Moving, shifting.

I moved house last night.

Out of the cold, old, dilapidated apartment with space for things and a good solid table to be fucked on. But it was too cold and old and the wooden window frames trembled at passing buses and I found myself retreating into my bedroom, first, and then my bed, where I lay with my solitude and my drinking and never wrote anything.

Yesterday my long suffering mother, still mothering me long past the gestation period of an adult, helped me move into my new place. Maybe I’ll get some writing done here.I’m all excuses. Recently I spoke to an artist, an actor, and he told me I needed to DO things and get up in the mornings and live my life like it’s not the waiting room for something else, and I felt like crying because he was right, no, not because he was right, but because I’d let my guard down and forgotten that intelligent people can see right through my flimsy bravado. I must have relaxed and let someone see me for what I am, my sadness pouring out in excuses and defence of doing nothing.

I feel happy, I have the symptoms of happiness. But I’m not independent, my life is paid for by the state, my mother shouldered more than half the weight of the fridge-freezer. I’m just like so many others. But I feel wrong, like this. You can justify any lifestyle, I believe, from housewife to banker to lunatic to whatever I might be, as long as your life doesn’t injure or abuse and you can pay your own rent.

It’s not my fault I grew up now, when rent is commonly half a person’s wages, and everyone feels entitled to avocados and parma ham, and craft beer. And suffers without them. But I’m a little ashamed that I grew up now, if I did indeed grow up, and failed to adapt to the world, as it crumbles and swells and freedoms are legalised and then encroached upon, and finally we’re told it’ll all sink into the sea. This is my generation. I’m built for it and by it. Maybe if I lived in the Chelsea hotel, and paid a pittance to live, I’d have been right, or right-on, there’d have been room for my dreams, but this is a bit sad, me, lamenting the fall of the starving artist, in post celtic tiger Ireland, like  a less impressive, less grotesque Ignatius J Reilly with his copy of Boethus.

I’m broke, I’m penniles, I’m cold and I’m a chancer. I’m Sebastian Dangerfield with a vagina. But I’m not, I’m not, I have cognac in my wardrobe and three avocados in varying stages of ripeness, a chilean one and a pair of new zealanders. And I have all these skirts and heels, and when I’ve worn them more than thrice they look old and like they belong to someone I haven’t been for a long time, or a week, but then I shed my passions so quickly, and I shed my skin, and need to buy it new. Because the shoes are worn from climbing walls at 4am and the skirts have been worn thrice and pulled lustily over my head by rougher hands than mine as many times. All my clothes with tags, a look of approval, lust, a compliment. From that moment, the clothes became his, like a lick of paint on a sheep. The skirt I wore to meet Jack, and it was all he thought about, lifting that skirt, he told me later, lifting it. The Shoes that Adam loved so, the ones that left angry red marks on his chest, his neck. The dress I wore for dinner with Antoine, dinner in my flat, with the candles and a tablecloth and he saw me and said “what a dress.” and I wore stockings and he’d never been with a woman in stockings before, he was so young. And he didn’t know to leave them on, when we made love. He took them off me, and I could see he wasn’t sure if they should go, because socks are bad in bed, or stay because they were sexy. And in the summer, I wore those shorts, my little shorts that barely held me inside, and Max watched me paint the sign for the bar in the sun while he sawed planks and sent a breath of sawdust onto the wet paint. And I didn’t mind, because he was so gentle, so adoring, then. And he held me while I was in crisis, not sure what to do or where to go, on the verge of tears at any time, and he made all sorts of promises. He should have let me be and stayed away, and he would have stayed away, but then I would were those shorts.

