Cats

Do cats like bad people?
Do they just like everybody that treats them well?
Are cats just like himans?
Or are humans just like cats?

London

I watched London leave through the dirty coach windows and all I could think about was her. A restaurant we loved yet failed to return to since. The cravings for nicotine, tea and sex and those mornings of love seem like some other time. Somebody Else's other time.

A few seats forward the shadow of a man lurches violently with a cough that is a pleasant reminder I should smoke less and less reds. It would irritate me but I felt sorry for him and wished I had some water. A bad cough is a terrible thing. Irritation came from the Saville Row suited kid or hormone deficient man sat to my immediate right. Tapping into his phone with an annoying repetition of a man who has to be doing something. Music too loud floating into the fan-assisted silence, I even heard our song but that is becoming standard these days. Almost like a ticking time bomb. A Japanese couple sleep on each other, curled up in the way only couples can on a coach and it made me realise that we had never had a chance to leave this filthy city, we had never made time. Bubble love. London is.
It seems a shame one city, one moment in time defined us. Sad.

London speeds by and sooner at this time of night rather than later it is Hillingdon - a pit stop, a a benchmark, a landmark to a better place. Soon it is the motorway and soon it is home. Though I cant help but feel, cliched as it is, that home is where the heart is. A basement flat in Peckham of all places, somebody elses home as it always has been.

I miss acting on a heartbeat.
I do miss being me.
I think one day I may find myself again but until then i shall remain Mr Nobody.

Mariah

Mariah, mariah, you set my heart on fire little alice lost in wonderland you are.

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.

Caterpillars

I like them and she did to. Where the sense was. Nobody knows.

Its A Monday

It seems its true about people in the east of London. They have their clocks and watches set ten minutes behind the rest of London. Its going to cause terrible chaos with the Olympic games but perhaps they will be made to change. I am not going to imply they are backward after all my coffee is good and non-branded, the strokes fill the air and for a brief moment in time I feel like myself. Altogether somewhere backward. Waiting fo something to happen.

Careless Whisper 2

Careless Whisper now floats in through the window I must close and once again today I feel ten. I just need dallas, snooker and the smell of ironing and everything will be complete.

Careless Whisper

Careless Whisper floats through the cold and empty black prince road and with big ben chiming in the distance its hard noto to feel weird.