I have had a shower and now liver for lunch. To me this seems an odd contradiction in terms. I’m all cleansed – pure and pink- skinned - yet can taste the rich copper tang of blood in my mouth. I feel oddly strong. Powerful. Primal. Perhaps this is what comes of looking upon male deities rather than the female. Not empathic today, not sensitive to the quiet slippage of one moment to the next. Just the power. The clenched fist, the heavy determined walk. The boundless energy. Take the day head on. This is what it means to not be afraid.
I woke early to collect a package from the post office, walked deep into Queen’s Woods to open it, then back up the hill to Highgate Village to buy some breakfasty things. I ate them watching the sunlight trickle through the window, then shaved the bristles from my chin and showered, dressed and went to Covent Garden to meet a good friend I didn’t even know a year ago. He will be a dad one day soon. We walked across to the South Bank and had coffee in the sun by the Thames. The simple London Saturdays are the best.
Mo Mowlam has died. I admired her for her decency, her common sense and her compassion. In 1999 an Irish friend and I heard Peter Mandelson had replaced her as Northern Ireland secretary. My friend was not happy. I was inspired by her courage in having battled an illness currently rampaging through my family. I love the stories of her removing her wig in key meetings to break the tension. I think she was a rare, if not unique figure in British politics, and her loss will be very deeply felt. My thoughts are with her family and close friends.
Another panic attack. Apparently. There was no apparent cause, but the paramedic said I had all the symptoms. I just couldn’t breathe. Suddenly I felt dizzy and my throat closed up. I thought it was something to do with yesterday’s wasp sting. The lady from NHS Direct was very nice, though did muddle mine and my GP’s names and kept calling me Jonathan. I didn’t want to upset her by correcting her. She said she was calling an ambulance. I became terribly British, wheezing not to bother. The staff were extremely supportive, but I still haven’t a clue what happened.
We live in a time of change. We live in an age of plane crashes, suicide bombers, military occupations and terror. Those who are righteous and those who are wronged. Children are dragged from their homes because of words on paper they have no understanding nor conception of. Holistic moments team and pool. Shifting molecules comes increasingly easier to me, as the world bulges along its own roots. Her touch at my nape sparks me stronger than ever before. Our world is slowly unravelling. We have become spoilt, indolent, selfish and greedy. Entropy is rife. We must grow up. Now.
The whole bus journey home, a thoughtless moron played his tinny asinine dirge at top volume. Whilst walking back I was stung by a wasp for no apparent reason. Once home, I had an argument with my bank for taking money from me when they said they wouldn’t. At 8pm a loud explosion shook my windows, and everyone thought it was another bomb attack. Looking at the news I was sickened that Madonna falling off a horse apparently rivals the mass evictions in Gaza in terms of coverage. Realised again how incapable of love I’ve become. Had chips for tea.
Crazy plans have been hatched. Things about a cottage in the middle of nowhere for New Year’s (though I put my foot firmly and quickly down that there must be sea close by in this nowhere, or at least a very large lake). Playful demands about the necessities of a local pub, market, and cottage with a sauna and spa. Images of waking up, looking at the dim blue and green scenery with a cup of fresh coffee, and the wisp of a chilly breath. Sometimes it’s so very easy to have fun in life that you entirely forget how.
Like a cheap Hollywood remake of the week before, today I lie dying on a languid heat. Stumbling back home from J’s party last night, I somewhere along the way picked up a cold I must have felt sorry for. A collection of dirty bowls are lined up against the wall like interviewees for a job they know they’ll hate. My dressing gown is beginning to smell unpleasantly of myself. These are the Sundays I remember – half dead, with your other half wishing it wasn’t alive. None of this ‘wake up, feel fresh’ nonsense. Good old fashioned atrophy. Hack. Cough.