 I bought them for myself, for how I’d feel, who I thought I was that day and how she would look. But those men, they like to own things, and maybe the don’t know they do it, but they wear me down and they take possession of my clothes, and then I don’t feel like that girl I wanted to be in my skirt any more, covered in fingerprints. Perhaps I just want to give myself fresh to each new lover, and I’m afraid he can see the wear, and it’ll remind him how my mouth isn’t new either, how many hands have reached under my hair to release a clasp. Perhaps it’s not, it’s just there’s so much hope and possibility in new clothes. I remember when I bought my little black playsuit with the high neck and the short shorts, and I saw it in the mirror and thought I looked so sexy, and glamourous, and like I belonged draped on a couch somewhere fabulous drinking something expensive. But then where did I have to wear it, really? I wore it to Bob’s kitchen, to dance to 80s music, which was lovely and fun but my little playsuit went to waste. And then I wore it to the Market Bar, and it was too short, and I felt uncomfortable, but I looked great. And then I went home with Steve, and I shouldn’t have because he’s so wrapped up in himself, he can’t even tell that I don’t care about him, so there’s something insulting about how he never calls or sends a message later. These clothes have too many memories.

What I’m trying to say here, essentially, is that I need a new dress, and I hope you understand how I need a new dress. It’s not wrong, to want a new dress, when you can see how all my other clothes are tarnished so.

But ah, what was I telling you? About the move. Out of my hermit’s cave, into a bizzare houseshare of over 20 inmates, an old hospital of sorts, padded handrails down the corridors and three floors, and everyone has their own fridge, fridges littering the two kitchens and when I scurry down the corridor to the bathroom there’s a ladies and a gents.

And the inmates are friendly and some seem lovely warm people, and others seem obvious like characters written lazily by someone lacking imagination. When I was a child I entertained the thought that I was the main character, and all others were minor, or bit players, or extras. When an adult chastised me I felt sorry for them, that they were written that way, their only contribution to the world as a fleeting villain.

I eventually grew out of the idea that I was the centre of the universe but I never gave up feeling sorry for those people who were written by hacks.

It’s strange to be back in shared living… but it seems like a good thing. It’s warm, I’ll be less inclined to go out every night, maybe, maybe I’ll save some money too.

But the thing that struck me straight away is that I now find myself in a censored environment. For months I’ve surrounded myself exclusively, truly exclusively, with people who I can be so open about, tell every secret, every filthy secret and thought. And now I’m in this area where I don’t know the people, and some will be open minded freaks and perverts, too, but some will not, and so I’m keeping myself to myself, a little. Which is odd for me.

I got so used to being just me, living in a world of my own creation where nothing in nature is twisted, or dirty, as a man said long ago, I think it was Servius.

Changes, anyway.

I hope I write more here, I hope I do. I’ll try.

But it’s not, as people close to me who don’t write seem to thing, some kind of muscle I can get up in the morning and knock out 20 reps of 100 words.

I could write 50,000 words right now, and I’d forget to eat, drink, pee, masturbate, yes, even masturbate. But what kind of words would they be, and is there any point?

My friends tell me to just DO it. Do it and you’ll have written, and you can edit. But I don’t like to edit, because then I read back and it’s not the voice in my head any more, it’s something I’ve crafted. And why did I do that? It’s the honesty of writing I love… and beautiful turns of phrase, and sentences that make something lurch inside you like arousal of your sense of harmony. But mostly honesty, and when I edit I think why did I do that? What am I trying to say, and what’s the point?

And I collapse in nihilism, and I don’t do anything, and I feel bad about it, because even though I don’t think anything matters, it matters to me that I don’t fade into a sad future. Also, I don’t edit because I don’t know what’s good.

People tell me to just write. Just write, write all the time. You have so much free time, you should be writing. I know. I KNOW. I know. I just need to… do it. I know.

In my old place, you see, it was too cold. It was so cold, I couldn’t think, my fingers were cold, my brain was occupied in being cold and suffering from it and overcoming it. In France you may know, I thought I’d recreate the misery and solitude of my life in Italy, without being so miserable and solitary that I’d hate it, like in Italy.

