I forgot, I wrote one.

The Last

I saved the spit that held the seeds
that signified an instant
that happened in the house
that happened in my room
for as long as I could
in that oversized wineglass.

The last, at last, had to be washed out
as someone else would be coming,
but I resented it. I would no longer
be able to impregnate myself
with your toxicity.

Donkeys

When we fed the donkeys, we flared our nostrils like they did, and watched snakes of warm breath pretty the air. Portia and Cremer were the size of large, stout dogs, and their noses were as wide and friendly as sunflowers. These amiable beasts made me think of Alma’s dad, who in the mornings smelled of hay bales and earth.

Petra and Jule

JULE: The more I fell for him, the paler I became.
PETRA: Mum?
JULE: I was a girl’s girl and grew up to be a woman’s woman, and then I met him. A man who could have been fashioned from a tree, I thought, or bred from a flower. Some nick in the skin by a thorn must have allowed elk blood to seep into his mother when he was in the womb. I thought all of these things.
PETRA: Seriously mum, give us a hand with thickening up this whipped cream. My arm’s sore.
JULE: And his imagination was far reaching. He could see hills when the hills were miles away, and the land and people on the other side of oceans.
PETRA: (sings to self)
JULE: He glowed like a candle on a bureau, and in doing so, stole all my light. After a year, I’d made myself a spectre of a woman.
PETRA: Three sevens are twenty-one, four sevens are twenty-eight, five sevens are thirty-five, six sevens are forty-two, seven sevens are forty-nine…
JULE: The bags under my eyes were luggage enough for a fortnight in Vancouver. That’s just the kind of place he’d have gone.
PETRA: I love you, mum.
JULE: I used to be a girl’s girl, and grew up to be a woman’s woman, and then I met him and started seeing every other female as a threat. Because I knew how beautiful he found them all. Especially those with dainty wrists.
PETRA: (shouts) Mum! Can you whip this now? Ouch, my arm hurts!
JULE: You’ll get Popeye muscles.
PETRA: Eww!
JULE: And I championed women! I used to paint them, but when I fell in love with him I couldn’t anymore, because I’d imagine my brush was his touch on their skin. His breath, making their tiny hairs dance like grass in the wind.
PETRA: Don’t start talking about sex, mum.
JULE: Sad, isn’t it?
PETRA: Mum, you are so sad.
JULE: Give me the bowl then, babe.
PETRA passes JULE the bowl and JULE begins whipping the cream.

Same old

I get so nostalgic when I’m in London, and quite often have this little grieving period where I mourn all of the not-chosen choices. Arse to that, I’m thinking now. I was hopping around Bloomsbury, thinking of Virginia Woolf’s lot, snapping away at buildings, pleased that I decided to take a late train (nothing to go home for that night), coming to the unfurling conclusion that we all waste a lot of time with self-pity.
I was at a training event that day, in a rented space, where we argued about ‘what is good’, stuck ideas on a spray-mount wall, drank coffee and ate Wagon Wheels. I skipped lunch to go to ‘B Never to Busy to be Beautiful’, in Camden, where I bought a fragrance sampler set. I might have written about this before, but LUSH makes me yearn the life I haven’t had in Brighton, and its sister company, B Never, knits me up in ribbons of ‘could-have-been-in-London’ footage. I’m far more clichéd in my fantasies than I would like to admit; fake fur, gold straps on sandals, powder-puffs on dressers, foundation caked in mouth lines illuminated by unforgiving tube light, diaries with tassels, Cow Gum, glass ashtrays, muted beats caught in wall cavities, markets, orgies, Oyster cards, knitted bags, plastic chairs pinching sweaty skin, pavements that smell of baked potatoes, oil paints, reporters, soya milk and white duvet sets.
Clocking this tired brain-scene made me realise I need to re-jiggle. When I got home I made a few adjustments. I hung my best dresses around my room to remind me to write and bought some second-hand Bally shoes. I can’t explain further than that, but I’m not the superficial donkey I sound.
I was at Kings Chapel the other day, and the ceiling made me giddy. It looks like a spider’s web and a snowflake teamed up with stone.
Tonight I’m going to read before bed, and this week I’m going to make more of an effort to see friends.

