There were no feathers. No signs of violence.
My hen has gone to see the world.
Archive Page 2
I don’t feel comfortable with happiness.
It is a strange bed fellow.
I must address this immediately.
My favourite hen has gone missing. I fear the fox has eaten her.
After the relief that was Hometime and the balance that Voice returned to me, I hoped I would be back on track. I did not imagine feeling as I do today.
This week we mastered the record. The Turn.
Can we keep saying it? As with every new love affair? This is it. The one. This is the culmination of every lesson learnt. The blessing of age.
I am reeling, self-satisfied, thrilled. I feel smashed. I am tired. Without doubt. Filled with aching love for the people that surround me. The space and support they have gifted me… for the door that was left opened to me.
This must be happiness.
Aren’t I supposed to be going to bed at three.. and not getting up?
That can’t be right.
It’s all coming upon me again as the excitement I feel about working gets into fisticuffs with ‘outside, bad…inside, good’
Bloody Nora.. I have to go shopping for clothes. I have to find that one perfect shirt and buy 10 of them.
The last perfect shirt lasted me 2 albums and a couple of tours… and day wear.
It longs to be retired.
This is the perfect way of dressing for me. (other than you have to assure your companions daily, that whilst it is indeed identical, it is not the same shirt that you had on yesterday.)
It requires no thought and no pursed lipped mirror gazing.
Shit, but I’m fat.
Not that imaginary pop world fat, that the truly beautiful and talented Lilly Allen sees on herself.
The type of self-image that gets thrown upon a regular girl from the taunting, self-satisfied suck-chicks, who pluck and baste themselves in a tragic frenzy…. no…real fat.
I am the real deal. I should be banned from the NHS and taxed more.
Arse.
Trouble with having a website, and making connection with people who are interested in you, for whatever reason… is that you are drawn to looking at images of yourself.
I have been reminded of certain performances, and have gone to look to see how I felt about them retrospectively.
This never happened before computers. Not for me.
Before computers I answered mail.
I polished my desk.
There is also, along with the brilliant support and loyalty that I know I will encounter… a slightly masochistic tip to these outings.
I am interested to know what will sting me.
I have from time to time, pulled off my own toe nail to see if I could bear it.
Polish that, you manicurist….
(sorry if that makes you retch…well, no, not that sorry)
Anyway, as much as being fat grieves me for the simple fact, and admittedly not the only one, that it makes the bi-decade shopping expedition more torturous, it does not, after years of lame and tired name calling – sting.
..back to the WWW…
The last comment I noted was ‘great song / voice ( I can’t remember which)..but no, she’s much too fat’
…and i thought, nothing wrong with your spacial awareness friend, but…. too fat for what?
If, after hearing my dulcet tones you found me to be pleasingly proportioned, were you preparing to take me pony trekking?
Are you looking for a singer to go pot-holing with?
Have I missed out on the chance in a million, to be the muse for your squinty-eyed, self-pleasuring quest?
If only I hadn’t eaten that pie, I could have been loved by you.
Why didn’t I work more in my thin 90’s? Yes, ok, not thin enough to save Girls Aloud from suicide, but just fine for me.
Anyway.
The record is nearly finished and I am an aural beauty!
Soon you can listen to it, and then occupy yourselves loving the one you’re with.
This morning, making coffee and listening to an obscure piano album by musician Dave Palmer (that I randomly found on the internet and decided to buy), Ding and I were discussing the latest issue of Wire.
He’s dressed for his cycle ride in those very tight, nappy arsed, strapped leggings that makes you think Marcel Marceau after a big scare.
He is getting ready for this summer’s L’Etape Du Tour. The lazy fat bastard.
Our youngest child is up the wall, in what seems to be a perpetual state of Hand Stand. I have renamed her Sheila.
Go on…he says, describe one of the featured artists. Do me the blurb.
These are the kinds of games we like to play…that and our favourite ‘Face Making’.
Face making is serious business…smiley mouth - total dead eye, or, perplexed-you-got-me-there, but look!… and can take many long minutes to hone and rearrange until we are satisfied with the result.
Anyhow, I don’t know that I am up to the task this morning… but give it a go as our marriage is very important to us.
Grievous Climb.
Daefus Clag hails from Splott, the son of a Catalonian knife grinder.
A graduate of the Sorbonne, he studied alternative knee bending, and drinking beverages at extreme temperature.
This latest work, influenced by light dimmers and the perpendicular, was recorded in service lifts, between the fifth and sixteenth floors only.
I don’t think they will be open to me at Wire.
They will not be calling me Poly-Stylistic.
They should. It’s a good call.
