The Last time I saw Dick

The last time I spoke to my husband was a year ago, he contacted me- first time since the separation hearing- because he got a letter informing him that he had to pay property tax on our flat, and it wasn’t fair. As I read his name, there was a flood of emotion. Not hatred, not hatred. Just the memory of when his name went with mine, when we were tied up together. His name, his name, the name I was forced to sign after my own on the act of sale when we bought the apartment, even though I didn’t take his stupid name because I didn’t want to, and I already had my own double barrelled name anyway. But they were all men around the table.

There was the ancient white haired notary, impeccable, ivory hands like a pope’s, latest in a long line of king’s lackeys, Oh the money that man skims off the top. The cream of my life’s earnings. Then my father, shaking hands and knocking his fist on the table, asking if it’s mahogany, one piece? What a table. One solid piece of wood. One of these for the office, eh? Waggling his eyebrows at me. So alien to us, the legal, the formal world. He’s a businessman, there’s a certain amount of respect for him even though he’s scruffy and unconventional with bitten cuticles and a battered leather briefcase. Me, dressed up nice, makeup, well groomed for an Irish woman but not quite up to Italian standards. I was just a little girl to them, playing house, peering over the shoulders of the men. And there we were, my dad, my Papi, who was getting more estranged from me every day, and my husband, and then the owner, a weasly man waving his hand sickly to indicate all the properties he owned, who regarded our odd little family with some disgust. Foreigners, and an Italian who didn’t drive or dress in the style he could clearly afford to. Those men, they just looked at me blankly as I said I didn’t want to sign his name after mine on all the documents.

Why should I?  I elected not to take his name when we married. Isn’t a signature something important, something expressive? How could I SIGN a name that isn’t mine? They just looked at me and said “that’s how we do things in Italy.” I said no, it’s not my name. There were so many pages in that document, each to be signed. Each page. And it wasn’t my name. But my dad said this isn’t Ireland, this is how it goes here. I bristled. The little notary added, trying to help, trying to move it all along, because his time was more money than I could imagine, he said “it’s so we know who you are, who the document is talking about.” Without my husband’s name at the end, presumably, I could have been anyone, anyone. I wonder if an unmarried couple buys a house, how the hell anyone knows whose name that is, with the female name, the name unattached to any man mentioned. Who is she, if not someone’s wife?

But this feminist blather, I couldn’t even begin to verbalise. I was outnumbered, and making too much of it, so I swallowed the bile and gracelessly signed around 80 times, 80 times, like I’d been a bad girl, 80 times to drill it into me, Abby Natascha Di Gianni Flicker in Garcia Ramirez, over and over as the men watched until I had hot tears stinging my eyes, and I fell into a place where the words had a beat, and it drummed through my fingers, Abby Natascha Di Gianni Flicker in Garcia Ramirez, again and again and again and my fingers cramped and seized up, it wasn’t fair, nothing was fair, I was buying a lousy little apartment that needed work, and I was the only one of us with any money at all, and I was putting my every penny into the notary fees, to pay the little man, and the estate agent fees, so Graziella could have her Jimmy Choos, the odious woman, almost deformed by her sense of style. Blue mascara and perma tan and frosted lips, and everything so bright and lifted, a sad caricature of youth.

All my money, my grandparents’ generous gift to me, into this apartment with this man, and I loved him still then, but then I know that I had learnt to love alongside hate, too. Stubbornly, because I didn’t want to let go of love wherever I found it, it was too intoxicating. And I sort of always hated him, from the beginning, when he was awful and cruel and used me. And made me feel stupid, or invalid, or like a silly woman, when I was so much cleverer than him. Perhaps that was why he did it.

So I handed over the money, all those thousands, I never saw money like that before or since, and the notary thanked me but it was nothing to him. It was just some kids playing house, plankton, and he had such big fish. But it was all the money I ever had. And then three years later, a year ago, maybe, he emails me, this man whose name I signed with mine, his name brings me back to that table made from one piece of mahogany and impregnated with the metallics of sweat and money. And after his name, after I let myself float off into venomous memory, it subsides, and I can read the message.

