back up blog

I’m a culture bully. If there’s something in my life that’s touched me, or made me laugh, something that’s forced me to think or change or puts into words the whatsitmabob I’ve always cloudily considered but couldn’t verbalise myself, then I will peer-pressure the fuck out of you until you love it too. See: the Lean In movement , Brixton Market on a Sunday, Marina Abramović , Whitney Houston's everything , power ballad club nights , extended critical analysis of GIRLS and butter . It’s an isolating trait. At school we once went on a class trip to see a performance of Electra and guys. The set! The production! The layers that unfurled themselves to you if only you paid attention! THAT GUY WHO PLAYED THE BROTHER! It truly rocked my world, and I needed to talk about it. But the day after the trip nobody had anything to say. It was largely the teacher and me who dissected the magic in class feedback. At the lesson’s end I picked up a crumpled piece of paper on the desk beside mine

And then you have to like, be nice to people and that. To your buddy, he said. To your buddy? I said. Yeah. Everyone has a special buddy in class who they have to be nice to, otherwise nobody would be nice to each other ever. But as soon as you are nice to somebody they say YOU’RE MY SECRET BUDDY AREN’T YOU? And then you get in trouble because it’s supposed to be a surprise at the end of the year. But it’s stupid because like, it’s not as if everyone in the world is nice to each other, like you’re on your phone at the bus stop and then hang up to turn around to everyone to say, Oh, hello. Hello! Hello. It’s just not even like, realistic. I said, I like being nice . It makes me feel good. Doesn’t it make you feel good? Of course it makes me feel good, he said.   * ‘What did you do at school today?’ ‘I had a violin lesson.’ ‘Oh yeah? And how was that?’ ‘Okay.’ ‘Just okay?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Are you good at the violin?’ ‘I’m alright.’ ‘I don’t believe you.’ ‘It’s true. I’ve been playing a long tim

So the thing I don’t understand about dating is this: I don’t understand why it is so much of a rush . Girl meets boy. Boy suggests a drink. Girl says okay. Boy and girl sit opposite each other for the duration of a beverage and have to decide if they are going to kiss by the time they finish it. GO. Scenario one: girl thinks nope. Don’t want to kiss him. Boy thinks she is not interested. The story ends as soon as the Guinness does. Scenario two: girl thinks okay. I’d quite like to kiss him. Boy understands she is interested. The next date, date number two, doesn’t only end with kissing, then, but starts with it too, in order to establish that this is definitely romantic intention. The kissing , at some point, be it on date two or three or four, leads to rumpy pumpy , because sex is fun, especially when the other person makes you laugh. Except, then the sex becomes sleeping over, because it’s just easier that way, and normally in those heady early stages it becomes sleeping over a lot

On Friday night I went out with one of my oldest friends in the whole universe. I’ve known her since I was 14, back when I was blonde, and she was the boys’ favourite. We bonded over singing Nina Simone during P.E. lessons as we let somebody else go up to bat because NO, NO, NO! MISSISSIPPI GODDAMN - LET’S HARMONISE THAT ONE! She is passionate and beautiful and fun. I met her off the train and couldn’t believe how stunning my friend looked, walking through Kings Cross like a pint-sized supermodel, full of so much life, so much love, and how, after eighteen months without seeing each other, it was as if we’d just done lunch together yesterday. She told me I looked like a grown up. I told her she looked like someone off the telly. We laughed, and linked arms, and the crowds parted through sheer force of friendship as we started twelve different stories and didn’t finish any of them, battling to the front of the taxi cue with suitcases and bags and witty banter that sparkled with memori