Friendly reminder of why I love London

I wanted to live here most of my life. I wanted to live here, or somewhere in Scotland or in Ireland, because I was a confused girl. I still want to live everywhere and see everything and fall in love with places and buildings and various methods of dealing weed.

But a week ago, I was reminded why I love London so much. Life has a funny way of working that way. You see, I was on the verge of questioning everything and everyone and damning it all to Hell. I have this innate attitude to just run away from things when I no longer like them. Kind of like why I don’t date. I get annoyed, or bored, or scared, and I just want to leave it all and fuck off.

Last Wednesday, when I realised it was too late to do my assignment, and I was too restless to do it, anyway, Emerald had the beautiful idea to go buy pants. It is what it is. So, Westfield. In rush hour. Changing at Canning Town. Fuck me, right?

In the sea of people, all mindless, tired, equally as annoyed as I was, we dragged our feet with the sole purpose of getting the fuck on a Jubilee line train and “come on already, damn it all to fuck!”

The actual conversation went along the lines of:

“Emerald, why the fuck did you decide to go Westfield in the middle of fucking rush hour? You know I fucking hate people.”

This man, possibly in his fifties (maybe attractive), chuckled and I turned to look at him, smiling in recognition. It was one of those bonding moments when you just agree with a random stranger. The kind of bond you make when you’re waiting in Costa and some rude little bitch cuts you off and screams she wanted skimmed crap whatever, climbs on top of you and possibly lets her dick bob on your forehead on the way to a fight. And you look at the stranger next to you, whose jaw is locked and whose eyes are rolling. And you know. That strangers know. You’re on the same wavelenght. (Celestial or not, whee Supernatural reference!)

I digress.

Emerald was a step lower than I was (and still fucking taller than the fucking Shard, it’s ridiculous really), and she sighed, annoyed with me, the people, the world, men, dicks and everything really. So she tried. She really did. She actually got halfway through saying, “I’m all out of fucks to give.” But I let her get four words out before starting to sing-yell (syell?), in a particularly non flattering voice:


And then something amazing happened. Something that made my day, and the following day, and every moment I feel down or miserable.

The man from earlier, the one I shared a profound and very spiritual rush hour related bond with, starting singing as well. Just like that. He led me lead, bless him, probably because of my youth, or my passion. He was my second voice for the entirety of four lines we belted out together. I turned to look at him as we walked down the stairs, and he was smiling. I was smiling. Emerald was laughing, and if nothing else, it made me happier than I’d been in a long time.

It definitely made me blush for the first time in probably more than four years.

It made me laugh and feel bubbly inside because a complete stranger bonded with me and sang with me and I don’t want punctuation to hinder this sentence at all.

It might look childish. It could very well be, but I don’t give a fuck. I spent the next couple of hours just grinning like an idiot because someone was kind, and also because I made someone smile. I have this naive idea that he went home to his wife or husband or mistress or children or dog or whatever, and told them this random girl in Canning Town sang Air Supply and he joined in. And that he was happy.

I fucking love London, even if just because a man sang “All out of love” with me.


(Also, dicks.)


My baby E,

For someone doing a writing course, this is surprisingly difficult to put on paper. Or blog. You know what I mean. I’ll blame the library computers for it. I can almost hear you saying “you dildo” to this. I can always hear you saying all sort of things in my head. I’m really glad you exist, so I can complain about how annoying it can get. Especially when I’m about to kiss that guy you said “No” about literally five minutes before. I’m really glad you exist, because schizophrenia with your voice in my head would be the worst.

I’m cheesy as fuck, blame it on my ovulation or potential pregnancy or whatevs. Blame it on the fact that you left me fifteen minutes ago because “Lidl shuts at 10”. Blame it on how lonely I feel, or how typing on this positively ancient keyboard echoes more than that one guy who always wanks in the library. Blame it on how much I love you and us. Blame it on whatever the fuck you want, as long as you accept it as valid.

I pray to whatever god I invent and believe in for the day that whatever we have, if it’s friendship, or love, or lust or the stuff of soulmates, I pray it doesn’t end. I pray I won’t fuck it up. I pray you won’t ever grow to hate me. I pray I will be a good enough person for you to always want in your life. I hope we can overcome anything and everything there will be to overcome. I pray we’ll always be like this, complete and utter balls dickheads.

