Tuesday, 14 December 2010


I always think of you when I think of surface tension, I told her. She was pleased about this. So was I. I just iced the most beautiful pistachio cake, it's unrefined gloss just brimming, the example of a perfect sugar lemon ratio, button nuts like some square snowman, popped on a lid on top of the vegetarian flavour pie I made earlier. Next to the parsnip soup from a 25p bag of 'nips and an apple. Same colour as my blender. I'm a smug bastard right now.

I've been quite frustrated for a couple of days. My words aren't in place, and I miss them, but you can't call, they don't run. I can only busy myself with comforting domesticity, 50s and 60s radio shows buffered with various types of chopping and mixing and floor-based exercise. Oh, what it is, is that I didn't have any weekend. So I seem to have given myself one. At the same time as having a right stress about not doing anything. In truth I have been held up by the impending 7 days on/1day off/2 days on/xmas day thing.

The lack of production, if one suddenly becomes quite expectant of one's creative ability, can be a bit of a shocker. I even dreamt he brought out one of those Faber poetry pamphlets, overtook me again before I could even lay claim to it as an idea. I was weirdly calm when he came into the shop, a nod as my attention magnetised from the dishes corner, though he still made it into my dreams. How strange the other one would turn up on the same day, how annoying I would have to stare into those pale blue depths in the last three minutes of my shift wearing my most disgusting jumper. It swathed me in melancholy for at least two days. No-one likes a pointer towards non-success.

It seems things do come in threes. The next day, I had gladly forgotten he'd be there, scolded shit as I saw him roaming, chewing in leather. He embraced me awkwardly, after I'd ignored him on purpose, lolling on plastic chairs like some wanton dog. We had nothing to say to each other. Later I sat round the happy gift dinner table, watched their long-haired pictures, arms around girls, as for now they were the same person. Watched girls flick their hair and show their teeth appreciatively, one of those times I'm holding back some scornful face of pure cynicism. What was I thinking.

I found myself browsing profiles last night. I felt completely sick at myself. Like seeing these three in two days had alerted me to the fact that I seem to have abdicated from the game. I canceled a potential last Thursday so I could go ballroom dancing at the Wapping Project. For example. He'd rode past me on the street, our quickfire revealed I couldn't care for instant gratification. I contemplated this. I decided however good one night, one month, could be, is it worth feeling this rubbish three months later. Of course I'd rather go dancing. But I can't lie, it would be pretty nice to share this culinary serendipity.