Look at these cute ass shorts I bought so I can wear them in the heat and feel less like a sweaty mess and more like a gently perspiring dainty feminine fairy princess

Bitch, it’s hot.

London is in the midst of a heatwave and none of us know what to do or how to function. This happens for a few days a year and we all look at the weather app on our iPhones while we’re at the office and think aww shit now, it’s about to be lit but what we should be thinking is how the incinerated fuck am I supposed to stay alive during a week of 30+ °C heat?. But we don’t think that because we’ve been conditioned to think that heat is excellent; that heat is glorious, which it truly is if you have the luxury of air conditioning which London certainly does not.

I peaced out of my job for the last time last week (more on that another time) which was just in time for the arrival of my wonderful friend who came to visit me for a couple of days before flying off to be glamorous in Ireland. I warned her that London was going to be hot and that she might want to pack accordingly. What I should have told her was to abandon all hope or maybe think about lining the gusset of her underwear with dry ice in order to keep cool.

You’re probably sitting in Arizona or in your weekend cottage on the surface of the sun thinking “this lightweight bitch and her complaining; it ain’t even all that hot,” and that’s where you would be dead ass wrong, friend. It’s hot as wool-wrapped balls and you’re damn right I’m going to complain about it. I feel like I got C here under false pretenses. She flew in Monday night and on Tuesday when we got up, the weather was downright pleasant. The sun was not being an obnoxious asshole and the breeze was sashaying through the trees in a Misty Copeland-like fashion. We felt brave enough to put on makeup without the threat of it sliding down our faces and ending up in our shoes by day’s end. We left the house and went into Central London to shop and eat sweet potato fries because isn’t that what you’re meant to do when you have a friend from America visiting and no job to trap you with deadlines and responsibilities?

We’re goddamn fools.

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Love, Mood, Relationship

Lone Shoes

See, here’s the thing. Waking up next to you is cool. It’s better than cool.

It’s like staring into the brightness of a comet. But it’s also scary, like realising that comet is coming straight at you.


Last July, before all this; before your checked sheets—navy and white—and your fingers on my cheek, we went to Brighton one day when you happened to be on UK soil. I picked you up from the airport and fatigue was hiding in your eyes and in the smile you gave me. Let’s just head to the house I said but you shook your head so we went to Brighton. You fell asleep in the car and I turned off the music and tapped an imaginary beat on the steering wheel. On the pebble beach you told me that your ex, the one with the bright eyes and the penchant for talking shit and lying, had been back in touch. She started off texting, feeling you out, and then graduated to calling, packaging up nostalgia and offering to you on a plate. And you answered for what? I remember asking. The girl pissed me off. She hurt you and so I wanted to snatch her weave out of loyalty. You shrugged; you really were tired, and said I don’t know, maybe I might want someone to love me and shit. I laughed. Since when? Since always, you said. I tossed a pebble into the sea. A few months later, I became that person and now the thought of not being that person makes my stomach plunge to the equator.


Now and again, some girl you used to trade nights with, will call you. I know. I see the frown on your face before you hit red on your phone screen. My heart turns over; I act standoffish even when you toss your phone aside and gather me and my attitude into a hug. Tell ol’ girl to stop I say. That would mean answering the call you say. You smile into my neck, you jealous?


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Last year when I returned from my first visit to DC; a visit where I spent most of my time with people I adore and the rest of the time watching Scandal, being a tourist and eating brownie brittle, I decided that it wouldn’t be my last time there. My original plan was to come back around September this year, perhaps spend my birthday getting day drunk with familiar faces and stuffing my face with smoked meats. But then I began missing the city and the people so much so that I brought my trip forward to May and I just got back from a 10-day trip that’ll bring a smile to my face every time I think about it in the months until my next visit. Because, bitch, I am coming back.

I actually didn’t take that many photos while I was out there. I was too busy laughing, working, bonding, shopping, drinking, trying to figure out how to keep cool without exposing my nether regions, eating, screaming Taylor Swift into a microphone, making inappropriate comments, hanging out with a very cool doorman, carting my organic spinach from one Airbnb to the next, figuring out how to pack nine candles into my hand luggage, pretending I didn’t have to go back to London and loving every sun-drenched moment of my time away. My iPhone came in handy and that’s where most of these snaps came from.

Anyway, enjoy while I plot my return.

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Jesus be a week of uninterrupted sleep.

I am tired.

I am also in DC.

I was one of fifteen or so passengers on the outbound flight. I stretched my legs out over three seats and fell asleep before takeoff, waking only as the wheels left the tarmac and London fell away in a haze of gloom and sheeting rain. I slept five hours, missing airplane breakfast and rendering myself deaf to the pleas of the flight manager that I pull down my window shade. I momentarily woke again to him leaning across my seat to close it for me. I don’t exactly what I looked like, but I was sans makeup and my mouth was very likely hanging open, drool collecting very attractively in one corner of my lips. Of this, he said nothing. He had kind eyes and an impeccable shape up and brought me a turkey and gouda sandwich and some ginger ale.


Rocky is still here. Just. My sister informed me from across the Atlantic that he had a visit to the emergency vet a few nights ago because of a nasty wheeze which turned out to be a chest infection. To love a creature so wholly and watch him suffer is something with which I am struggling. But the vet tells me that there is no reason to let him go yet, to put him out of what I suspect is at the very least, a lukewarm form of misery. Every time I prepare myself to say goodbye, he pulls through and gives me another few weeks of worry-laced happiness. And I am thankful. Perhaps this time, though, the cage will be one half quieter when I get home.

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