But it seems it’s either one or the other. I’m too unhappy in Italy to live. I wrote there, maybe nothing great, but I was so unhappy I wrote like my writing was my friend who understood me and it just kept me from the abyss of true misery. And France, oh I didn’t speak French, but I learnt French. And I didn’t know anyone, but I met people, and I met wonderful people and they made me laugh and I somehow made them laugh in my awful French. But I wasn’t truly happy because I was like the dumb princess, the little mermaid, clumsy on my legs and deprived of my singing voice.

The prince didn’t love me without my gifts, but he was compassionate, he thought me charming with my strange ways and my clumsiness. But that’s fine, for a short time. In France there were men, but none of them loved me for what I was, they just loved what they could see, a ballsy travelling girl with a love of wine and food and a tendency to make clumsy puns that didn’t really work in French. And they murmured things in my ear, that sounded less beautiful as my French improved and eventually just made me roll my eyes. Fucking French, everything so doomed and poignant. On a beach somewhere near Bordeaux we watched a sunset together, feet curling in the sand, and one lover told me he was glad the clouds were there, on the horizon, because had it been any clearer the sunset would have been too much, too cheesy. “I ‘ate cheesy” he said.

“I ‘ate you”, I remember thinking. But I loved him a while longer.

I missed my wit and humour and I felt dulled. I drank far too much and snuck my bottles out of the lovely, jolly house I shared with 6 people so they wouldn’t know how far it went. I couldn’t write there, because I was learning French and my head was full of French and I was being pestered by romantic men who felt no shame in throwing themselves at me.

I had so many friends, there, I couldn’t muster enough loneliness to really write. I was aware as I made this excuse that I could never make myself be lonely, Italy was a mistake, I was trapped there with my husband and my mortgage and my debt. I’d have run home, long ago, had I not been caught that way. I told people I moved to France to be lonelier.

Really I think, now, in hindsight, that I knew full well I was moving to France to have a legitimate and shameless reason to be lonely. I was desperately lonely in Ireland but I was from Ireland, there was no excuse, how could I not find the right people? And I couldn’t write there either, because I had to work in this awful call centre and I didn’t have time to write because I had to work from 9 til 5.30 and didn’t get home til 6.30 and then I was tired and sad, and needed to relax and watch something absurd and funny and forget about my life, and I’d do that til 1 in the morning and then I had to go to bed because i had work in the morning. And if I tried to write anything I’d write how I felt, and god, that was awful, and I didn’t want to think about how I felt because I felt sad and hollow and like something really awful had been done to me and I was being made pay for it. Some awful wrong, my whole life was an awful wrong that had been inflicted on me by my parents, my teachers, my friends, my boyfriends, my parents, my parents, my parents.

And I was such a lovely girl with such a sweet heart and I loved so strongly and why did they all do that, tread on me and make me so sad and break my heart so now I haven’t been sweet or loving in years.

So I didn’t like to think about that, it was too dark and I cried so much when I thought of how I felt and who I had become or was becoming. And my eyes would be puffy in work the next day. Maybe I’d write at the weekend. That’s it, I’d get a bottle of whiskey and lock myself in my bedsit, quite a nice bedsit, not really suited to drowning your sorrows, but I’d make do. And then Friday I’d be half drunk and thinking of typing a few words about something, and I’d get a call from some man I’d vowed to stay away from because he kept giving me false hope and then hurting me, and whenever that subsided I’d remember he was no good, not very interesting and not at all impressive. But I’d be lonely so I’d go and meet him, and sleep with him, and start to feel the rumblings of emotion again, and then I wouldn’t write because all I’d write about would be how I liked him, and maybe I didn’t, and why wouldn’t he call when he said he would.

and what’s wrong with me.

Well, that’s all sort of gone now. I’m not that kind of unhappy now. I’m quite happy, really. In the short term. Long term, I’m not sure, because I need to prove to myself that I am what I claim to be, a writer, and that I’ll do something with that and not just be a drain on family and the state. Not that I care about being a drain on the state, because look at everyone else, and look at all the corruption. But it’s still not right for me, personally.

