Jour 8

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday to you dear H.

Happy birthday to you

Hip hip hooray

Hip hip hooray

Hip hip hooray

Clap clap clap

He sang the song out loud, to himself, celebrating his seventh year on Earth with some hairy monsters and a few dolphin poses. Some will say he needs to stay out, some will say he’s disruptive, some will say I have to start my lesson now, some will say he’s really cute, some will say aww, some will say he shouldn’t be there, some will not say, but they are scared, some will not say but I know what they want to say, some will say they couldn’t do it, some will say they wouldn’t do it, some say I do a great job. Nevertheless, he doesn’t have a choice, and the world is a tricky place to be born into. And to be fair, it’s a tricky place to be born into, for me, for my dad, for my best friend, and it looks like hell sometimes, if hell had very expensive sourdough bread and a lock that is the same for the building door and your front door. This is a true story and it has been for a year and a half now. I can already hear you – WHAT? HOW CAN YOU ALLOW THAT? YOUR NEIGHBOURS CAN ACTUALLY OPEN YOUR FRONT DOOR? Yes, they can, we tried before. We are living on edge. We are very similar to hippies in Christiana (Denmark). To be fair, people in Christiana probably all have their own individual lock. How lucky! In London you settle for whatever you are fortunate enough to have. And sometimes it’s a local pub, sometimes it’s a lock that no one else can open. You choose. 


Jour 7

I’m taking myself on a date

Bunch of fritto misto and some italian missus from the centre of Italy. Apologies, I can’t be more accurate, I didn’t understand the name of the place and I hate to ask again. The last table is late, they close the kitchen at 10pm. It’s Jojo’s playlist, the one we like. How do you make friends in London outside of work? I don’t think it’s feasible. Actually, my colleague said she made a friend in her pottery class. She was quite proud of it. It’s just showing really, how hard it is to make friends in this country. And when I say this country I mean England. And more specifically London. People back home think I’m smothered with friends. I’m not really. You meet people, you love them, and they leave the borough, the city, the county, the country. You meet people, you love them and they leave you. You meet people, you don’t really like them but you think they are alright, and then they disappoint you anyway. It’s hard to relate when you’re French, or Italian, or German. But really the people in your life, they won’t stay. And it’s okay. You learn to mourn quicker. You learn to accept they are just a picture on your wall or in your bedside table. You might remember their voice, and their smile. You might remember their red hat or their stupid shoes. But at the end of the day, they are not sharing orange wine or closing a restaurant with you, they are not spilling beers along the Thames or walking in the Cesky Krumlov castle, they are not leaving you their babies – anymore. They’re gone. Like dead really. It’s how it feels. Like everyone is dead despite the fact they still live somewhere on the planet. And you know what? That’s okay – again. Because I still chat to the bouncer of the pub next to mine, and to the Turkish shopkeeper, and to the tfl worker in St James Street station. Everyday I feel connected to this place that is London. A place so harsh to live in, when you don’t have your mates from uni or your mum and dad, a place with black mould on your wall’s bedroom, where salted butter is more expensive than gold, and some drunken man is entering a lady’s car near Hackney Downs. Because eventually it is my home and I have learnt to embrace it. 

By the way, this date title was the base of another story originally. 

Jour 6

I’m pretty amazed by the fact I am drinking a dry Asahi and vaping a watermelon flavoured plastic stick. 

My boyfriend is abroad and I am lost. I know, I live in the same flat, and my cup of tea holds the same amount of earl grey and milk. But believe me, I feel like a two years old starting nursery. I remember when I was that age my mum wasn’t working, she was a stay at home mum. Which I thought was a real job, a remunerated job I mean. No offence, always thought my mum had the hardest job, making sure my dad had a slice of turkey and some peas in his plate when he came back from his own remunerated work. Apparently society considered it was just some type of holidays, like waving a broom was some kind of dance you would do in a camping every summer. But yeh, when I was little I remember my mum was taking care of that other child that was hitting me with a spade. Oh god I hated that child. No wonder your mum doesn’t want to take care of you. You’re so unbearable. One day though, my mum came back very quiet. Was she a nanny? I mean I guess she was a nanny in the village. I didn’t think that was a job, compare to being a mum. Yes I had some misconception about the world. She was quiet. I guess she cried. I guess she felt sick. But at the time I had no idea that it was so important. The baby she was suppose to take care of, has died. Sudden infant death syndrome. I remember that I understood it at the time, the baby has died, when he – she was little. A bundle of bones and skin, a smiley little human being, just dead in its sleep. I remember feeling sad, for the baby, for the parents, for my mum. How sad it was. And unfair. This baby will never hit me with a spade. And I would have preferred really. As much as I hated that first kid who was craving for my mum’s attention. Instead he went with the fairies. I remember they were in their cradle. A grave before the grave. I hope they didn’t suffer. But yeh I was saying, my boyfriend is abroad, and apparently that reminds me of the dead baby. And I’m drinking straight whiskey in a plastic cup now from the National Theatre, that you’re not suppose to take home, but let’s be realistic it looks quite nice to have this kind of cup at yours. 

