Heee

Someone took a lovely photo of my bottom last night; I'm the one in black, of course!

Of Holidays and Habit

Last summer we went to New York; I'd never been before, so he took the opportunity to act as my guide, pointing out landmarks and places to visit as we lazed on the rooftop of our building, courtesy of absent friends, with the cool breeze gently ruffling our hair. He grabbed my hand and showed me; if you lie right down on your belly and then slide forward slowly, slowly, you can dip your head over the sheer drop and people watch.

He described the city as a 'mislaid part of Europe', but I didn't fall in love with it as completely as he did, despite his near constant sales pitch.

He's always had a thing for heights, and a magic ability to make me face them; for me, a wave of vertigo marks most of our holidays together- that first one in Wales (yes, I know) had an impact that lasted far longer than the hideous stick of rock he insisted we buy 'in keeping with tradition'. Now, when I'm hit with the saline tang of the sea I feel a dizzying wave of vertigo and remember the warmth of his hand on mine as he tugged me far too close for comfort to the cliff edge.

So you can imagine my horror when he suggested a week long trip to Turkey in July- I'm going to visit my maternal grandparents in North Cyprus for a month soon after, so it's sort of a stop off trip.
Can I say no?
No, and I'm not sure I want to; I've spent most of my life trying to prolong our time together, and it's a hard habit to break.

I just know at some point during that week we'll end up on a cliff somewhere with him gently insisting I face the edge, as I battle with memories of looking straight down at a grey sea battering the rocks beneath our feet with unrelenting fury, and the sea spray cool against my face, and the heady warmth of him as he stood close behind me, arms clasped round my waist.

Background Notes

I woke up to him crawling up my bed towards me, under the bedcovers. An impressive feat, considering the sheer weight of all the blankets heaped on my bed- I hate the cold; that being so, moving about under the things exerts effort second only to serious weight lifting.

I woke in a panic, searching for the discrepancy that had broken my sleep, clutching the covers to my chest, heart pounding, staring blindly out into the darkness. He poked his head out of the top of the blankets, and peeked up at me.
"Did I scare you cupcake?"
"Nope, not me.. I have men crawling at my feet all the time."
"Right." He put his arms around me and we snuggled down together, no questions asked; we'd both known he wouldn't actually sleep on the couch.

I met Joel when I was five; my parents had just relocated us yet again, to an even more remote corner of Wales. I was sulking, and looking for my older brothers; like the Rugrats, I wanted to carry out a kitchen raid on the cookie jar.
While searching for them I found Joel kicking his heels, and immediately recruited him for a mission that turned out to be a resounding success- we spent the rest of the afternoon lying out in the fields behind our houses in what could be accurately described as a diabetic hell and a childs heaven.

Looking back, it didn't take much for me to fall head-over-heels for him; although I think the initial attraction was formed when I saw him crawl, Action Man style, across my mothers' kitchen floor in search of sugary snacks, and went on to consolidated later that same afternoon as we lay in the sunshine, plowing our way methodically through our haul, as I got to know him.

Lucky for him I've never been particularly fussy, isn't it?

It was all very idyllic, that first summer spent kicking our heels in Abergavenny (say it with a welsh accent, it's cute), exploring the castle and playing in the woods near the canal; I lost track of how many times I'd return to my furious mother covered in bumps and grazes. One year, we found a kitten (or a very small half starved cat, whatever) and brought it back with us- JIm (see how our names run together there? Hee). He bit my lip, gave me a scar; I pushed him off the back of the couch and gave him a scar that runs through his eyebrow.
War wounds.

I have other war wounds though, gathered more recently during a fat induced jaunt to the gym.
Unlike Fuckkit, who must be officially mad, I don't enjoy it, in any way shape or form.
I hate the ugly shoes and I hate the ugly clothes, I hate the smell and I hate the showers, and the thought of changing room floors, and I hate how I always, without fail, run into the Ex when I'm working out. Or one of them, whatever.
Not something I relish when not at my most attractive.