I am quite happy, really. I don’t cry, I don’t feel like I’ve been hideously wounded by life any more. I feel like I’ve been wounded just the right amount, to make me someone I could respect, if only I got off my ass once in a while and contributed something to the human experience. Because no, it doesn’t matter one bit if I drink and fuck all day and get old and then no one will want to fuck me any more, but it matters to me that I leave a little bundle of pages behind, with something in them that can be picked up, and read, and maybe enjoyed, and maybe someone will read and know me through them, and my life will be in there, and all the silly things that you couldn’t invent, that don’t matter at all, but that contain everything of me but my DNA.

Farewell to my conical dog

My dog of 13 years, the best dog in the world as far as my family and non-dog owner friends are concerned, has been rapidly getting older and slower and more arthritic. My mum called me today and told me through tears that our dog fell over today and just couldn’t get her feet back under her. The vet who’s looked after her since she was a puppy and seen her through countless operations because dammit that animal never got any sense, always running out and getting hit by cars… well, the vet said “you have to let that dog keep her dignity.”

And my mum is going to put her down tonight, or maybe tomorrow, I’m waiting on an update. But oh, I’m so so sad. When she first told me I was mostly just sad for my mum because the dog has been like a replacement child since I left home, and she’s my mum’s friend and companion and she’s really part of the family. But then I started really thinking back and to realise the full weight of her part in my life…

We got her when I was 12. I had a bunch of cats before that but they kept getting hit by cars and dying in the same spot near our house and I was so heartbroken, I said no more cats! I don’t know why I thought  it would be easier to lose a dog, but hey. I was 12, and I had loved those cats so much I couldn’t imagine a stupid dog would worm its way into my heart so easily.

The other reason for getting a dog was that as a 12 year old with not a whole lot of friends, I had this fantasy that if i had a puppy, I would be out walking my cute puppy and all the young attractive guys would be hanging out and they’d see my puppy and pet it and ask me questions and then ask me out or something. I don’t know, I guess I thought life was like in sex and the city where even if you look like a giant tanned foot, the world was full of good looking peope ready to make a move if you just give them a meet cute.

I begged my parents to let me get a dog. They said no, a dog is so much hard work. You have to walk it every day. You have to train it. I said yes, I promise, I’ll walk it everywhere. All the time. I pictured myself with my dog hanging out with the cool kids and my dog protecting me from rapists and barking at people who wanted to get all up in my grill. And I’d train my dog so well it would be able to do amazing tricks and then I’d have even more friends. And my dog would be a hero dog. To my parents I played up on the whole protection, defence, and I’d be getting some outdoor excercise aspects. They believed me. For some reason.

I remember the day I picked out this shivering little puppy from a group of its yelping brothers and sisters who were all shitting and jumping up at me. She was the little sad looking one, extremely cute, the size of my hand, so goddamn cute… She was a little sad puppy and she was so afraid and I took her home and she shat all over me but I didn’t care too much because she was so cute and little.

She was so afraid at first I felt guilty for taking her from her family and I gave her my sweatshirt to sleep with because it smelt like me, and I cleaned up after her and fed her and cared for her. We soon realised she wasn’t the sweet, scared, runt of the litter. She was riddled with worms. Once the worms were all gone which was not a pretty few days…. we discovered the kind of animal we had committed to. She didn’t just want a little shuffle down the cul-de-sac, she wanted to climb mountains and run up hills and swim in the sea and she wanted the ball thrown for her a million times a day and she never lost it even when I tried to hide it from her because it was gross and covered in slime. If I had kept this activity up I would have probably been quite fit…

Except I soon got bored of the repetitive nature of responsibility and maybe got a new sims game and my mum stepped in and raised the puppy. I was still there for the fun times and for cuddles but frankly after a couple of short, boring walks with my extremely cute dog, I realised it might have been a good conversation starter but that didn’t help the fact that there were no hunks or gangs of cool, friendly pre-teens in my area.