We haven’t spoken in so long, it’s surreal to converse with him. Scary, because for so long he’s inhabited a world that’s unchangeable, fixed- that is, the past, but now he’s writing to me and I remember how volatile and poisonous he became, so I’m very aware that this exchange now is not fixed, this is all being written as I write, as I choose my reply. Choose carefully. He holds some power still, to fuck with my life. So I read and reread, and think before I type. He says they’re asking him for property tax, but it’s not fair, because he doesn’t even live in the apartment, so why should he pay? Oh, fair. That word. What is fair? Who teaches us the word, even? What use does it have? The last time you could judge a thing to be fair, I believe it was a birthday party and somebody was cutting the cake with Pythagoras theorems and a spirit level. I point my index finger at the computer screen and its neighbours squeeze tight into a fist. It’s a strange gesture, I’ve never made it before. But I must be physical, or I’ll burst something in my head. My jaw is clenched too.

Oh you you you… Not fair. Not fair to leave me with the whole mortgage, and all those old bills, and never pay, knowing if you don’t I will, and if I don’t, my father has to, because he’s our guarantor. And all the money I put in, and all the money my dad put in, and then you say it’s not fair I get to live in the apartment.

When I told my lawyer, the bitch with the sexless frame stamped in Versace, when I told her he moved out, and never paid me another cent, she told me firmly, you’re a fool. she didn’t think much of my dad or I. She was polite to him, and talked to me like I hadn’t just got married too young, but more like I’d come over from Estonia and given my passport and money to a man in a van who claimed he was a modelling agent. She glared at me as I spoke, her jaw sharp enough to castrate, and I never knew if I was giving her too much information or too little, but she thought I was a damned fool for not trying to get anything from him when we split, and not just that, but to lose money too.

I asked her if I could sue him for the money he owed me, but she said no, there was no point, it would cost more to sue than I’d get back. And he could just skip the country anyway. That wasn’t fair. Debt is an awful thing, it hangs around your neck like a bag of rocks, and it hurts because it’s heavy but also you remember when you picked up those rocks, and you remember that you made that choice for yourself, back then, and you didn’t care it would hurt now because it was good then. It was hard to be stuck in Italy for a year on my own, with a separation, having lost my closest ally in the country, and custody of all our friends, and with my little sisters wanting to cheer me up but lacking the tools, because they were too young. And with that debt, but it was worse still because it wasn’t my debt, and I hadn’t picked up the rocks.

They were his, him, the man with the name, the name they slapped on me, and he left when he wanted, he moved on as soon as he was ready, he met a new girl, kept the visa from our marriage, met his new girl. An Italian. She’s older than me, less attractive, simpler looking. The kind of girl a man would go crazy to love, because she’d make him happy. Not me. I don’t make men happy. I drag them down, and up, and down again. I’m sweet sometimes but then maybe too sweet, and then I’m all claws and pathos and I need, need need. And I’m not sure of anything but I’m passionate about it all, passionately optimistic, but nihilistic, and obsessive and compulsive and impulsive and lazy and hopeless and full of scorn. A woman like that, all simplicity, grounded, real; god, I’ve looked down on that kind of wman but she could make a man happy.

I don’t feel jealous, no, he’s a stranger now, I look at his face and I don’t even know if I remember anything about him, anything I used to know, his secrets, his face, the lines… Oh yes, but there were lines under his eyes, in a sort of network, I remember looking at them, scrutinising his face and thinking he’s older than me, he’ll die first, and I’ll be so lonely without him. But that was another face, and another version of me. there isn’t a grain left of the girl who loved him or cared if he lived or died. I’m not jealous, not of that petty, greedy, mean bully. I’m not jealous. It just feels sad, sometimes, that the people who aren’t good enough for me, supposedly, well, they’re much more capable of finding happiness. Simplicity, and perhaps humility. I find it harder now,because I want so much, and I start to wonder if all my self satisfaction isn’t just self soothing, and maybe i don’t have anything to offer a man after all.

Maybe I’m just young, and men are attracted to me, and I’m intelligent, so I tell myself I’m this full package, this wonderful woman, too good for most I meet. But I’m lonely, now, sometimes. Not in my own thoughts. It’s the physical space, it starts to feel like time for me to move on, onto someone, try it again, more sensible this time, less of a fool, or a different kind of fool. I’m not jealous he moved on, I’m just sad that he’s better at it than I am, that I’m the one still recalling these moments with anger because he’s the last person to share my life, and I haven’t found someone to fill that space since, not really. And tonight, he wrote to me again, a year since we last exchanged some curt, emotionless words, and tonight he asks not for money, but for information. When are we getting divorced? When can we apply? Can we already? Are we good to go?

