Saturday, 11 June 2011

The Familiar

When I am happy, it feels like indulging in a fun activity for a while,
Novel and heady and quite exhausting
By the end of it, I'm ready to scurry back to my soundproof melancholy.

Happiness is like that wonderful old friend who knew you  when you were a child -
predominantly in petticoats, terrorising pigeons -
who, for even five raps of the cane across her palm, wouldn't tell on you.
Long lapses of time are spent working up to her visit.
You will show her the sights, spare no expense
lavish her with that gratitude you've safe-kept in some shadowy recess of the heart all these years.
But she arrives and soon it is time for her to go
and you haven't even left your living room.
Crumbly photo albums have been brought forth, wine has been spilled
and batter been devoured before it had the chance to become cookies.
"Do you remember the nut job who'd follow you to the egg vendor's each day?!" you'll chortle.
"My god, I cannot forget," she'll laugh. "Do you remember the way we were?"
"I do," you'll say. "I do."
Right then you are that child once more; incorrigible and vulnerable,
your instincts crackling, possibility thundering in your ears, gossamer clouds of hope everywhere.
Disiloojene...menent sounds like something best left to the adults.

Once you've waved her off and her bus has turned a lane and out of sight,
you walk back down the street, so pregnant with quietness, it's like a silent scream.
Your thumping heart once more slips into its familiar, dopey cadence
you're back to your tea-and-toast evenings, pegging away at that mountain of bills,
the brain no longer an implosion of noise and colour.
Edges and shadows roll back into focus.
Your empty house seems to regard you kindly.
willing to let the last few hours (was it days?) slide without mention.
You stumble upstairs to bed and lie there, dead centre,
until sleep tip-toes in and your eyes no longer brook protest.
You forgot the locks, but then you never have interlopers.

Wednesday, 1 June 2011

Party In My Pants

Must have these pants or a fab knock-off of 'em. Even if that means my arse turns lunar each time I have them on.

You see my clothing choices run two ways. There's the list in my head of clothes I'd give my granny for. Jersey maxis, tailored shorts, cute little fauna-print dresses and Peter Pan collars. Naturally therefore, if you're at all familiar with my world, none of these suit me even slightly. Originally I'm a pear shape. Currently I'm the shape of conjoined pears doing a great The Hulk. So instead of sitting around crying about it, I eat deep fried potatoes and go buy safe, characterless clothes that won't draw too much attention.

I want to slowly edge out of the dowdiness, one unthreatening yet unusual (for me) separate at a time. These pants combine my love for comfortable, slouchy silhouettes while adding structure and a bit of even?...without too much choo-choo peh-peh.

I'm raising my mango lassi to change.