So my mum was responsible for feeding her, walking her, washing her, etc. The job of disciplinarian… well I guess no one thought of that. My dog was fun, great with kids, great at  dealing with parties, sociable, playful, sweet, loving, but she didn’t exactly follow any orders, ever. But she was very sweet and gentle.

When I was a teenager and boys were mean and broke my heart or didn’t call or didn’t treat me nicely, or girls were bitchy and left me out, when I wasn’t invited to a party or someone said “god Abby do you ever shut up?” or someone accidentally said something that I had a great personality which was more important than looks, or my parents yelled at me…

My dog was there, not understanding but just resting her pointy long nose on my knee and pushing me over the edge into tears. I cried so many tears into her silky fur, hugging her tight and wishing she could talk so we could be friends, because I knew she’d be the best friend ever. She was there for me all the time. She had person eyes, understanding soft brown eyes like a person. I sang songs to her, silly nonsensical songs about how she was a dog, how she looked like a dog, and how she looked like an aardvark, and how she was my conical dog as when she sat on her back legs and you pointed her nose up in the air she was shaped like a traffic cone. I liked to speak in a weird accent and say “ears” and fold her ears on top of her head. She has very silky ears. All these weird little things we do with our dogs. They just sit their, no idea what we’re doing, and put up with it and love us.

She’s still alive now but she’s so old and tired and destroyed from 13 years of kicking ass in the dog world. She’s nearly died so many times due to reckless behaviour but she’s always bounced back. Now her legs are so fucked, she can’t stand up, and I guess tomorrow she’ll be gone.

I’m not a huge animal person, I like animals in the wild, doing their own thing. I’m not a huge dog person, I like dogs but I’m not a dog person. But it really does hurt like fuck when you lose someone special in your life, even if they are just a dog.  Yeah, just a dog- she’s the only one in my family who never gave me any shit.

Wow, I did not aniticipate being so fucking upset. I wish I was there to say goodbye, not that it means anything but fuck, I feel awful that I’m not there right now. I’m going to miss her like crazy when I go home…

And my mum is going to be absolutely heartbroken.

 

Oh, wine… ze sings you do to me!

Drinking… not heavily but consistently.

I haven’t been obliterated by drink in ages, maybe I’m building up a tolerance. But I do seem to find myself popping a lot of corks, mulling a lot of wine, and listening to a lot of Jeff Buckley and moaning YES THIS SONG, YES, THIS IS WHY IT IS ALL WRONG OH GOD IM HIDEOUS, IM HIDEOUS AND FAT, WHO COULD LOVE ME?

And then I listen to something a bit more upbeat and I feel like I could do anything, or even just go to a supermarket and buy salad. But I must stay away from the supermarket because while in Ireland I was limited to how much wine I could take home by price, here I am only limited by arm strength and it’s not that far of a walk home.

I’ve been drinking a lot of wine. I’m not worried about my liver, my liver is something I will worry about when I am aware of it, or when it starts to complain. I’m worried about bloating, about getting that puffy alco- face.

I’m not getting drunk every night so I GUESS I won’t get puffy alco face, but I am drinking a lot, a lot a lot.

I want to drink less but all of the get me out of the apartment and socialising activities are drinks based and let’s be honest I don’t have any normal healthy people hobbies, so I drink.

I do love cooking but frankly fresh food ingredients are more expensive than wine, and also more detrimental to the physical presence too.

I have to find an apartment and a job and I am not having much luck with either, or any luck, and I’m sort of hopelessly in love but also very insecure about it all and my French is not improving as beautifully as i had hoped.

So I drink.

But when I find a job I will have purpose and clarity and the threat of a kick up the arse if I don’t sober up and act like a proper grown up so then I will limit myself to weekends like a normal person.

Oh why can’t they just make non alcoholic wine?