It occurs to me, he wants to marry his girlfriend. I tell him October. We’ll need a lawyer. A lady told me we could share one, if it’s amicable. I snorted.

Amicable, like our marriage. He never hit me.

He never hit me. But I took a fucking pummelling.

Tonight I tell him October, and I’m about to say we need a lawyer, but I choose not to. I don’t need to enter a discussion with him now. I can’t bear to let him back into my reality. He’s boxed up, fixed, sealed, he stays the same, in the past. If I engage with him now, I can’t… it’s all old. It’s all been pored over, I’ve woven all my own justifications around the past, processed everything, and now I’m firmly in the right, and I didn’t hurt him, no, he deserved it. And anyway I was hurt too.  And he got a visa, and I got his debt. So it’s all set in stone, and let it rest. Please.

But sooner or later i’ll have to not just engage, but speak face to face with him.

With husband. Dick.

The last time I saw Dick was Italy, two years ago, and I had lost weight and given up smoking and I felt so good and happy to be casting off the things that held me, that saddened me. I wore a blue dress I’d bought before our wedding, that I’d considered getting married in but it was a bit tight and then it got too tight altogether as I put on weight.

I had never worn it before, and he didn’t know it was nearly my wedding dress. But I knew, and it gave me a secret power. I wore it confidently, looking great, looking much better than I looked on my wedding day. I felt better. I felt free, or closer to it than ever. In the pit of my stomach was a little twisted piece of pleasure, because I was wearing a dress I couldn’t wear while we were together, and now I was better, a better version of myself without him. We met outside and walked in, the Palazzo di giustizia, big awful hideous eyesore, reminds me always of the Ministries in 1984. Minitru, Miniluv… We walked past staircase A, B, C… it’s a huge complex. A path runs all around, and it takes ages. Lawyers everywhere. The invisible strings of money and power whipping past as heels clicked neatly. Ball stomping heels.

We made small talk. Waited outside the courtroom, finally were ushered in. An old man, a beautiful old man with crinkled eyes and an appropriately gentle smile for us,  in a little room. He was the judge, apparently. I expected an amphitheatre of a court room. Of course it wouldn’t be that. It was a little office. We sat in rows facing the judge. Mari Angela, my lawyer. Dick. Me. I remembered our wedding day. The stony faced registrar asking do you, and Dick bellowed “ABSOLUTELY.” And I was embarrassed, a little, and annoyed that he did it and not I, and then I was going to be the boring one who said I do.

But the judge read our statement made nine months before when we had really split, and the terms of the separation, which I craned my neck to see because I remembered his tears falling on the page and a sick part of me wanted to see the smudged writing. We agreed and signed, and I signed my own name, and then the judge said you are now legally separated, and I wish you the best of luck. And his eyes were on mine as he said that, and I got a feeling of his wishing me well, specifically me, and his understanding, in those eyes, of what I had escaped from, the sad stifled life. I felt he must see so many couples do what we did, and he must catch these glimpses. But his eyes sought me out, and I thought he recognised me and understood. And I felt the whoosh of freedom, and my mouth stretched out into a grin, and I begged myself to stop grinning, to switch it off, go back to the sombre divorce face, it was so rude, so cruel to grin, god, no, and Dick there looking sad and lost. I couldn’t stop smiling so I smirked, but that was awful too, so I strained and strained and covered my face with a hand and scratched my nose, desperately. But the smile leaked out anyway and I was just grateful my body didn’t break out into a dance, or leap into the air, because it felt like it might have.

Oh, to be truly free. October, October. How long will it take and how much will it cost, to get there?

To finally leave him behind, Dick, his name, his face, his part in my life.


Paranoid delusions of the very hung over and generally paraniod

I sometimes wish I lived in that town, Pleasantville, you know like in the movie?

Obviously I would not do well in a traditional, closed minded town with twin beds, and I’d turn the bathroom technicolour in about five minutes…amiright? so it’s not like it’s a good solid plan or anything.

I just fucking wish the world was in black and white. I look soooo goooood in black and white.

My problem (one of my many problems) is that whenever I don’t put on makeup or brush my hair, people take photos. Yay! We’re all students! Look at us here eating this food with these people!  With this fucking instagram filter and a tactful blurring of the background!

