Friday, 28 September 2007


After a Friday-lunchtime swift half, I exit the pub to find rain and a colleague, one of three smokers, puffing away disconsolately under a turquoise umbrella. We exchange pleasantries and she admits that this is the first time she’s had to stand out in the rain smoking since the ban. I ask if she’s rethinking her decision to maintain the habit and she thoughtfully admits she is. The rain continues to fall. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I say, ‘I don’t want it to rain on my handbag.’ As she acknowledges how beautiful it is, the smoker next to her, bursts into laughter at my words, and says to his friend ‘I don’t believe I just heard that.’ I trip away down the street, happy to have cheered him with my girlie-ness.

Wednesday, 19 September 2007


In the aisles of the supermarket, I play chicken with a nun. Or, more precisely, she plays chicken with me. I’m busy looking for the avocados, and find her in my path, a steely glare letting me know she ain’t budging from her path for anybody. The large silver crucifix around her neck glitters, I step around her immovable presence. Jesus is on her side today.

Sunday, 16 September 2007


Flicking through the ‘Education Special’ in a glossy, upmarket, local magazine, I spot an advertisement for the school where I worked for seven long years. The locations pictured in the photographs are familiar, and I even recognise an ex-colleague, but the faces of the children are all strange. I realise, with some pleasure, how long ago it feels since I worked there and how right it was to leave.

Sunday Girl

Listening to Blondie blaring through the walls, (agony with a migraine), I remember the letter mistakenly delivered to my house last weekend for my perpetually noisy neighbours. Finding out their surname is Savage was oddly satisfying, given their propensity for uncouth behaviour.

Thursday, 13 September 2007


After a long day, I walk into my darkened living room to be greeting by the warm, sensual smell of pink lilies, and a blinking, grey, tabby cat.


In conversation with a London circus performer, it is explained to me that static trapeze is the ‘classical music of circus arts’, whilst aerial silks and aerial hoop ‘are your jazz’. To be a good performer, you need to know the foundations and principles of your art, thus, building a static trapeze repertoire is essential. I can’t decide if he is being pretentious or if he has a point, but the analogy makes me smile regardless.

Tuesday, 11 September 2007


In the dove grey sky, uplit by the setting sun, a jet climbs to twenty-five thousand feet. In its wake, a bright, white crescent streaks heavenward; half a smile on the evening sky.


Determined to get to work on time, I rush out the front door and run to the station after a hasty pee. After fighting my way through a swarm of ignorant grammar school children (Yo! Hugo, wait up!), I sprint up the platform and jump onto the fast train. I bag the last seat in the carriage and sit there panting and sweating from the effort, but pleased to have caught the train. As my heaving chest subsides, I look down to see my trousers gaping open, a button and the zip completely undone, my see-through, black and white, zebra print thong entirely visible to anyone who cares to look down. Embarrassed, I hastily pull the zip up, but can’t help chuckling to myself as well.

Wednesday, 5 September 2007


As I shuffle my way off a packed train, my colleague calls. I assume his journey to work has been as painful as my own, and answer with a groan. But I am wrong, he's calling from outside the caff to ask if I want a bacon sandwich. 'Brown bread and brown sauce. That's easy to remember.' he says in response to my delighted acceptance. When I arrive at my desk, the sarnie is waiting. I make us all a cup of tea. 'Nice tea.' says my colleague. 'Nice sarnie.' I reply, and we grin at each other.

Tuesday, 4 September 2007


Emerging from the station, I become aware of of a rumble. The rumble grows and grows, a mechanical eruption signalling, what? A jumbo jet? An apocalypse? Slowly, so slowly, an enormous steam traction engine crawls into view. Pedestrians stop and stare, fingers in ears, as the black behemoth crawls down the high street, dragging a shabby white caravan behind it, and followed by a long string of dwarfed motor cars.