Exhibit A: Best friend in wine. Soon moving away.
Exhibit B: Former best friend. Now moved away.
Exhibit C: Former boyfriend. Now moved away. Took all the wine.
Exhibit D: Former best friend and never a boyfriend. Now has a boyfriend.
Exhibit E: Former best friend and never a boyfriend. Moved away and now has a boyfriend. Now drinks wine.
Exhibit F: Significator. Did not move away. Does not have a boyfriend. Does not have wine. Now has eczema.

Regardless of what you think of the current media circus (and let’s face it, it’s akin to social suicide to be seen as even slightly critical of its dominance in the news), it’s really quite baffling to see how ‘tributes’ such as the one linked to below actually help.

Frankly, I think there’s something increasingly disturbing happening in Western society. More and more, this is no longer about a missing girl or a desire to see her returned safely to her parents. The very image of Madeleine McCann is slowly becoming the latest must-have fashion accessory; her very name is being used as a sort of emotional blackmail to tolerate anyone’s desire for five minutes of fame in a stolen spotlight. Am I heartless? I don’t think so. I’m capable of empathising to some degree with what those who actually know her are most likely feeling (limited as I am by not having had a child myself, let alone one go missing). Her picture is everywhere, but that’s the point; people are donating money in the thousands and it’s not really that hard to understand why. But when does well meaning exercise become gushing hysteria? Surely it’s when you make things like the following.

Watch this and you’ll see what I mean. You’ll want her to be found soon too. Very very soon. Please God, make it soon.

I am ashamed to say that at the Hay on Wye Literary Festival I hadn’t heard of even half the new authors speaking on the day I attended.

Hay on Wye meanwhile is rightly ashamed that not a single bookshop could offer me a hardback Mrs Dalloway or a copy of A la recherche du temps perdu.

I did however find the following “Kilroy was ‘ere”…

Things I think when an attractive man smiles at me:

(apart from oh my God, an attractive man just smiled at me)

Just because I look away, quickly, doesn’t mean I’m not interested.
Just because I seem arrogant doesn’t mean I don’t have zero self-confidence.
Just because I manage to look back at you doesn’t mean I’m capable of making the first move.
Just because I don’t say anything doesn’t mean I don’t want to.
Just because I’m holding her hand doesn’t mean she’s my girlfriend.
Just because I haven’t shaved this morning doesn’t mean I don’t suddenly wish I had.
Just because I know I’m never going to properly fall in love doesn’t mean I don’t want to.
Just because you’re smiling at me and I’m smiling back at you doesn’t mean we’re ever going to see each other again, does it?

And then there’s the one I never think at the time:

Just because a stranger smiles at you doesn’t mean they’re attracted to you.

I can still remember it, though the details are of course a little more hazy now. I remember us meeting at the retro clothing store in Camden, run by a very unfriendly man who only allowed one “night time” shopper in at a time. This is the name he used for anyone who took their time browsing. Strange man. You were there, moving casually between the overcoats and the corduroy, making a very bad job of pretending you weren’t watching me from the corner of your eye. I’d seen you around before - in the market, on the bus. We always played this game - I’m sure I was just as unsubtle about looking at you. But I remember how I felt that first time you broke the ritual by speaking to me, like a dog-eared page in a storybook had finally been turned to reveal the most colourful of pictures, making you fall in love with the tale all over again. If only I could remember exactly what it was you said! You told me your name was Peter - my father’s name - and we found out we didn’t live too far apart. You gave me a lift home after only briefly indulging a devilish flirtation of mine to steal a tailcoat from the miserable man at the retro store, but good morals won the day and we left it folded across a discount bin. When we drove past your flat I remember it being the most familiar location I could think of - opposite a square building topped with four green pointed domes that made it look like a giant pistachio pavlova might. It seemed a fairytale place to live and such a familiar local landmark. Though, of course, the streets and buildings around it are now little more than a hazy memory. We chatted about nothing remarkable - about how long we’d lived in North London, where we were from originally, jobs, friends, university - nothing remarkable at all.

We got back to mine and I invited you in, it was only polite after driving me back. I made some coffee (which was awful, and I still apologise for that) and we watched TV in my room, the walls still bare and white as we’d only moved in recently. “I have a terrible secret,” I remember you saying as we lay on the bed, staring in polite disinterest at the screen, and then gave one of your endearingly impish grins I would get to know so well. “I’m a huge Doctor Who fan. Can you ever forgive me?” “I forgive you,” I laughed, and we shared a sort of mock-reconiliatory and quite melodramatic hug in front of my antique copy of The Robots of Death.

My flatmate then came in and joined us briefly. You both got along astoundingly well, discussing the merits of charity shops and the national institution that is Sir Tom Baker. You were charming, there’s no doubt about that. But you were also genuine. You had this ability I only ever sensed at before to pick up on people’s interests and make them resonate with your own.