Anyway, during the recent trip, being ever so suave, I tripped on my roller blades and scraped my knees to high heaven. Snuggled up in bed last night, Joel ran his hand down my leg, and encountered the still healing scrapes.
"What happened there?"
"I fell off my skates on the way to the gym- god's will." He accepted the explanation without question, as I have a long history of such things- not a history of roller blading (thank you god) but of things cropping up at the last minute and stopping me from going to the gym.
"Cupcake, you need to work out."
"Mmmf," I said, curling up under the covers and going to sleep.

--------------------------

He woke me up as daylight- I want to say sunshine, but that seems a bit optimistic- began to creep past the curtains. He threw a pair of daps on the bed, followed by ugly work out clothes- red and brown, of course.
"I can't wear that!" I said, the smell of coffee on the window sill waking me. "It'll clash!"
"What? Listen Cupcake, all we're doing is visiting the gym. Relax, noone'll care."
"I care." I narrowed my eyes. "I mean, black and brown?"

He won. I got dressed and we went to the gym.

"I'm only doing this for you, you know."

Open Invite

My phone rang at half six.
"'Mmm?"
"Cupcake! Are you OK? Can I come visit?"
""Mm."
"Did I wake you?"
"Mm."
"I'll bring snacks and nibbles."
"Right."

* * *

Sophie flatmate came wandering in as I shuffled round the flat a while later, having given up on getting any more sleep, squinting and desperately closing curtains, wearing fluffy slippers and my favourite pyjamas and cuddling a hot water bottle.
"What's with the stupor?" She asked, grinning slightly. I spotted a heap of blankets and cushions in a corner, well hidden behind a discarded Twister mat, a plant, a card tower and an empty bottle of vodka and dragged them towards the couch- a move made more difficult by my reluctance to relinquish my death grip on the hot water bottle.
The card tower collapsed, of course.
"Oh," she said, watching. "So Joel's visiting?"
I caught sight of myself in the mirror and stifled a sqeal. "Of course he's visiting."

* * *

She walked out, Toby flatmate walked in and collapsed on the floor next to me clutching a copy of Vogue, and a barbie doll missing a shoe.
Seriously; that boy has the best nights out.
He glanced at me, drank half my coffee before I could summon the energy to protest, then looked again: from me, to the couch, and back.
And then he did it all one more time, for good measure.
"Oh," he said, rubbing his head ruefully. "So Joel's visiting?"

* * *

An hour later I was slightly less hungover, still curled up on the floor with Toby keeping me warm, and beginning to contemplate commencing a search for blueberry muffins, when my Alex flatmate resurfaced, looking slightly worse for wear.
"What happened?" I asked. "I only remember drinking a can of something or other!"
He gave me A Look. "No."
"Right." We've done this before.
He glanced over at the blankets piled on the couch- "Oh", he said. "So Joel's visiting?"
"I have more than one friend!"
"Sure you do babe."
"So?"
"Stupor. Hot water bottle. Fluffy slippers. Scary hair. Hideous pyjamas."
"It's polka dot. It's a movement."
"They're ugly."
"Did you have a point when you started?" I asked. Bloody hypocrite.
"I forget." He shrugged, then winced. "I just don't know anyone else who makes you so totally deranged."

* * *

Three hours later I was alone in the flat, kicking my heels and contemplating the need for sunglasses, before going to meet him off the train, when he walked in.
"I caught an early train," he said, running across and catching me up in a hug that knocked all the breath from my lungs. "Blimey darlin', there's nothing on you, but I've blueberry muffins in my bag so we'll soon fix that."
He loosened his grip for a tic and I had a stab at the whole breathing thing, before he pulled me to him again, arms tight round my waist, my feet leaving the floor, my hangover threatening to return with a vengeance. "I'm so glad to see you again cupcake," he said, then he licked my cheek.

I mean, how normal is that?

But I love this boy; he's the one from the Disney post a few days back, the one who bit my lip and sent me to A&E.

More on this little visit as it happens.

Going Home

It's no secret that I don't like my parents very much. However, if we factor out the occasional binge-drinking session (me) or the occasional guilt inspired cheque (them) this has little bearing on our day to day lives- my reasoning being the distance between Manchester and London, theirs being that they have better things to concern themselves with.

