So I’ve moved to London aka The Big Smoke (my bogies have turned quite a dark colour since I moved here, should I be worried?) to try and make it in the city, much like Babe, the legendary pig, before me. I had always wanted to move to London, but in the same way I had always wanted to climb up a mountain in Nepal – if I talk about it enough whilst drunk, it will eventually happen, though through no effort on my part. Continue reading “How Does One ‘Date ‘ in London?”
I reckon it’s best if we all put relationships into two columns, one entitled “who were we kidding” and one entitled “I hoped this would happen.” Both pretty much end the same. A third column could be introduced for family members called “untapped ball of anger and seething resent which lays just here, just here where my heart meets my windpipe.” That one carries on for several pages.
When I was 12 my babysitter use to bring around highbrow fashion magazines for me to read, not thinking about all the see through blouses, and in turn nipples, that were on display. The subtly sexuality dressed up in high concept positioning and gravity defying orange hair.
The fashion pages of those advert thick glossies fascinated me. When I grew up would I be wearing sheer clothes and stroking tigers? Would I have adventures in soft pink lighting in Japan with delicate looking male models? Or would I grow up podgy because I ate too much microwaveable bacon between the years of 1995 to 2000? Continue reading “Definitions”