Embarassing. I dodge and hide but then I want to be in the pictures too, I want people to see how well I mesh in this multicultural crew and how awesome I look while meshing, so next time I do the prep work and make up and present my better, less natural face to the world.

And then they’re all like, oooh Abby hates photos, don’t worry we won’t bother you.


So no nice photos.

And I want a hot new profile photo… not entirely to jog Antoine’s memory and make him all damn girl, now I remember how awesome the sex was, let’s do that again, but yah, mostly because of him, yes, because of course I’m still hung up on his scrub- ass.

But I don’t want it to be an obvious self portrait. I’m not one of THOSE girls.

But then aren’t we all those girls?

Whatever. there are greater problems in life of course, but I just really look awesome in black and white and when I have a mirror to coax me into the flattering smile, which of course is not my real smile.

Anyway. I have my period now which is annoying, because club toilets here are unisex and squalid and rarely fitted with toilet paper. And mostly the toilet and sink are in different rooms, which is just retarded.

OH and did I mention my shit teacher?

The first two weeks I had a lovely teacher. Really warm, patient, really good at making us talk and slipping the grammar bits in gently, so gently we barely noticed, like the worst kind of sex but the best kind of teaching.

Grammar lessons should be like a tiny tiny penis going into your well lubricated knowledge- hole.

But the last two weeks we have had this other guy. This guy who oh god when he says my name, in his French accent… ummm do you mind if I mention lubrication again?

But he’s such a bad teacher. And not attractive. He just says my name like a French man and that’s so fucking hot. But no.

He’s awful. He just TALKS AND TALKS. And he starts the class by saying “today we are going to do the subjunctive.” And that’s not what you want to hear. Fuck the subjunctive. If you must assault me with the grammar I so badly need, do it with  some foreplay. You don’t start a date with “we’re going to eat some motherfucking dinner and flirt now, and then later I’m going to put my penis near your face until you take the hint”

Sorry, I’ll ditch the metaphor now. Unless you liked it. I can’t tell if you liked it or not. Do you like that? Huh? Do you?

Anyway I have lots more to say about how shit a teacher he is, I could rant about that but frankly I would rather impart my hangover to you.

Because I started writing this then I went out, got extremely drunk. EXTREMELY.

Woke up so dehydrated and pale and covered in bits of mascara, which means I was pulling off my mascara and then rubbing my hung over body with my mascara-covered hands.

Tried to think of an attractive situation with me in it but was just too hung over.

Ran over last night’s antics in my head.

Didn’t do anything too bad I don’t think. Was kind of rubbing up against one guy but maybe he doesn’t realise that was on purpose. I think he didn’t realise cause then I got bored and didn’t follow it up…

Other than that, I just told my flatmate some embarassing stories but only cause she asked. It’s a walking home at the end of the night tradition we have now. She waits til I’m drunk and then asks me to tell her an embarassing story. Last night I told her the bus story. I have probably told YOU the bus story, anyway it involves me and my husband ex when we first met, having period sex on a bus several times in our seats.

So that’s bad but not so bad because really I don’t keep my secrets very well.

Then I have flashes of memories of the bar, the same bar we went to on Thursday. On Thursday the barman gave me the older man’s steady gaze of recognition of a good fuck. He’s older, he’s not bad looking though but I go to that bar so often… no.

Also he has kind of long hair. And he’s a bit old maybe. But that look he gave me… it’s solid, it’s clear, it’s like he came up to me and said “hey, i see you and I see your kind of over the top dress for this kind of bar. I can tell by looking at you, you’re a sex person. I am also a sex person. I’m older than you, maybe too old for you to be interested, but then if I see you going home with one of these Justin Bieber motherfuckers I’ll laugh to myself and lose respect for you because honestly, I could fuck you so much better.”

I may just be getting so horny at this point that I am imagining a rich layer of subtext in mens eyes and it’s not there at all, but also maybe I am so horny I am in tune with the world’s sexuality.

Anyway. Probably not a great idea to go fucking barmen in my local… oh my god. I just realised I’m focusing on a barman already. He’s not hot exactly but he has such an air of being good in bed. Except it’s like my local.