Anyway, that all being the way it is, I don't go back to visit them anything like as often as might be expected of someone who recieves healthy guilt cheques and with a complete inability to remember to eat; I have friends who call their parents' place 'home,' and their flat just gets referred to as 'the flat.' I'm only half there- my flat is 'the flat,' and my parents' house gets referred to as just that, often accompanied by that finely honed PMS look (and I smashed a plate once, but it was an accident, my hand slipped). So really, I don't call anywhere home; I only realised this this weekend.

This is all fine.

Within minutes of realising that, I also realised I do have somewhere, except my home isn't a place so much as people. And they know it, I know it, and I'm going home this summer.

Lottie was my best friend all the way through school, from the age of five to fifteen. I moved off for college (from very south Wales to rather north England) and we drifted a little, but we're still close.
So this last weekend was her birthday party, and I went back for a visit; ignoring the train trip which was absolutely hideous, I had such a lovely weekend, getting back in touch with old friends, making new ones and getting no sleep- very rock and roll.
Apart from the bit where I watched kids cartoons with her little brother for about five hours on Sunday morning, or the milk and cookies that were offered round about sunrise on Saturday, when those of us still awake (specifically, me, another old friend or two and Jim, her stepfather) were beginning to come down/ feel hungover and erring towards bleak.

It's a scientific fact that milk, cookies and kids tv cures everything.

Her parents, Ca and Jim, are great; when I was little, they were the source of all hugs and kisses, comfort and advice- they actually still are, except now they've morphed from parents into sort of combined parental figures and friends; which essentially just means I say thanks every so often and only bitch a little before going to make tea, but can still ask how old they are, tell them off for swearing too much and play drinking games with them.

They're a ready made, very weird, very close family, and they adopted me years ago.
Ok, so I'm slow on the uptake, but I never pretended to be anything less than rubbish, now did I?

But I had to dash back here, because, joy of joys, it's exam season and I have yet to motivate myself in the general direction of having a stab at understanding Chaucer.
*shudders*
Shakespeare I like. But Chaucer should have been drowned at birth.

I'm not really sure how to describe the way I'm feeling about all this right now, but I think grown-up fits in there somewhere. And since I always wanted to be Peter Pan, my mind's having a hard time getting round the idea that this is feeling like A Good Thing.

Anyway, I've been back here for about an hour now, and I'm about to lose my mind. I love London, but I want to go back.

Right now.

Train journey or no train journey, one hours worth of sleep or not

*pauses*
But if someones driving from London to very south Wales (that'd be a sideways drive, right? I was never any good at Geography, spending all my time giggling at the teachers' name; I mean, what were they thinking hiring someone called Mr Nobson?) then I wouldn't turn up my nose if a lift was waved in front of it.
Even if the lift was in a blue car; I never did look good in blue.

Frippery and Foolishness

Unlike the ladies of Wilde and Murakami, I clutch and covet my early memories, which seem a little sparse up until my fifth year.

My earliest memory involves an aborted attempt at escapism that I remember clearly; alone in my cot at night, watching the moon through bars that rapidly evolved from protective warden to hated gaoler. I remember reaching out towards the moon, and the dark shadow of my hand encircled by its silver glow; and I remember how the bar along the side of the cot hurt my belly as I leaned over the edge, clinging to it.

And then I remember falling out, heels over head, breaking my ankle.

In retrospect, I suspect this may have had something to do with having watched Disney’s ‘All Dogs Go To Heaven’, but I’m not quite sure; the release date seems to coincide. When I look back I see a pattern emerge; I can see the vast majority of the more memorable mishaps of my life are inexplicably linked to the works of Walt Disney. After watching ‘Cinderella’, I tried to catch a mouse in the cupboard under the stairs and was bitten; which resulted in a panicky trip to the doctors for various jabs of all descriptions. In the same week I won for myself a concussion trying to roll down the staircase on a piece of cut-off carpet, after watching ‘Hook’. Not long after, I fell out of a tree trying to mimic Mowgli from the ‘Jungle Book’; the Universal rating just wasn’t designed to safeguard children with no idea of What’s Safe To Do.

Yet I personally consider some of these things fortunate events, an opinion shared by few others and certainly not my mother. As a result, I’ve never been afraid of mice- a lucky trait growing up in an old house filled with mice and frequent visits from a hilariously phobic Grandmother. I’m also still capable of climbing a tree- another lucky trait in a house filled with marauding cats.