Cause it would suck, that’s why.

Anyway you don’t want to read about how emotional I am being and I don’t want to write it AGAIn and AGAIN  AND AGAIN until we all DIE

so I will cut this short, tell you that I am not doing as wonderfully as my initial wave of optimism implied I would do, and I’m still being nice and outgoing but my motivation-reward-motivation system needs the little reward kicker in between to maintain itself and right now I am feeling all out of reward.

Because of course i can’t just be go with the flow like I said I wanted to be and just enjoy the feeling of a man supposedly loving me and wanting me and being crazy about me like I am about him, because he hurt me so I don’t trust it, like he’s just going to shrug me off one of these days and it will be all my fault for lettng him back in.

So.

Tis a lull.

I did my homework though so that was more than I expected of today.

Fucking flat hunting. It’s not making me a happy little critter, it’s making me a sad sodden drooping thing with a wardrobe full of empty bottles.

Oh, wine.

It’s raining, and I’m hungry. Read all about it!

What bothers me about quitting smoking is not that it’s hard, it’s that it’s hard to even want to.

I want to want to quit. But I don’t really want to quit. So there’s no point trying. It was the same with dieting… I wanted to lose weight and stuff but I didn’t want to actually stop eating so much. So I failed any time I tried to change my eating habits. Then one day it just got really easy. Because I didn’t want to eat like a pig any more. And here we are, awesome at starving! Easy. But it would have been impossible if I didn’t wake up a month or so ago and say, fuck food as a hobby. I’m going to eat to get my nutrients on.

Same with smoking. I just really wish I’d hurry up and change my mind about smoking. I wish I didn’t enjoy smoking so much. I have already written pathetically about my feeble desire not to die of cancer, but it’s a cyclical thing. It swells up every now and then and I give up for a few days or a week and get so cocky about my success that I start planning to write a book about how easy it is and help everyone else achieve my natural state of enlightenment. And then one day I’m really fucking bored and I convince myself that essentially one cigarette a day is the same as none, and I can just have ONE a day, and I will be fine. And then I’m like, actually one time I got a taxi when drunk and had a big heart to heart with a taxi driver and he said anything less than 10 a day is nothing, it’s like breathing in city air. And he must have been right because of taxi driver wisdom. Do not argue with taxi driver wisdom. So I say I’m allowing myself five a day, and I’ll be fine. And I remember some anecdote about a doctor who smoked five a day and said there were no health risks, which I don’t know where I heard but I believe also. So then five is cool, and maybe one night I want to smoke more than five, well I just won’t smoke the next day, but then I do, but it doesn’t matter, it’s just a slip up. And then 10… and then who’s counting? Not I.

Smoking again.

And that’s how it always goes. Plus, the bars over here… you can smoke inside a lot of them. It’s hard not to smoke when it’s the most entertaining thing to do with your boring as a pile of turds company. Ugh so sick of impressing the socks off everyone only for them to turn aruond and have the personality of a tic. Ahhh I can’t wait to get home and bump chests with my buds, my pals, my chummy chum chums, and laugh…. Getting a bit melancholy here with these background filler people. Getting a bit melancholy in general…

Stumbled across Fine Young Cannibals on a rediscover music quest through folders…. and it’s really feeding the moody retro rainy day pensive buzz… If only I had a window seat I could sit and watch the drops and rivulets land and disperse down the glass while the cityscape outside is blurred from vision, and have that represent something like how isolated I feel from the city I live in, or something. Yeah I have to stop listening to this genre of music it is not good for me, it’s too fucking indulgent. Does not mesh well with new badass divorce-lovin awesome wannabe maneater heartless bitch persona I am cultivating. Ooohh no I’m getting the bus home soon in this rain, it’s poignant as hell listening to this shit on my “supposed to be for the tv” headphones that cover my entire head and keep away the perverts who just wanted to ask for directions (fucking whatever) and watching rain fall… balls. Another 45 minutes introspective welling up of emotions lies ahead….

