Thursday, 29 April 2010

A clock is ticking in the hallway outside. Sunlight is thrown into the room through the bay window, absorbed by the Indian Ivy walls, the linen Roman blind, reflected off of the white satin wood, the mantle, the skirting, the frames. Shadows created by warm air filter across the varnished oak floor by the bay, guilded frames glint with refractions from traffic.

Drawing board on knee, cartridge paper scarred with lines. Drawn, erased, drawn over. The dark walls casting shadow on to the plain on which I draw, onto the chaise lounge. And I take the Voss from the coffee table, and wash the dryness from my mouth, and rest my temple against the wall. Cool. Sill. And a restless child cries from upstairs.

Monday, 26 April 2010

So, erm just like wondering, does anyone wanna get married? All I'm looking for is a nice town house in Nottinghill, were we can raise the kids, I can stay at home whilst you work, do a bit of colouring in, you know, all that shit. Interested, I've got a pretty big dowry?

Monday, 19 April 2010

And so after some in depth emails to the CEO's of Double Cross, an invitation to Bratislava, and some serious consideration, I still can't source and Double Cross in the Uk.

Double Cross Vodka(750ml): Available online(USA ONLY) / New York / Slovakia.

Whoever should place three bottles (and/or a case) of this on my desk by the end of the week, shall win my heart, and bank account. That is all.

Saturday, 10 April 2010

And there's a mint leaf stuck in the straw of the mojito that I'm sucking, which I made myself, and majorly over-poured (a first) with vodka and extra rum, and I'm pretty fucked. And its 1449. And I'm waiting for the washing machine to stop spinning so I can put another load on, but its been stuck on 00:09 minutes for what seems two hours. And I stumble across a bottle of Jager in the cutlery draw. And my suitcase isn't even packed, and I've work in, oh I don't know, perhaps five hours and I'm pretty fucked and its only gonna get worse, and I'm loving it. And did I mention I cleaned the oven, and still havent eaten? Make it a sweet goodbye. Roll on the hills and beaches.

And here's a picture of me in a wetsuit. Make me wet. Oh wait, that's a bush, sometime in mid 2007. You've got me popping champagne I'm at it again.

Thursday, 8 April 2010

Somersault is playing from the kitchen and I'm drinking black coffee, a Cath Kidson mug. And I'm wondering will anyone notice when the cherry trees no longer blossom? The fungi on the trunk the only sign of subtle decade. Or when the tarmac will buckle under heat, or if anyone will care for a water ban.

And a girl is riding a bike in circles in the car park, whilst her farther watches on. And I'm just waiting for the summer. The beaches, the slow days, leafy parks around the city. The cider, the sun burn, cold showers. Road trips. Sea salt, BBQ's, beach fires. Laying in vegetable gardens, earthy smells, Perrier, shadow cast across faces, evening sun , harvest. Dirt roads, dusty sports cars. The 96' defender, chaise lounges. The smell of sun lotion. Cursing under oak leaf canopies. Hot sand. The sheltering cliffs.

Tuesday, 6 April 2010

A laptop no longer in use. A playlist no longer played. A CD I wonder if you still own. Filled with songs I know longer know, but once did, and at the time I guess I felt the same about myself. And a message is sent with out reply.

And come Saturday I'm standing at Victoria, at London Bridge, at Bank, and I can't stand here without thinking of you, in fact I can't be in this city without thinking about you. And if it not for those four weeks, three years before, I'd probably never have come here, the streets and the buildings. Mansion House, and the hours we spent outside St Paul's and the questions I'd ask that you were able to answer so freely.

That morning. How we lay, entangled. And how the November chill rouged your cheeks. The streets close, and warmed by open doors, busy with people. Drinking coffee. The new library. And we were much alike then, and now so far apart I'm unsure. But if one could wait. Two years. Or perhaps we need not, if you'd ask me now, I'd take the 318 mile drive. And in the summer, we could frequent the cottage, a beach I'd pine for you to see. A sea view to lose you. And we'd waste dusk by the waterfront, through reeds of the estuary.

Bring me home.