back up blog

It all started with a coat. I got off the underground in a part of town I didn’t know very well (I don’t know any part of town very well). It was about 5.30 in the afternoon, already dark out because it’s January, and cold, too. Really cold. Cold because… it’s January. I scrambled in my bag for my Oyster card, sliding out of the way of people getting impatient behind me. They side-stepped in Commuter Dance around my shoulders and I said sorry and dropped a glove. Then I interrupted the flow of people again because I bumped into the arse of a man when I went to pick it up. I found my Oyster card and joined the troupe to exit stage left, but I wasn’t as practised as everybody else playing the game. I swiped myself through the exit barriers, looking up for the first time since getting off the train. Busybusybusy . Look at the ground, count the steps, don’t hold people up. Be somewhere fast. This is London. I glanced up, and saw the masses of people in a line, waiting to enter the stati

I have a friend who told me that when she moved to London it was as if she’d recognised that even though the city would break her heart, she didn’t care- she went home with it on the first date and let it cum on her face. No. Wait. That’s not right. That’s not what she said. She said she just…  knew . Knew that if she let it, London would definitely show her a good time , probably change her in ways she couldn’t yet put her figure on, and most certainly leave her for somebody thinner in the end? I don’t think I was listening properly when she tried to explain this. BUT. But, but, but, despite the fact I just screwed that extended metaphor up, I HAVE A POINT. I’ve been doing it wrong . The clouds of worry have parted, the dismal rainy insides of my over-think-y mind have cleared, and the first rays of spring sunshine are peaking through into my psyche to suddenly make me say,  well fuck. I think I’m gonna let London moisturise my face, too! (I wish I were more sorry about the

So here’s the thing about living in a city the size of London: men. The sheer number of males in this city is staggering. It’s a veritable playground for the single girl. And particularly my type of men: unconventional. Artistic. Knows how to put up a shelf. Men in a place of this size come in every ethnicity (part-Indian would be nice), pay bracket (don’t be defined by it, please), lifestyle (must like museums), age ( ten years plus on me , if I could choose) and hand span (bigger is better. Obviously). Overlooking the fact that self-enforced celibacy whilst living in Rome was not dissimilar to choosing the vegetarian option at BBQ Steak and Ribs i.e. you don’t really go there for that, I’m generally pretty good at being single. It’s impossible to take it all seriously, I think, and that’s why I subscribe to the school of thought that says instead of searching out your dream man, simply focus on being your own dream girl and treating everything else like the little amaretti biscuit t

Sometimes the lining to my womb grows and grows over the course of four or five weeks, until the point at which my insides are so ready for a something to protect and nurture and gestate that I end up birthing EVERY FEELING THAT I’VE EVER HAD ALL IN ONE BIG GO KJWEBFJKWFBDJKSBVDJKSBV. See: occasionally calling Mama Jane to say Mama, I’m so happy that I’m almost coming full circle into feeling sad about it- I’m sad I won’t feel this happy forever. Or, the equally mentally unhinged but still occasionally occurring polar opposite: I’m so sad right now that I think I should just end it all except first I want to eat this piece of cheese and this cupcake and a bit of this bread as well and oh. Maybe I’ve just got low blood sugar. Never mind. Basically, what happened right after I wrote the post that went live Monday is that: 1. I came off the juice cleanse that saw me not eat solid food for 3 whole days. 2. I said sod it, and flew to Paris to alleviate my apparent wanderlust. 3. I go

People tell me that I’m brave. I know that sounds like a wanky thing to say, but it’s true. And I get off on it. I find my identity in being the one who always says yes . I love being the girl who means it when she says it, and says it only because she means it. I believe in action as much as I do words, and that standing still is falling over. Don’t mention that around Laura, they say, she’ll hold you to it… I can be a bit of a liability that way. Come on, let’s just fucking DO IT. Responsibility cast to the wayside in favour of living a story. Consequences are for tomorrow, and tomorrow is whatever we make it. Take a chance today. It’s my version of living on purpose , of finding the adventure. I’ll get on the plane or take the job or demand exactly what it is I want in that moment, even if I might not want it the next. Nownownow. Gimme. A constant high, and not entirely dissimilar to how I imagine life to be in a musical. Because why can’t life be a musical? (Don’t answer that.) Ask