I went in last night and barman saw me, put a wine glass on the counter and looked at me. I nodded. He poured wine. I laughed and said so I guess I’m a regular already? He nodded. I guess I’m a regular somewhere. I’ve always wanted to be a regular and go into a bar and have them just pour my drink for me without me having to pronounce “un verre du vin rouge” which is hard for me because I have difficulty with vowel sounds in French and keep pronouncing vin like “vent” which means wind. I don’t pronounce the t obviously because in French, you just pronouncle like 3/4 of the letters for some reason, but not always, and sometimes you don’t pronounce the end but depending on what word is next then sometimes  you do. It’s is HARD.

God I look so fucking hung over.

I took black and white pictures of myself before going out last night.

Today I look like that person except after being in a concentration camp for a few months.

My beautiful silky hair is now a hot, slightly itchy nest.

My careful, careful, carefully applied eye makeup which had three different colours of eye shadow is now just black crap smudged all over my face and due to my horny hung overness, parts of my body too.

I look so unattractive I must vow never, ever, ever to let a man see me like this. NEVER. I must always leave during the night. No more sleepovers ever every every again, that is if I get laid ever again.

Oh. Flashbacks.

Talking to one of the girls in my school, who for some reason looks really hardcore and badass… maybe cause she dyes her hair black and wears dark eye makeup? Hmm… she lures me into this sense of false dirty-bitch camaraderie, but actually she’s not like that at all. She’s just nice. But I was telling her something…

“oh god yeah, you know like those fucking posters everywhere… oh they really freak me out. ”

What posters?

“You know the ones… how sure are you that you don’t have aids? Man, no one needs to see that on their way to work.”

What do you mean?

“I mean they freak me out, am i right?”

What, you.. you’re not sure if you have aids or not?

“Ha! I mean how sure CAN you be, am i right? Haha. How sure is anyone. What a question.”

“I don’t understand, you don’t KNOW?”

“well.. I mean not for sure like. I mean who does know?”

I’m pretty sure I don’t have aids.

“Oh. Yeah.. I should really get tested.”

The conversation paused there for a while before she told me helpfully,

“you know, you can’t just get aids from having sex. You can only get aids from having sex with someone who HAS aids.”

Actually, that cheered me up significantly. I haven’t heard about any of my exes dying of flu so I’m probably fine, and anyway I nearly always use condoms. But I really should get tested.

And I was quite happy, the hot humiliation of the nigth before and having been for the first time, really really really fucking drunk, and not being THAT bad and not fucking anyone with or without condoms and not telling the WRONG people the bus sex story… well, I felt like I did ok.

I do remember in the latino club, being really really angry about going there… on the way it was pissing rain and I was so upset about walking to the fucking latino club, and I started screeching about hating the fucking latino club. One of the girls who I don’t like much I THINK said to the guy who she was walking with… under an umbrella… “Get her to shut up”

But maybe I was just being paranoid and focusing my paranoia on people who were dry under umbrellas. But also I was screeching pretty aggressively so it’s entirely plausible that someone woulld have said that.

And then in the latino club I decided to get romantically, emotionally affected by the music. I stood with a wistful look on my face and my friends were like “abby what’s up” and I was like… “no, I’m fine… it’s just the music. It reminds me… it reminds me… nothing, nothing, you just dance and have fun”

The music they played in the club was like “te gusta la gasolina”

A black guy with massive whiteheads on his face that at once grossed me out and made me wish I could just pop them in front of a mirror, came up to me and told me he loved me. I tried to explain to him about extremity of compliments and how that’s a bit too much. He laughed and said ok. Then he tried to dance beside me for the rest of the night and then I had my wistful music moment so I pushed him away and said “I’m sorry, it’s not a good time! I’m remembering a better time.”

It didn’t get rid of him but then I was durnk so I didn’t care, I grabbed my flatmate’s arm and pulled her to me and spun her around and yelled “ayyy yayy yaaaaayyy!” and we danced like this for a while, guffawing and whacking the pretty skinny girls who went there to show off their ridiculous dancing skills.

We ploughed through that dance floor.

I lay in my bed this morning for a while too thirsty to get water and I remembered moments of idiocy and bad behaviour and fun and I was overall pretty happy with myself considering how fucking drunk I was.

