This post will be short.
Amazon are at my door with ink cartridges.
This post will be short.
Amazon are at my door with ink cartridges.
I’ve decided that WordPress has a lot going for it. Behind the most poorly-designed user interface known to man, there’s an indulgently trompe l’œil comfort in even having an account. Robust in its own quirky way, and untainted by the largely Kardashianised sister platforms, it has a certain charm.
There are no pressures to shop out my blemishes or angle my physique to where I’m 2/3 ass. No-one knows what I’m eating or drinking, where I’m posting from, and the only thing I’m contouring are my words.
Smoke and mirrors, if you will. Done right. If I gave a shit, or had the time, I’d entertain the idea of fabricating a solidly-enviable life. Put my all into it. Accumulate a fidget-spinning following, egged on by acai bowls and chia seeds, while hints of Nordic chic would rubber-stamp an aesthetically-conscious edge. Slab tables, I think. Faint throwbacks to Ella Fitzgerald. Something or other blonde; woods, hair, what you will.
I’d be clever, too. Invert the letters for the days I sip chai, and casual mentions of industrial metallics or courtyards would add a certain folie-folie. I’d be too classy to name-drop; leaving merely in my wake an out-of-focus, suspended question mark, framed only by a flurry of coffee shops and strung-out cappuccino trails spelling out “wish you were here”. I’d be too busy or popular to check the comments.
I’d risk it, but WordPress says it powers 28% of the internet. Which suggests a budget. One that might, one day, even stretch to Julian Assange. He would definitely out my Waitrose location. The empire of flat whites would collapse in an irreversible mountain of shame, and still, I would attempt its facades. For acquisition of the impossible has no limits.
The Waitrose Christmas Cup.
For now, my sole, most-fuelled, and most-ardent pursuit.
In so many ways.
If the empty Waitrose cup’s 18 grams is just too much for the bagging area to handle, and according to Alejandro González Iñárritu, your soul weighs 21 grams, at what point is one considered to have “excess baggage”?
I have a friend who is incredibly astute.
“That’s the problem with being female in a big city,” she said recently. “You’re always either hunting for an apartment, a job, or a guy”.
Living in London is like living in the worst video game ever. You can’t pause, you don’t get a second chance, and you never die. Just you, and eight million other freaks, aimlessly wandering this damp shitfest of a conurbation, where the default setting is autonomic hyperactivity so high, there’s no way a discreet smile can be interpreted as anything other than life-menacing.
I didn’t realise they decorate the hamster wheel of compartmental destitution for Christmas. They do. In the really fucked up way that makes a rodent really excited, because the bars of his cage got a fresh lick of paint. Hey! You! Don’t be hoodwinked into toying with notions that your pathetic existence is meaningless and vapid. Look at all the things we have to offer! You can pay for your ride through tunnels of dust contactlessly. You get nectar points. Everything you drink is about to taste a hundred times better, because WE JUST STARTED POURING STUFF INTO CUPS THAT ARE RED!
The world also just got infinitely more exciting because Samsung have brought out a “notebook” that spontaneously combusts as its way of telling you it’s fully charged. I can’t sue for identity theft here, but dude.
I’m a writer.
We have two tools we can exclusively call our own. Notebooks and pens. We’ve been around for thousands of years. Ten minutes, you’ve been on the scene, and you’ve already violated the very elements that constitute us. Just behind “photographer”, everyone is (of course) now also a “writer”. I see them, polluting my headspace with their toffee nut proletariat, while I cling mercilessly on to my one remaining pleasure. Writing on 22×7 squared Clairefontaine notebooks with a brushed vellum paper weight of 90g/m².
Now I’m both angry and sad, because the fancy pink grapefruit I bought to cheer myself up was rubbish, and the £500 Waitrose are promising I can win in return for feedback is a sad lie. My postcode is too bourgeois.
I’ve decided to write a book on bravery in the chicken pen.
Mr Cluck Doesn’t Give A Fuck.
If you feel it infringes on animal rights, you’ll probably want additional ammo with which to load your hate gun.
Which I can take.
And you can suck.
I’ve already written cages and cages.
If recent posts are doing a poor job sequestering my love for all things infantile, fine. This is my pram, these are my toys, and I’ll throw them how I choose.
In a world where little boys sit in glass-wrapped offices and rest their Helmut Lang elbows on mahogany desks, I’m calling bullshit. Why?
Because I am a lady who rides the bus. And when some clown freezes the Jubilee Line because retrieving his smartphone from the tracks seemed a “better idea between trains”, Canary Wharf also rides the bus.
The bus is an interesting place. Seat margins replace profits, Tartine et Chocolat gives Tom Ford the middle finger, and there is no UberSelect. It’s called “I put my coat there first”. For all the billions these heavyweights net in their high-rises, I’ve yet to see one of these fuckers come up with a counter-argument for the twelve year-old who was “sitting there first”.
And that is because the bus is the rail replacement service to childhood.
Everyone pushes to get on.
Everyone wants to sit by the window/at the back/on the convex bit that’s cool because it’s above the wheel.
No-one argues with the driver.
Shoving? He’ll call you on it. Press the bell when the sign clearly says someone already did? He’ll call you on it. And just like at school, if you’re the victim of bullying, eyes on the road, didn’t see a damn thing.
Food gets more interesting here, too. Fast food joints on the street won’t even register on your radar. But when that nurse pulls out a congealed tray of cold noodles? Noodles are the greatest thing CREATED EVER.
The older get priority seating.
They should get priority boarding, but no-one gives a shit.
Nobody should be littering. Everyone still does.
Someone always misses their stop. There is one acceptable reaction to this. Man the fuck up, and shrug it off.
If you’re on your way to an interview and on a bus, you’re probably not going to make it. To the interview, and you know, in life, generally. Still, retain what Google told you. Look like you’ve got it together. Sound like you’ve got it together. Make eye contact.
Except on the bus.
If you happen to be on the phone (which I believe these gargantuan office transactions at some point require), make sure everyone can hear you. No, louder. We like having our own little world hijacked by why you will or won’t be turning up to dinner, broken down into microscopic detail, then blasted through a megaphone. Make sure to repeat yourself. They might not have heard you the first time.
Make sure to begin your call with “hi, it’s me”.
No. Better. Leave it in a voicemail.
My popularity-guaranteed life coach services are available seven days a week. Except when I’m on the phone.