual words. I'm still processing the most... interesting? Transformative? Drunkard?  week of my travelling life; I need a minute to figure out which way is up again, to figure out what exactly happened to me, to marvel at how sometimes, it all changes and not only is that what you wanted, it's what you needed. Also, I had to detox. Want to say something about this post? Talk to me!  Twitter .  Facebook .   Email .  Instagram .   Bloglovin ' .

Discovered on an aimless wander down the famous Brick Lane . I wanna go down that road, I thought to myself. The road to Hope Town.  Want to say something about this post? Talk to me!  Twitter .  Facebook .   Email .  Instagram .   Bloglovin ' .

I’ve had the weirdest weekend. No. Wait. What I mean is… I’m having the weirdest life . I’m having the weirdest life where it feels like everything is moving just too . Goddamn . Fast . I’ve been in London ten minutes, and apparently already have a gorgeous home , a job , and beautiful, engaging people around me who say encouraging words when I do incredibly silly things like, ohIdon’tknow, SPEND MY LAST DIME ON A PLANE TICKET TO NEW YORK. Yup. That happened. Oh, Internet. It might have all started with that open lust letter , which makes me cringe to think about because I am not fourteen years old, and yet it seems the only way I deal with my feeeeeeelings is to write about them on the Internet. How embarrassing. See also: this stream of consciousness too. The reason I wrote that letter is because the weekend previously I’d met Roman friends for brunch . They were in town, and so we made like it was this time last year and settled down for gossip, and food, and drink. I couldn’t bel

Darby & Joan  are the quintessential middle-aged British couple, characterised by knitwear, hours of scrabble, and a penchant for staying in on Saturday nights. Darby and Joan are, in fact,  @calummcswiggan  and me.  Dear Darby, I feel proper well naughty writing you a Darby and Joan letter- designed as they are to tell you I miss you- when only two days ago we drank tea on my sofa together, being all in the same place at the same time and laying on my living room floor and playing Halloween dress up with disastrous results . Actually: details. I drank tea on my sofa. You probably had some sort of hot Vimto monstrosity, because you have terrible taste. A bit like how in the crisps shop you never get Paprika Max Ridged crisps, or Red Sky Cream Cheese ones. You get fucking pork flavoured Wheeties for 20p and then chew too loudly, and every single time I am forced to comment out loud in my whiny voice that those * would * be your choice, wouldn’t they? URGH. Out of all the cr