At one point I went to the bar (the one I am now a regular at, woo woo!) and the barwoman just GAVE me a glass of wine. FOR FREE. It only costs 2.20 for a glass of wine anyway but still, that’s so fucking awesome. FREE WINE. And when the longhaired barman who I think wants to do dirty things with me but I should have an aids test first, he gives me really full glasses of wine too. Oh but then what if HE has aids? oh god. It’s a minfield. Fucking aids, I wish they would just cure it already. Imagine having to call all the people you’ve fucked and tell them you have aids. I wouldn’t even care so much about the dying younger or the sickness, just imagine not being able to have a sex life any more because you have aids and having to tell all the people you’ve screwed… oh god. Who even REMEMBERS?

But I am being ridiculous because I ALWAYS use condoms except for a few times that they broke and with my husband ex… who for some reason I just trusted. I don’t think he has aids though.

Oh god I am so afraid of aids.


Going to get off this topic now I’m too hung over to handle this train of thought.


Oh yeah and then I looked at my phone and I had this message on my french mobile from a random number. It said in french

“I’m leaving”

And instantly…

all the good, relaxed, i behaved myself last night…. all those feelings were replaced by



WHAT DID I DO last night?

I replied “Who is it”

“who is who?”


“Haaahahahaha! It’s Mathilde.”


Oh god. Who the fuck? A woman…

I sat here immobilized with the fear of having seduced some woman last night and she left this morning and I must have brought her home and just not remembered.

I sent out feelers, my usual hung over witness meeeee messages, to all the online people.




I got a few replies like, dude you didn’t bring any woman home, it’s fine.

One guy told me I was trying to kick him, big high kicks for no reason, after we left the club. Oh.

I don’t remember that but my legs really hurt.

But no sign of Mathilde.

I wrote back to her and she wrote back, she gave me her full name and she called me a name that is very close to my name, and French people have trouble with my name, so I thought that just confirmed we did in fact meet last night.

I looked her up on facebook after my less hung over flatmate got up and helped me piece together the night. She told me that I definitely didn’t bring home any women. We came home with the Italian guy, remember?

WHAT? We… did I?

Hahahah NO you idiot.


Did you talk to any women last night?


Of course I talked to women.

I made toilet queue friends, as always. I am so nice and witty in toilet queues. I like to conspire with the other queuers, perhaps the person just ahead of me… I bitch about the girl taking ages in the toilet. I tell my fellow queuer… if she comes out looking really nice we’ll know what she was doing. I tell people behind me that I pee like so fucking fast… they should time me. I encourage anyone in front of me to knock on the door.

When I pee, I do an express pee. I emerge in like 10 seconds and raise my hands and depending on how drunk I am, high five the stunned queuers and yell “and THAT’s how it’s fucking done!”

I always make toilet queue friends.

Last night I made toilet queue friends and I was telling the girl in front to bang on the door and shout “police” because that gives it more weight, and then she did, and the woman came out and was like “WHAT THE FUCK guys I’m wearing a full body suit under my clothes, it took a while to get it off” and I was like, yeah whatever say it to my fucking bladder. And then I peed so quickly in there, and came out and yes I was drunk enough to yell “and that’s how it’s fucking done bitches!”

So I might have exchanged phone numbers with one of these women? It’s possible.

I didn’t know.

I looked the girl’s name up on facebook and the horror deepened. She was like 15 or something.

I told her I thought it was a wrong number. That happens, right?

She asked me what class I was in.

I didn’t understand so I asked my French flatmate. My french flatmate doesn’t drink, doesn’t go out, doesn’t have friends come over and doesn’t wash the fucking dishes. She thinks I am insane and an alcoholic. I knocked on her door today with black crust all over my face wearing my hangover outfit of hot pants, a massive cardigan and a red bra and croaked PLease help what this mean in french?

She told me “what class are you in, like in school?” and then she told me if I don’t remember the person then of course it’s a wrong number, but I was like, yeah a wrong number on a Saturday morning? Coincidence?

Anyway. It was eventually settled that yeah that was just a wrong number, an unhappy accident when I was most vulnerable and least sure of my sexuality/ behaviour.

So today I have mostly been worrying about having seduced a teenage girl, oh and aids.

Fucking aids.