If I could take all this feeling and bottle it up, I wouldn’t let anyone use it as a perfume, because it’s mine and mine alone. And you make it happen. Together with the frustrating moments when you’re just unreasonable and horrible, and I want to smack you and tell you I’m pretty and that’s all that you should care about.

If I could draw it for you, I would. If I could write it more accurately than this, I would. This feeling, this entire thing my heart does, when it hurts when you’re hurting; all this, this is now embedded into who I am as a person. Congratulations. You are in me. And not in a way everyone else has been in me, but in a deep (ha haa) meaningful way. There’s a reason the second we meet up I want to tell you everything, even if you’re tired or moody. I want you to know, because you validate me in a nonjudgmental way. Because you are everything I want and fear I’ll fuck up.

I’ve had this love before, baby. I’ve had it and it scares the shit out of me that one day it won’t be there anymore. Every single time you go passive aggressive, I get this feeling in my gut, like my entire life just drains away. And then I tell myself I can fix it. I can make it better. You can’t possibly understand what you mean to me, and how important this shit is.

And then there’s the fucking small things and the not so small things. I could write a book with our fucking stupid trips to anywhere really, and the way you knew I was upset so you bought me a perfume, because you knew I was completely out. And the lipstick, and the food, holy shit the fucking food. All of the food. And just the fact that you are tall enough that my tits fit perfectly under yours. And the way you do my hair, and use my shower and my shampoo (remind me to buy some, by the way). And that time on your birthday you wrote with a sharpie on my leg, which in turn meant that I shaved when I was drunk and long story short, I’ll have a scar that I’m gonna name after you. Speaking of which, the baby names. And dick talk and the way you just know what to do.

There are so many things I could be describing here, including the background of the endless lists of quotes I have everywhere. Just so no one forgets, “I can’t believe you hi-ed Gerard”.

But two particular things come to mine, and fuck off yeah, you made me tear up in the library. You said the most beautiful thing in the world yesterday, when you were using us as an example. Sidetracking, we are so married, it’s ridiculous. Like, we use our fucking friendship as an example for a functional relationship, which is astonishing, given our levels of co-dependency. But yeah, you said “If anyone took Jo away from me, I don’t know what I would do.” And I might have played it cool, and kissed the side of your neck and called you an idiot and whatnot, but every time I stop to think about something, I hear that in the back of my head. And it makes me happy, and it scares me as well, because you know how I’m not used to receiving gifts and have someone love me back in the same way and with the same intensity.

And then your fucking dream, and how fucking mental you have to be to dream that thing, complete with psychopath trying it on with me (check), and flying my fucking family there. But dreaming I was murdered wasn’t half as fucking heartbreaking as you not allowing my mum to take me to Romania, because this is my home, you said. And you taking my fucking ashes to Scotland, because Scotland is my fucking spirit animal. And your speech, and I don’t even care if you didn’t want people to know all this, because I am so overwhelmed someone cares about me like this. I am so desperately anxious and happy and terrified and proud.

I love you so much it makes me want to cuddle you at all times, while we eat pizza and doughballs (and you have milk, you freak what even) and watch shit on youtube.

And listen to Nicki Minaj, because we’re tasteless whores.

“You’re pretty!”

“You’re right!”

All of my love, drinks and Marlboros,




My love,

It’s been six years since we met. I’m sorry I didn’t get to write to you on the day, but you always said I should go and smile more often. Yeah, well fuck you. Congratulate me, I only had three panic attacks on Friday, I seriously think I’m getting better. It’s so surreal to think I’m growing old and you aren’t. It’s makes my skin crawl and my heart soar. It’s the sort of feeling you get when you forget something and you don’t know what it is, so the information just stays at the back of your head, waiting, prodding and making you want to to claw at your brain and get it out.

The age difference between the two of us was so beautiful. It made me feel safe and it made you feel… well, illegal is one way of putting it. I miss you, my love. I miss you every day and every breathing moment – that presence of the back of your head. I keep thinking what life would be if I stayed home that night. If I read a book instead. If I didn’t put stilettos on, or if I left home earlier.

I like to think I would have met you at some point. The sort of blind, almost religious love we shared is impossible to avoid, and I like to think that I would have met you a month or a year later. I like to think that things would have been different, and maybe you’d be here with me to celebrate the day we met.

If you can hear my thoughts, or read my words, or even remotely know anything about my life, you must fucking hate how much it all revolves around you. The same words, the same feelings, over and over again. Surely you can’t stand it anymore.

You shouldn’t have gone then, my love.