Got the bus home. Actually managed not to fall into the Joni Mitchell trap, remembered had a book in my bag (it’s a ridiculous bag, I can lose books in it for weeks.) and started re-reading A Confederacy of Dunces… laughing to myself… and so it wasn’t suitable to be listening to things that make me sad and pensive. So I stuck on some upbeat tunes that I’ve never associated with a man I wanted to acquire but who didn’t want me, and that helped my mood considerably.

Then I got home realised I’m really fucking hungry so thought hey lets treat ourselves, and I opened a tin of tuna and had that. Fucking ravenously hungry! Still hungry. Wow real hunger… you know you eat like a pig long enough you forget what it’s like to be so fucking hungry your stomach feels like it’s eating its own walls nom nom nom tastes like meat… except of course stomach has no taste buds.

Ok I don’t want to give you a play by play of everything I did today, but yeah, I already went there. So there’s nothing else to eat now in the house… except muesli.

Happy freaking weekend to you too, it’s muesli time. (there aint no party like a muesli party cause a muesli party don’t… exist)

 

On the upside, my house wasn’t broken into

I’m back from the holiday. Back to real life. Work begins as soon as tomorrow so I’m going to stay up really late. Screw you, working self. It will be worth the drowsy and weak first day back if I can just hold on a little longer.

So, I pinned all my hopes and needs on this short holiday. It was pure escapism and I completely ignored the possibility of time continuing after it was over. I’m always sure I’m going to die in a plane crash anyway, so being back at home and back at work didn’t seem like a real possibility. If I didn’t have such terrible credit I would probably take out a huge loan before any flight, and spend it all in an insane ritual to ward off death. (Murphy’s law says that if I have money saved, I’ll die in a crash, and never get to spend it. If I haven’t a penny to my name, I’ll live to have to deal with the consequences. This is my worldview, don’t argue with it) Thankfully I don’t have credit, so I just have to content myself with spending all my available cash on luxury makeup in airports. At least if my ritual fails I’ll leave behind a good looking corpse…

Phew…I’m tired. It was a wonderful trip and I did what I needed to do, I suppose, clear my head and what not.. but now the wasted hours are crashing in on themselves and all the excess has to be paid for. I’ve cleared my head all right, and I’m back home, with my clutter and all the clothes and things I had no need for when I was away. I want to sweep everything up and throw it all away, all the things I didn’t miss. But then I spot a pair of shoes I might have worn once, or a bag that might have come in useful. Or a jar of spices I could have added when I cooked for my friends. My hairdryer which is better than the one I used.

I wouldn’t be able to part with anything. There’s a huge comfort in arriving home after being away, but it comes with the weight of everything I was fine living without. Needs and personal tastes arrange themselves in my background and I know I won’t feel that free again and until my next holiday. Which, of course, I am already counting down to.

I’m getting glum. There’s no need for that. I had fun. I saw people who make me laugh and make me cry and I got drunk and I kissed strangers and I threw up and I watched tv and I ate expensive food and drank cheap wine and slept in my clothes. It was great. I’m just back now, with my electric whisk, my laptop, my spare coat and my comfy bed and all the socks I could ever wear.

I’m going to write something… I was going to write something. I was honestly going to relate something positive about my time away from it all, but I wanted a shower and the boiler has been off so I can’t have hot water for another 2 hours. Then I was hungry, and the fridge is empty but for a very black avocado that shows how optimistic I was about everything before leaving for my holiday. I was so fucking excited that I actually thought an (already ripe) avocado would last 2 weeks.

I’m starting to feel angry at my pre holiday self. Smug bitch. Then I feel good because I realise that smug bitch will have the stupid grin wiped off her face soon when she has to come back here to the cold house and the lack of food and I better stop typing now before I become full on psychotic, taking pleasure in the knowledge that my over excited past self will one day be as sad as present me… which is me. Oh dear.