Childish crockery under a fruity moon.

Let's skip the pleasantries and pretend, briefly, that the world isn't ending. Here are some things that have been keeping me going recently... 

Exciting Emails. Remember when we were all obsessed with those? The smugly secretive tweets we'd write; 'can't say too much', 'some news', 'me when I saw my inbox [The Office look-to-camera gif]' - well, yesterday I dared myself to send an email that was a long time coming, yet disguised in a whim. Let's see what happens. [RuPaul opera glasses gif]

The Strawberry Moon. Not only do I get very over-excited whenever the moon is referred to as a fruit or given a special moment in... the sun? Kind of literally? How amusing. 

Shopping in my own wardrobe. For myself, and others, I guess. I've recently (with the help of an organised Mama) taken everything in my bedroom from (cardboard) boxes, totes and shopping bags to (plastic) boxes, drawers and rails, which isn't a long-term solution, but it'll do for now. It'll do for now. That's what I'm learning as I go through all these non-permanent processes. Trying to embrace the temporary, and tell my brain it doesn't have to have everything resolved and camera-ready right away. 

When I said 'and others' I meant for charity shop donations and Vinted sales. I'm looking at my clothes, my choices, creatively and critically I suppose, trying to see them through strangers' eyes and visualise how they could be worn or treasured in another person's collection. I can't really put my finger on what distinguishes the 'sell' from the 'donate' labels, but there's definitely something between the bobbles, the bonus pockets and the pulled seams. I see the effects of time, but also the times in those clothes; a dinner date at Quaglino’s Brasserie, where he took me because that's where that scene in 'One Day' was shot, the clothes swap party in Brighton a friend and I attended after cocktails in that accidentally secret alleyway bar, my friend's last party in her cafe, the chill I felt on my torn knees when I attempted to 'fit' fashionably. I think of the woman who sold me her grandparents' sideboard for three crisp notes, how desperate she was to give the pile of scratched, stinking oak one last life, and I get it. 

Alegreya font. I want to write everything in this font from now on. It's so pretty. It makes me feel pretty, and makes my words look even prettier. Covers a multitude of sins, etc. etc. 

Crockery. If you know me/follow me on Instagram, you know this isn't news. I get some of my best engagement on that silly little platform when I post pottery hot takes and charity shop stories with the option to vote - hideous/chic? smash/pass? literally smash?

But recently I've been properly shopping for cupboard contents, and it's been a strangely childlike joy to actually entertain the idea of using these plates and pots, to invest in something that will sit on my kitchen top or the living room coffee table (need to shop for that, too) and be handed to friends maybe, most likely containing crisps or dips or, at a push, some seasoned and fried vegan shwarma/pepper/mushroom mix, to go in a wrap. It doesn't feel as childlike to take things to the counter and pay. But paying £6.50 for a ceramic candlestick holder that 'can be flipped!' is, bizarrely, a joy. 

Supporting friends. A good friend doesn't ask for freebies, or 'mates rates'. A good friend shows the f*ck up, eats the delicious sandwiches, and goes into the kitchen for a congrats cuddle afterwards. This could arguably also be an act of self care; going for a walk with purpose, treating yourself to a bangin' lunch, and telling someone you love them - aloud and in actions. Go to Stooge Specialty Coffee in Hastings (in the best and quirkiest part of town), get a cute OFW and enjoy Candy's Kitchen's creative culinary concoctions between slices of heavenly homemade focaccia. 

The streets where I lived. Recently I've had to get the train into London a few more times than I'd like, and to shorten my journey I've been driving partway to the station I used to live beside. And rather than pay ANYTHING for parking ANYWHERE, I'll search for spots in the adjacent roads; the ones I'd park on when I lived in my beautiful old flat, the one I gave up willingly for love - like a fool. It's strangely comforting to come off the train at the end of the day and walk up that same (steep) old hill home. I know I could pretend I'm still there, and that the past two years didn't happen, but I don't. I just acknowledge the memory, and say hi to the former me. 

I appreciate the 'main street' more, too - you know the one. If you know, that is. I smile at the barbers who sit out on their folding chairs between appointments, I buy a tin of herbal supplements from the matcha specialty cafe in the hope that it'll fix my murky messy brain, I say hi to the tattooed guy I went on one coffee date with, some months ago (he never followed up), and get a spontaneous pedicure at the salon with the name nobody can pronounce - that's not as pretentious as we're led to believe. I remember taking parcels to the corner shop and feeling like I was inconveniencing them with all my QR codes; I reflect regrettably on my salad-scooper crush at the deli; I think how cute the charity shop looked throughout lockdown when I'd pass by on my early morning walks, the colourful jumpers in the window gradually fading. 

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Thank you for reading. 

G. x