Don't. Mine.

These are my walls. Let me remember
What colour they were when I was four.
I can recall the bathroom in yellow and blue, purple
(Which is apparent still under silky white)
And maybe pink
Or was that my room? I know it was also these colours. Then there was
The Care Bears. I loved them so much
For a month or so. They were drawn by hand
Painstakingly painted in a thousand colours.
Their eyes were terrifying.
And it has taken me seventeen years to notice the way the bathroom wall is.
It juts out above the door. I can't remember why.
The living room has always been whites. Blue-white and cream-white
Are still fucking white.
There was the red bit. It was supposed to be raspberry
But it was crimson. Red. Didn't look good, nor bad.
But it always returns to whites.
And once in that place there was a fire, I guess a long time before we were there.
But I do recall an electric fire. We used to sit by it (but not too close!)
And sip cocoa. I dipped cheese on toast into mine.
I still like the way it tasted.

Reviewing my navel. Or is that naval?

I apologise in advance as I have forgotten the name of the restaurant and will have to cross-reference my notes with Mother's infallible memory.

The gastropub. A word that now holds more pretense than haute-cuisine in central London, and if you're anyone worth batting an arsehole for you will have been into at least one. The entrance here was unpretentious, just a door that blended seamlessly into the wall save for a small 'open' sign and a handle. The noise was what you would expect from a pub come early evening and it was nice to see that we had been seated down the quieter end, although music playing over the top of businessmen's roars made it impossible to hear people at the end of the table. Still, no problems as of yet.
Lighting was dim and got dimmer as table service lit candles although next time I would make a point of -not- reaching infront of a guest's face as they are talking to light said candles. However, the atmosphere felt relaxed and was maintained throughout the evening. We placed our orders, recieved our drinks and were swiftly given clean cutlery, condiments and jugs of water. The food arrived shortly afterwards. And I started to regret having such a large appetite.
Portion size was not the problem here. My steak was massive, marbled with fat and topped with parsely butter, cooked to a perfect rare. It was also incredibly tough to eat, given that I wasn't provided with a steak knife. I ended up hacking away at it with a butter knife which in turn damaged the texture of the meat, causing long pauses of serious mastication. It was in no way 'melt-in-the-mouth' yet was very well seasoned and leaked delicious steaky juices. The chips were nasty. They were floppy chunks of pre-frozen potato, season with... something. When this something met the parsely butter my mouth twinged - placing the steak over the chips definately didn't improve their constitution. I ate one and no more. The salad that came with the meal was large and contained a nice mix of lettuces which I loved, but should have been served in a separate bowl as the chip/steak pile was ontop of most of the greens. The red wine that was suggested by our waiter was actually very nice and was served at room temperature. Props to the man waiting our table for that.
Another guest in our party ordered their fig tart with a side of chips and aioli. The aioli was perfectly balanced, but tasted commercial. Ah well, can't win 'em all. The fig tart had a filo base, from what I remember, and arrived a dark brown. Uh oh. Burned filo. I didn't taste it, but apparently this was otherwise very nice. Still, for a gastropub in King's Cross you have to realise people have certain expectations about the quality of your food... I had no problem catching someone when we came to pay the bill which came in at around £20 a head, a fairly unremarkable price.
Two and a half floppy frozen chip chunks out of five.

Respect is Earned

You have my respect.

Because you can say that my ass does look fat in those jeans.
Because you can get past that annoying level with that annoying boss with ease.
Because you can look me in the eye.
Because you put me first.
Because you empathise with me.
Because you are the most patient person I know.
Because you are not ashamed to show your bashfulness.
Because your honesty bites.
Because you hardly say thanks for a meal, but your eyes occasionaly spark with joy from it which is more than any amount of words could manage.
Because you always forget not to call me 'Babe'. (Like the pig.) And because I don't really mind at all :P





Tantta



Yours is the room I run to when I break down, the clothes I smell and cling to to remember who I am
And the food I eat when I feel homesick.
You are the person I need to not need.
You are the bane of my existance and all of my current knowledge.
You are all the spelling mistakes I notice, the shirts I borrow when I want to look grown-up
But not my first pair of high heels.
In autumn we sit and recall fond memories, (usually over a glass of wine and something roasted)
And we have watched the seasons changing.
In you I see my own failings, in a sort of perverse way I guess.. I suppose.. I theorise.
Every time I could have, I refused. Now you can be smug.
You are my hatred, infectious bitch.
You spawned this person, you made me
Me.
But you are still stuck mimmicking your own voice in my head,
You are still wiping my nose
And checking my fever.
I bow to you.

Summertime - and they say living's easy,
But I find it too sleazy
With the coal man watching from his bedroom window.
Summertime is a beautiful day in July,
How the world seems to float with it's alibies - I can lie,
But it's still dirty watching through the window.

If I had a white dress I could be a princess
Put her in a tower, smother her in love.
But I'm just a waitress waiting for a paycheck.
Cutting up the flowers. Cutting up the flowers.