Cut to a few years later, when I was, even by my own slightly special standards, more than old enough to know better. I broke my ankle once again, along with my left wrist when I fell off the garage roof- I’d planned to jump off but I lost my nerve at the last moment, having never had much of a head for heights. Why was I on the roof? To see if I could fly. But of course! Hesitating on the edge of the roof I fell; much to vexation and distress of my careworn babysitter. It’s rare that a Disney film- ‘Peter Pan’, in this instance- doesn’t lead to a somewhat foolish action on my part.

Age eight; my playground boyfriend split my lip open as we tried for a ‘Lady and the Tramp’ moment one day at lunch. Neither of us being willing to relinquish the last inch of spaghetti, he bit my lip and once again I was scolded and carted off to A & E. I still have a teeny tiny scar from this, yet without it I suspect he’d attempt to disguise his former lack of suavity, through the time-honoured medium of straight-faced denial.

And he's something of an expert now.

Last year, the same boy accompanied me to the cinema, where we watched the latest Disney release, ‘Lilo and Stitch’. I cried, he cried. “Too much to hope for,” I thought; no one has ever passed the does-he-cry-at-the-same-time-as-me-during-a-movie test before. Thrilled, I left the movie theatre practically skipping for joy; when the left heel of my new shoes broke and I ended up in A & E yet again with a broken wrist.

I haven’t seen the new Disney film yet, but I hear it’s great.

I can’t wait.

Kitten today, sock eating monstrosity tomorrow

The kitten has grown. Just look at it! It's really rather immense. Turn your back for a weeks worth of hungover self-pity and this happens.
"What on earth has it been eating?" I asked, slightly hysterically, looking through the fridge.
"No furniture's gone missing," called my Alec Flatmate from the next room, "and my socks are all present and correct- you might want to check your wardrobe though."
Good lord. I imagine there are parents out there who feel the same about their children- is this what they mean when they say children grow up so quickly?
I don't call eighteen years quick though- I'd rather have a cat; but I haven't found any missing clothes yet, so this might change.

I realise it's not quite on the same scale, but it's the closest I'm ever going to get to the whole 'real parenthood' thing- and I really am a remarkably bad cat parent, so thats probably a plus.

*blinks*

Anyone like to take a stab at whether it's a boycat or a girlcat? I really have no idea, but I have a feeling it's something I should know.

Visits and Visions

Maudin whining brought to you by the morning after a long afternoon and evening that involved a stupidly adventurous mix of absinthe, vodka and tequila.

"Come with me while I visit my parents this weekend?" I asked, blithely ignoring his silent appeal and plying him with alcohol. "C'mon, it'll be fun; they'll think you're my boyfriend, and you can snoop around and try to find my old diary. And ask invasive questions."

My old diary is of more a series of abortive attempts at diary keeping than a day-to-day account; I might have filled in every day for a week, then- silence, for maybe a month, four, until I remembered about it again.
So it's patchy, very patchy, as I seem to have been the world's most inattentive diarist.

Going to my parents' place for a-visiting isn't something I do very often due to a number of reasons, but mostly, I suspect, because I just can't entertain myself in the backwater in which they live. Last time I went, I found and flicked through my old diary. Stopping on a random page, I found an entry written by my fifteen year old self;

I guess it must be true, then.

I stopped reading after that page; I try to tune out self-pity as much as possible these days- it's just not an attractive quality and I hear it leads to premature wrinkles.
Unlike selfishness, or those other similar charming traits I hear I possess in abundance.

"I didn't buy this drink to drink, I bought it to stare dejectedly into its depths."

That diary entry has been returning to haunt me periodically since I re-read it at Christmas; I had a long overnight bus trip to get back home again, and spent most of it staring pensively at my reflection in the dark window.
I don't think there's anything that makes me feel lonelier than my reflection in the window of a vehicle at night.

"Loneliness is a terrible thing, don't you think?" the boy said to me once.

I had to put the diary down and hide it away again. With any luck I'll forget where I hid it; that entry makes me want to reach back to myself at fifteen and promise that everything will work out alright.
Which makes me wonder whether everything will, from my nineteen year old perspective.