Tweet like chocolate

When I was younger – perhaps twelve years younger – I’d often be writing in my diary when the birds began to tweet. Their chatter in the cool room was calming. Sometimes I’d be writing through anxieties. I must have had too much of a certain chemical in my brain. I think I’ve dumbed that chemical down now – maybe through booze, or through exposure to trouble. It’s been a while since that familiar, ice cold hand of Panic has fingered its way through my hairline.
I’m predisposed to anxiety, but right now, leafing through the headlines, we seem to be on the cusp of something scary. I am trying not to quiver in that familiar way. Being brave is best.
Two of my favourite people to read and think about – Margaret Fountaine and Virginia Woolf – lived through the Spanish flu. I think of them often – daily. Can that be so? And so, then, how many times a day must I think about a lover? I’ve thought of him more than thirty times in the last five minutes, I’m sure. How quickly our brains work.
It’s 3:15am and I can’t hear the birds yet. Today, eating with a family in the garden, I spoke of Finland and how in the summer the light at around this time is clear and tinged with blue. I know this because we stayed at my uncle and aunt’s, with a window above our heads: it was like a large letterbox of light, allowing one to zoom in on the concrete and grass – or this is how I remember it.
I think Twitter is going to be an interesting place over the coming weeks. I hadn’t much time for it before, but with news stories to interpret and discuss, it seems a phenomenal stream of hype, hysteria and information. What a weird development. And it’s so wonderfully comforting to tune into Stephen Fry’s funny and elegant witterings.
Here are two links to calm and rejuvenate:

WRITERS' ROOMS
SPACE


The above picture is Virginia Woolf's writing room and is credited to Eamonn McCabe. Of course it appeared in The Guardian and can be found on their site.

I stole the space link from my friend Jason, but it's so amazing, I can't keep it to myself.

Try not to touch your faces.

Mia x

Last Night on Marc Riley Radio

A quick one, as I’m at work and multitasking. Though my quick ones are never quick.
We left at about half ten and the A47, A17 part of the drive was mind numbing; I forgot to look out for the one thing I get pleasure from on that stretch of road – the cottage that looks like a castle. The truckers’ cafes were as bright and peculiar as a bad dream. I like them. It makes me long to go to the US.
We met my friend Mandy at the Corner House for a pint. I miss that place, and Oxford Road in general. So many metres of that road hold memories for me. That’s one weird thing about living somewhere for a short space of time – memories are clear and categorical.
Marc Riley was warm and funny, and the guys at the station were really welcoming. We recorded the session in the same room Marc does his thing. When we were sound-checking and setting up levels everything sounded pretty good – I didn’t have much reason to be nervous.
We had thought we would have to play two songs back to back, and since Iain and I have to change between Wondering through your Window and the others, we thought we’d have to play it first. I really wish we hadn’t! When the show started, I was so nervous all of a sudden I had total paralysis up my right arm and I could hardly play a thing. ‘Arm, move!’ I kept telling it. I guess I do have a thing with nerves, but it was such a surprise. I am almost bemused – never been the victim of such insolence by part of my body before. Though I did almost take my eye out in my sleep last week. I’m going to watch my right arm – I think it might have it in for me.
The boss of the label I release on said: ‘That was a bit edgy, wasn’t it? – But I quite liked the fact it sounded like it could fall apart at any moment…!’
We sank a pint before I Dare You, which was much better. We’d altered the tracks for radio – it seemed the right thing to do. I enjoyed Wish You Rocked My World best.
The Sat Nav took us home via Birmingham, and whilst Cath was sleeping in the back of the Astra, Iain and I concocted this story that all the Sat Navs were guiding people to Birmingham, under the control of some evil alien force. There were a lot of cars on the road for the middle of the night. Also, we saw a lot of strange flashes in the sky. We played some games, like Guess the Rule. I love that one.
Am I a cow? Am I a horse? Am I a guinea pig? Am I a table? Is the rule ‘things with four legs?’
Anyway, thanks for listening, if you did – and not switching off after the first track – if you didn’t. I feel quite moved that some people like this record, which really is just a very personal and self-indulgent scrap book of some random girl…
I’ll get better at the live thing. It’s still quite new to me. I’ll have a talk to my limbs and see if I can get proper good for the next record.

Little Sniff

Nose Action.


I’m not that familiar with the original Glow, but reviews tell me it is a soapy, musky, sweetish and quite strong skin-scent, which sounds like something I would rather like. In keeping with its predecessor, I detect a strong clean laundry note in Sunkissed Glow. The note in question is reminiscent of the soapy orange blossom in Castelbajac, or the fruity-floral, detergent smell of Fresh’s Clean Laundry, two fragrances that trade on their clean cotton comfort. I find it a welcome surprise that Sunkissed Glow is of this ilk, and am even more delighted by the smell of hot, warm sand being blown on the breeze. There is a fruity heart to Sunkissed Glow, but it’s not sticky. I’d say pear, peach and passion fruit, without checking the official notes. There is something quite aquatic about this fragrance too. It’s actually quite elegant – I can imagine it on the collarbones of a sophisticated woman in a cotton day dress, and it certainly isn’t too young or brash. Perfumer, Caroline Sabas, has held back on the vanilla and sugar, and the result is something very pleasant and quite crisp, especially in the enduring dry-down.