Anyway. That seems to be the last bit of uncertainty sorted out. Now my french flatmate is hoovering the living room which is INSANE because she never does any cleaning, her dishes just fester, literally, they fester in the sink for over a week obstructing my and my other flatmate’s access to the sink for our own cleaning and general use, and then she washes half of them and then the other half just stay there for another week. I think there is a stalemate going on at the moment in the kitchen, like she hasn’t washed the dishes in so long, she has forgotten that those are her dishes, and maybe she thinks they are mine or the other girl’s. But they are not.  So I don’t know why she has chosen today to hoover, it’s probably some sort of attack aimed towards me because for some reason her hideous lack of hygiene is paired with a real neurosis about the toilet door being open. She yells intermittently “TOILET DOOR! KEEP IT CLLOOOOOOSED!”

But I don’t know why, because there’s no window in the toilet so I think it’s better to keep the door open so like, the air can circulate. Anyway I left it open today,

Oh I’m actually really hungry but I have no hangover food in the house. DAMN you self restraint in the supermarket. I have NOTHING in the freezer, just spinach and peas. I can’t eat that shit on a hangover. I need pizza with four cheeses and fruit juice and chips and garlic sauce but they don’t do garlic sauce here or proper chips.

Gaaahhh… and I have to go to the post office to pick up my parcel from amazon, it’s a laptop cooler with three moveable fans. I reckon this Christmas I will be really bored and then I will return to Fallout 3 for a bit. Maybe Skyrim but probably not because Skyrim just got so boring after a bit. It’s a really beautiful game but just… boring.


People have started to resurface on Facebook and they are actually asking me to DRINK today.

Hot wine. Mulled wine. Oh god no

But actually, that might be really nice.

I need pizza anyway, so I guess my first plan of action is go to the supermarket.

NO! Here I am going to do a plan of all the things I must do and then I will leave this internet and GO DO IT.


1. Get dressed.

2.Wipe crust and grime from face.

3. Put on makeup.

4. Do something about hair. Actually, fuck it, just going to the supermarket. Put on hat.

5. Find wallet and keys and everything I didn’t give a shit about ever finding again when I came home last night.

6. Put on more makeup.

7. Pick up shoes and tiptoe out of apartment and put shoes on outside so I don’t alert my flatmates to the fact I am going to the supermarket because then they will want me to pick up stuff and I just can’t do it today.

8. Go to supermarket

9. Wander aisles feeling like throwing up and gathering far too much fatty shitty food, more than I could ever eat, and fruit juice oh god so much fruit juice.

10. Have nervous breakdown when the checkout lady asks me something in French.

11. Go home and put pizza in cold oven. Drink some juice. Watch pizza with a feeling approaching euphoria. Soon the pizza will be cooked. This pizza will complete me. It’s all I need, I shall never want again. Fantasize about having pizza on a plate on my lap and a big carton of juice beside me and watching something insanely funny on my laptop.

12. Eat entire pizza which is still cold in the middle and look at belly and tell self I am fat and ugly and look at my face, look at it, I should stop trying to find a nice photo for my profile because I am just horrible looking and people only sleep with me because they are MEN they will sleep with anyone, oh man I’m so ugly and fat no one will ever love me.

13. Throw up from the bitter mixture of improperly heated four cheese pizza, juice, alcohol and self loathing.

Or I could just skip the hassle, save money and just throw up now.




I ditched my list because it was making me depressed, barged in on my non-French flatmate (she’s Swedish and awesome) and told her she needed to come with me to get pizza. She had an omelette so she didn’t want to go anywhere but then I talked about pizza and how jealous she would be when I had pizza, and eventually she came with me. We bought pizza and I got juice and clementines and so much fucking chocolate and those little tubes of fruit puree that they sell here for kids lunchboxes and oh man so fucking happy. The supermarket was way intense. Elin Nordegren (that’s what I’m gonna call my flatmate) and I were like two severely autistic kids in there, startled by everything, terrified by the other shoppers and overwhelmed by the simplest decisions.

Along the way she told me that actually I did black out some memories last night, one was when we were in the club, the weird whitehead guy was hitting on me and trying to dance with us and I got rid of him or tried to anyway by saying “me and Elin we are BIG lesbians. MASSIVE ONES!” and then I started ballroom dancing with her to make it believable.

Also when we were leaving the club and walking home we danced around this light up christmas tree shrieking with joy and then I saw two half naked men wrestling (yes) on top of some big platform or something, I can’t remember, but they were wearing just boxers and I got really excited and stood staring at them cheering and probably trying to hit on them for a while, until they asked me to take a picture of them, but I used their camera so I don’t have a picture. Eventually I had to be dragged away from the naked guys. I can’t remember anything more than just having seen naked guys.