Jour 5

The warring country

I am a warring country

At peace with the idea that

the rebels are knocking at my door 

Every time I take a shower

Every time I place my head on a pillow 

Every time I wash my face and close those eyes

And every time I have to stop breathing

and listen to their fists that rebound on my only exit

I contemplate the large windows or the hammer or perhaps the mop stick

Anything that will offer me a second chance 

to escape

to survive

to laugh in their faces

I feel trapped by the rebels since they camp outside my flat

Waving their mesh flag and throwing crocs all over the stairs

And every morning I unlock the door

and the place is vacant, silent

No one is waiting for me

The rebels are asleep in my head

They will wait and return the following night

I’m a warring country

As the dusk falls 

Jour 2

I’ve got a ick, the star sign chicks

Harrison told Bronte that he doesn’t find her attractive anymore. Jesse told Adam that he is a cunt. We’re not sure, it was bipped but everyone said ohhhhhh so we assume it was the female genitalia word. Lyndall couldn’t take to the grave that Adam said he would go home with Claire. Adam convinced Janelle she shouldn’t look into his phone because they trust each other, even if the task was to show you can be trusted by showing your phone, but Janelle didn’t pick up on this odd behaviour and you can tell she will be disappointed along the line. Her overprotective brothers would potentially have to intervene as she is quite clueless but also their relationship is weird af and perhaps they should marry each other but obviously this is not okay because they are siblings. She is really pretty though, but she asked what is your main stream of income, and that is just an orange flag. Mel didn’t know Josh’s job, and that is worrying after spending two weeks with someone. I don’t know Josh’s job neither, but I haven’t been to the Fiji with him. And won’t in the future. So he needs to tell me on tv what is his job. He says he feels lonely, he doesn’t know what to do anymore when his kids are not around. I feel the same Josh, but I don’t have kids yet. Bronte’s friend told her about a young 20 year old girl that Harrison was seeing. They kept saying that, a young girl. Giving me Martha vibe if you know what I mean. 

Jour 1

When Dr Karen thought I had shingles but in fact it was tonsillitis

I walked on the slippery pavement in Walthamstow (first time I spell it correctly straight away) with my open Crocs – as usual. And I bought a mesh top with angels on it, like you know the cinelli, I mean not the cinelli because cinelli is a bikes brand. No like the Italian one, very expensive – Italian brand angel on google – oh yeh Fiorucci. Well it’s not Fiorucci at all, they don’t even do mesh top but that reminds me of them. I had fever – like 28.6 degrees and I was losing my mind when I entered the dental practice. I had to fill a document with a greasy pen – I hate those greasy pen really they’re gross – I’m having ocd contamination, I’ve self diagnosed on TikTok. Anyway they ask how many cigarettes I’m smoking so I proudly answered vaping like it was making me somehow better. I heard about popcorn lungs and also honestly I feel worse since I vape but I think it’s because I went to do reflexology and I’m on a healing crisis. Dr Karen wasn’t impressed with my vaping answer, she told me in French -she is not French – that I shouldn’t vape neither, what am I doing really? She said French girl – I’m French – love to smoke. I said yes, I said it was a transition to stop. I mean it wasn’t entirely true but I felt bad telling Dr Karen I was going to keep smoking until I find another healthier coping mechanism. And also I wasn’t here because I vape, no I was here because my tooth infection was spreading and that I wanted to avoid sepsis, I was losing consciousness of her speaking English or French. I asked if she knew why I was here? She laughed and she said, well yes of course, you don’t feel good. After stabbing my gums with a latex covered finger she declared “you’ve got shingles”. When I left I noticed that Dr Karen had lot of plants by the window, each one tagged with this note “don’t touch plant. Dr Karen”. 

Man, I didn’t have shingles, I had tonsillitis.  

Le beurre fondu

Heart pouncing

Fingertips tingling

Legs freezing

Chest tightening

Eyes watering

Fear rising

Shell expanding

Thoughts spreading

Words vomiting

Nails sharpening

Self loathing

Words stabbing

Spider crawling

Lips biting

Tongue loosing

Pillow taking

Pillow screaming

Doors slamming

Shame insinuating

Shame triumphing

Shame shaming

Ashton Kutcher

J’ai toujours aimé les papillons, 

La transparence de leurs ailes

La poudre qui me collait aux doigts

Lorsque je les enfermais dans mes paluches

Les sentant effleurer mes paumes

Ne sachant pas encore que je les tuais

lentement et doucement

là, dans le jardin

c’était le premier effet papillon

Cette caresse dans le creux des mains