Alone again, we watched TV together in unspoken conversation. Soon we started cuddling. When I brought my hands up to the back of your neck and gently and slowly scratched your scalp you weren’t alarmed. You just sighed - a deep contented moan, like anticipation finally released. It didn’t seem a strange thing to do. It felt completely natural. It felt as if we’d been seeing each other for weeks, not a few hours. I felt as if I knew everything you were thinking, and knew that you felt just as much a connection with me too. Last night I went to sleep cuddling you.

But this morning I woke up alone.

I woke up and wondered ‘what kind of self-hating brain gives someone dreams like this?’ What kind of loathing is it that gives someone contentment - not grand impossible scenarios of flying or being Emperor of All The Light Touches, but genuine, humble, credible contentment - knowing it will then be snatched away with the slightest flicker of an eyelid? I woke up in a bed that stinks of myself, cuddled only by my own eczema and a sickness in my stomach from last night’s overindulgence.

But I can still remember your black hair, your impish smile, the hazel like a summer cornfield in your eyes. I’ve spent the morning desperately trying to remember your surname, desperately trying to remember the name of someone who never existed, just because they loved me and made me feel important for the few seconds they say a dream actually lasts. A few seconds. Was that all it was? I was content for a few seconds. I was a person who mattered to someone for less than a minute.

Dreams are generally a positive thing in human culture. People talk about ‘living their dreams’. Are dreams only torturous because of their stark contrast with our real lives? It’s always about the loss with me. It’s always the bit where you wake up and realise you’re clutching only air, grasping at quickly fading memories of events that never happened. With nightmares you wake up and are relieved that everything’s still as dull and uneventful as it was when you closed your eyes. With dreams where you’re happy, you wake up to unhappiness amplified.

I suppose it’s better to have loved and to have lost than to just dream about eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Again. Or the end of the world. Again. I’ve had the dream about The Perfect Man™ before, and I know I’ll have that again too. I just wish it didn’t make everything real appear as futile and pointless as I know it to be when I wake up from the dream, each and every time.

because I usually have the following in them:

It was one of my favourite postcards as well - the one of the little girl holding a pig and laughing her little socks off. I bought it in Granville Island Market two years ago. I do hope I get it back.

Well. So. Ta da. I’ve done it. Yeah. I’ve finally finished my synopsis. I have actually made a submission to a literary agent. Crikey. And it only took two months as well.

I don’t feel relieved, I don’t feel elated. I do still feel a little tired, having gone almost 40 hours without any sleep, but mostly I feel terrified. I’m convinced I made a mistake somewhere in the submission. I’m suddenly possessed with the certainty that really it’s not a terribly good novel at all. I’m now almost certain I spelt my name wrong, or put a kiss after I wrote it. As soon as I dropped the envelope into the post box, all I wanted to do was stick my arm in and pull it out again.

But that’s a good sign, isn’t it? It’s certainly not a bed made for hubris.

I’ll be away for the next ten days, halfway up a mountain and permanently halfway through a cup of black coffee, listening to David Bowie and thinking about schizophrenia. Hopefully by the time I get back, my little laughing girl with her pig will be waiting for me.

I’m doing my synopsis.

Again.

Of course I am. The day ends in a Y.

I’ve been doing this synopsis for the past two months now, ever since I left work. The first hurdle was in sitting down to write it. The second was trying to stop crying when I pasted it into Word and found out it was eighteen pages. The third was trying to edit it down to ten pages and getting only as far as fourteen. The fourth was having a tantrum, realising it wasn’t working, and trying to rewrite the whole thing in five pages. The fifth was in calling the inevitably ever-persistent sixth page all names under the sun as it refused to be flushed away, more self- assertive than a retrovirus. The sixth is today, having discovered one of the agents I’m targeting (that is if they’re still in business by the time I get this finished) requires a three page synopsis rather than a five.

Have you ever tried to reduce a 110,000 word novel into three pages? It’s like asking Lisa Riley to wear a bikini. If it was meant to happen it would, but since it isn’t it just looks wrong and unnatural and watching the process makes you want to cry. I need an underwriter so I can do what I quit full time work to do in the first place. The longer I spend trimming the fringe of this novel rather than curling its locks, the more it becomes an unwanted child. “I’m going to quit my job so I can write synopses, again and again.”

I need more coffee. Instant coffee turns my stomach but so does editing. Let’s put the kettle on, put another Kirsty on, and pluck a few more feathers off this albatross.

Midday. Oh goddess.

With thanks to Mr OE’s links.

I found a bundle of photoshopped images on a backup CD from a few years ago. A few sound effects and…

Whilst looking for sounds I also found this genius little gimic for MacBooks, PowerBooks and iBooks that turns your laptop into a motion sensitive lightsaber.

I can just imagine the warranty claims pouring in.