So I didn’t do anything bad but it’s weird being told about stuff you did when you feel like you remember everything but then there’s other stuff.

I forgot NAKED men.

That’s weird.

Anyway. My pizza should be done now, and then I will know true joy.


Me ma’s selective memory

My mother forgot:

– That I have a weird freakout about watery foods touching butter in sandwiches. Like, tomatoes can’t touch butter, or gross. Or cucumber and butter. Solution, yeah I know, make my own fucking sandwich. I’m aware that I’m bitching about having my mum do something nice for me.

– That I don’t go for walks. I’m sorry, fuck walking. I always found walking uber boring and would never accompany my mother, but now that I know how to cycle, it has an added dimension of shitness that is, this fresh air and countryside would actually be really enjoyable if only I had my bike. It’s like she thinks all the creases in my personality she never ironed out for me while actively parenting, have just magically sorted themselves out now I’m a grown up.

– That we don’t have a cool mother-daughter gal-pals kind of relationship. We get along, I love my mum, she’s awesome, in a lot of ways I’d love to be more like her, just not enough to actually do something about it. But we don’t have that relationship. We go shopping together and I have to bite chunks out of my knuckles as she purchases items like A FUCKING SCRUNCHIE. Sorry, but, a scrunchie. Yeah. And then I’m trying on something NON slutty, like quite elegant… and my mother goes “it’s NICE…. It’s just a bit… it’s not very you.” Thanks. I was just trying to look like a classy fucker for a second there. But actually, she’s right. I would never have worn a midi skirt.

My mother will never forget:

– That I played with pokemon.

– That I had those gross, ugly, asshole, dickhead, weirdo, unhygienic boyfriends. And how much I LOVED them. And their names. And where the photos are of us. Things I would rather pretend never happened, and always “ooh you know who I saw drive past the other day? Derek… you remember Derek? He’s still looking the same… weird..”

And I pretend for a second I’m furrowing my brow… uh… but if I pause too long before remembering Derek the goth, she’ll start adding cringey details to spark my memory. Please no more. I was young. I don’t deserve this shit.

– ALL the children I ever shared a single year of school with. Kids I haven’t seen since we were 6. And these are mentioned casually.

“You know Jessie, well she’s got a new car, a little Punto. You know the new punto?” And I’m like, who the fuck is Jessie? And then she’ll furnish full name, relationship status, health details, and a rundown of all Jessie’s recent drama. And seriously I have just the vaguest recollection of a little mousey girl I might have spent one year not really speaking to before we disappeared into our separate lives and never saw each other again. Everyone who went to my school, even if it was long before my education or long since.

Everyone has an instant c.v. in my mother’s head, ready to be rattled off. And it used to be, they were all scanning groceries with dead eyes, significantly fatter than when last we were desk neighbours, but nowadays, the old college education is beginning to bump some of their wages above mine. People doing stem cell research or zoology, lawyers and interior designers… people doing proper adult jobs with proper adult wages, or off in Cambodia building orphenages, rubbing shoulders with hot tanned philanthropists and parachuting all over the place (this is a partly imagined scenario.)

– That I used to put on little shows with my friend where we pretended to be on the news, or members of the spice girls, or play doctor, or have an obsession with drawings of boobs in this book about pregnancy that was lying around the house.

– That I went through a brief phase of putting on this old woman voice (purely to entertain my mother, btw) and cackling about how my name was Mrs. Petunia Redmond and I was always stealing my own watch. I don’t remember how this came about but my mother regularly puts on the voice these days and asks me to “do Mrs. Petunia”, and this oftens occurs in front of people. And it’s weird. I’m not really that easily embarrassed but the fact that I don’t know what the fuck was going on in my head that I would pretend to be stealing my own watch, as well as the terrible quality of the joke and voice I put on… it does get embarassing. Let Mrs. Petunia die, please. All the clever shit I come out with, and Mrs. Petunia is what she remembers.


And that’s it for now. I’m in London now, just processing the last 2 weeks with my family, feeling pretty bloated after so many days eating dinner and…also drinking a lot.

Tomorrow is another day, and I’m in London now…

The accent….

Oh yeaaaahhhh….