Nina Ricci ‘Love by Nina’ – a counterpart to the recent ‘Nina’, is packaged in just about the most perfect perfume bottle imaginable. A transparent, pistachio green glass apple with a silver leaf holds an elixir infused with praline, granny smith, cherry blossom, almond, and frangipani. The tropical frangipani flower creates a coconutty heart to the fragrance, and in terms of fragrance maths, I think this is close to the sum of Nina + Harajuku Lovers ‘G’. It’s very sweet and pretty, but rather safe, considering its creator Olivier Cresp has been responsible for two of the most iconic fragrances of our time: Theirry Mugler’s Angel, and Dolce and Gabbana’s Light Blue. It does share some characteristics of the latter, minus the balls, but there’s something appealing about such gentleness. Love... would make a great gift for a rosy-cheeked teenager whose favourite author is Stephenie Meyer. It conjures up the scent of the first summer you’re allowed to go to the fair on your own. In the palm of your hand, these apple bottles feel heavy with promise.


Glow After Dark is a fuzzy fruity floral that lacks any kind of identity or personality, except that projected by the garish, gaudy nineties-vase shaped bottle. Delices, by Cartier, shares similar notes, but in comparison is crystalline and stylish.
Glow After Dark smells a bit like how you’d imagine the cloakroom of a seedy nightclub down a Puerto Banus backstreet to smell.
The cherry doesn’t come through particularly strongly, but the smell of a Starburst chew melting into the upholstery of the back seat of a Vauxhall Astra does.

Emporio Armani Diamonds is another fruity floral, and quite a weak chink in the Armani armour. Emporio Armani has some stellar fragrances, my favourite of which is the spicy, modernist ‘She’.
I find it slightly troubling that Diamonds’ creator Thierry Wasser’s press shot sees him cocking his head thoughtfully, peering through a web of smoke as he sucks on a cigarette – no wonder his best-selling creation, Dior Addict, is so potent. I worry that my social smoking has dumbed down my own abilities taste and smell – but maybe Wasser began with the hyper-sensitive nostrils of Jean-Baptiste Grenouille.
Diamonds is rather lychee-heavy, but luckily that’s tempered with an unusual shot of vetiver, giving a peppery twist. There is a subtle note of nit-killing lotion in the centre of it, and though I appreciate the face powder and nail polish notes of Jean Paul Gaultier Classique, I’m less into the nostalgia of nits.
The first time I ever sniffed Ralph, by Ralph Lauren, I was offended by its generic, sporty, high street vibe. Even the bottle screamed freshman. I have since become quite intrigued by how preppy the Ralph Lauren line of perfumes is – how straight they are. I wear them to feel like someone else – someone who uses Pantene shampoo, goes clubbing, watches Desperate Housewives and counts shopping as a hobby.
Diamonds is like Ralph’s older sister.

List

I haven’t written in a while, but I wanted to push down the last post, which was a bit bleak even by my standards. So I am going to share some things I’ve been enjoying lately.
Spotify. My music isn’t on the site yet (though my Luma Lane stuff is), but this is an awesome library of free ear candy.
Clubs, groups and meetings. I’ve been to a few of these in the last year. Places where people take minutes.
CrazySexyCool by TLC.
Day dresses fit for spring.
Having blond hair again.

Reading about the Tudors. I do this every few years: my memory is bad enough to warrant topping up.
Watching The Wire with housemates and wine.
Actually going to car boot sales instead of talking about it.
Hot pepper sauce with most things.
Marc Riley, who has been playing ‘I Dare You’ on the radio, and for whom I am doing a live session next Wednesday.
A replenished bottle of Chanel’s Coco Mademoiselle.
Playing music in a trio instead of alone, with people much more competent than me.
Watching makeup application videos on Youtube. This is less because I want tips, and more that I get transfixed by the brushes being swept over skin, distributing shocks of colour and smatterings of shimmer.
Miniature paintings, displayed together.
Duck Egg blue.
Lighter evenings; warmer weather.
Suffolk.
Spinach.

However, something I didn't enjoy was a sleep-inflicted eye injury last week. It was quite unfunny.

Lemon squash

I’ve put myself through some dark days lately; so bad that I can’t write about it here, but perhaps someday will gouge out the details (I can remember) in some awful piece of fiction. I'm covered in scrapes; I keep having this dream.

I will say, if I am able to improve, it might have something to do with lemon squash. I had a glass of lemon squash the other day, and it reminded me so strongly of being a child and going around friends’ houses – the feel of bouncy carpet under balls of feet; the texture of eighties’ fireplace bricks; the sound of computer game blasts; the feel of metal garden apparatus against skin: climbing frame, swing. We didn’t have any of these things at my house, nor lemon squash, and when it was sipped, in large, plastic beakers, it tasted of something special.

I shall remember, next time I am tempted to give myself over to a water tower of booze, that there was a time when something as simple as a glass of lemon squash was important.

Something I’ve been meaning to write about. There was a busker, sitting against a shop window, with his hat pulled down to his chin. And he was blasting out a Neil Young song so loudly and clearly, and the sun shone. I guess he could only sing like that when his face was hidden. It lifted my day.