Interpol

I listened to the back catalogue of Interpol whilst staring out into the grey of a season that just sits between February and April. The lost season of greys and winds, rain and a cold that is not quite winter. The lost season of secrets, recoil and hibernation. The surreptitious season.
It has been a day of organisation, meddling, tinkering and amusement, as ever, at the antics of others and the backbone that life seems to rip out of the majority - that fear, intricately consuming the conscious mind. So many closed minds and empty souls trapped in a purgatory of their own creation. Desires and needs suppressed by the conformity of the masses - blinded by the destination and oblivious to the journey.
Interpol are a fitting soundtrack to a day I find myself wishing for her to complete my jigsaw and free me from this purgatory of my own creation.

Kumquat

I was supposed to be writing but was distracted by the array of infused oils, local cheeses and Moroccan spices being delivered to my kitchen. A fine way to wake, stumbling into an Aladdin's cave of produce, dripping with sea water, covered in dirt and smelling of a thousand great things but so many fuckin boxes to open.

I spoke to "her" yesterday, the cats mother, about Pippy and when she should come and live with me. It was a point which faded to the background. It was our first conversation in months but our first real one this year, last year we were so much more than the little we were today, but that little was good. I left a part of my heart and soul in a basement flat in peckham with Pippy on guard protecting the parts I need to love again. I feel cold without them. I feel like a clown with frozen tears - stored for another day/week/another time maybe.
I stare into the skin of a Kumquat trying to work out if I can really do without Star Anise and wondering if i will ever be the same again.

"It feels like home"

It sits next to a nunnery, behind an old peoples home and a few plots up from a park with crazy golf and an athletics stone throw away from the neon of consumerism. It is my home sat on the border of new and old somewhere outside Oxfordshire. Its the kind of place where a shark hangs out of the roof of a local house, hosts a reputable theatre, festival and farmers market.
People talk instead of ignore and are curious not recluse. Loneliness is becoming a hard to find commodity once more but a simple ramble and it just opens up before me - sprawling spring greens as far as the eye can see. Mr Nobody is still so. An anonymous shadow behind the service door but with apple ketchup and Thai scallops on the menu a smile starts to form and with the arrival of Pippy - my ice-skating kitten that smile begins to be pinned once more.