You do deserve more than a weatherspoon (a declaration of friendship)


Fake lashes and centre parting

Gold skin, your tan is daunting

Your dress is tight and my lips are pursed

When I see you walking in front of my face

It’s like I turn the tv on and watch Love Island


Just below the line of his Calvin Klein

or crossing his chest, hairless but shiny

Not to my taste, eyes closed strongly

listening to the sound of his mother tongue



And us, matching helmets,

matching distress,

Eating Mr Whippy and arancinis

hiding in the shade on the beach

entering the shed to avoid the bitch

easy peasy as saucy besties


If the rabbit is a typo

and the men are either growers or showers

You’ll rise or die under the water

If only I’m allowed into your bubble again

that could be us quietly watching the rain


But never oh, never

let him push the doors of a Weatherspoon

because you deserve more,

really, you do deserve more

than something cheap and soggy

Blondies in Hackney

Why on Earth all those boys in London decided to bleach their hair during lockdown? I’ve never seen that many blondies walking around Clapton, London Fields and Hackney in general. And I’m not talking about those rhubarb delights that my friend baked for me – might share the recipe later with someone who truly deserves it btw. Between light tangerine and mustard yellow they – the boys – obviously bought this cheap home total bleach kit, oblivious to the fact they wouldn’t get this beautiful platinum blond colour from the packaging. The girls know, and they do it anyway. I mean I’ve done it many times before, transforming my own hair into a poor quality wig, but I knew what I was doing. Facing their lockdown loneliness they went through the process of changing their hair colour, in order to spice up their existence, what they thought would bring immediate joy into their life. Because they couldn’t – for once – control the world they faced the same powerlessness that we face as girls because we didn’t write the world’s rules, and acted on something they could change, their hair colour. Hair colours are political, it’s something you can work on, decide, change, choose and control. When you feel powerless, you take your scissors, or put your gloves on and cover your head with the white corrosive paste which is burning your eyes and your nose all at once. And now, the boys parade in the streets showing off their vulnerability. Because yes, you also have to accept to be vulnerable to cut or dye your own hair, you must take the risk of failure, to face the possibility of ruining both your hair and your pride. You have to let go on your ego, and down yourself to a peg or two. Locked for three months, the boys have no other choice than facing their hairiness. What to do with that? Getting rid of the fringe, badly trimming the sides, shaving everything or turning blonde. The last category is my favourite one, and I stare at them as long as possible to read in their mind the decisive moment when they decided to do it, and if they actually regret it. Clearly they regret it, but they will never tell.

Morning podcast

At the pub, plastic cups and ashtray 

it was only a Tuesday

Not a pub as we remember pubs, ah?

more like a park where a stranger brings you beers

In my head I was already like nah

yet I was all ears 

No mask, no mask

not a really tough task

But at night, from North to South 

the drops of water are coming to my mouth

I would drink them,

I was drinking the rain


I was so thirsty 

Pissing down, soaked, such a bummer

forty-five minutes cycling

Porridge and crunchy peanut butter

in the morning, crossing

Tower Bridge with not a single tourist

It does worth the risk

Red flags

Comme une enfant

dentelle rose Tommy Hilfiger

totalement indécent

achetée en solde sur Urban Outfitters


Son cœur pompe si fort

qu’elle a peur, qu’elle a cru

qu’il l’avale toute entière, elle a tort,

mais elle était déjà foutue, foutue


Foutue chandelle

mettre le feu aux fleurs des draps

y’avait du potentiel

mais elle s’est brûlée les doigts ah


La brosse à dents,

noire et blanche des loups

Ce n’était pas prudent, pourtant

on ne lui refera pas le coup


Jeter les cuillères

de miel, toutes douces

Jeter les cuillères

qu’il repousse


Instinct de survie

Mettre sa culotte à l’endroit

en catimini, elle faisait trop de bruit

elle n’avait pas le choix


Sans claquer la porte

quatre étages

être sa propre escorte



Sans claquer la porte

encore trop polie

même si toujours sexy

il fallait qu’elle s’en sorte


Une histoire de faussettes

sur le haut des fesses

Il y avait de quoi être upset

que ça cesse

Do we really care about the difference between a greyhound and a whippet?

I’ve never been a dog person. I feel more comfortable holding a newborn baby than being around a dog. Which is strange, because when I was a toddler, we had a dog, he was a black poodle, slightly aggressive but quite entertaining, and his name was Velours, which means velvet in French. I don’t remember walking, cuddling or even petting him. I have a vague recollection that I tried too many times to ride him like a horse. I don’t think he was very happy about that. This poodle was probably my furry big brother who tried to avoid my baby presence as much as possible, and I get it now. Some could even say that he didn’t like me, and the reality is it might be, but it might be not. And I’m sure he was loving me in his own poodle way. One of the reasons he might not have liked me is because I ate his fancy food one day. I was sitting in the garden and I was a curious toddler. I would eat everything except the contents of my plate : the whole tube of fluor-a-day tablets because I loved the taste of it, the table toilet – let’s just hope it was an unused one – probably because of the blue colour, and dog food. I remember pretty clearly myself, with the bag of dog food, holding the big ring in my little chubby hand – not true, I wasn’t chubby in any way – in my tiny hand and putting it into my mouth while thinking this is actually very good the dog is very lucky to eat this food on a regular basis. I was fairly disappointed when I realised eating dog food wasn’t socially acceptable, and this is probably why it took me so long to make friends. One evening, it was dark and cold, probably during winter, my parents came back from somewhere. From that night I missed something, but I couldn’t figure out what straight away. It took me some time to accept that the dog was missing. The dog is not there. The dog left. I thought that the dog just left me. I assume he got upset and bored with me and that he decided to move forward. I think my parents tried to give me the we sent the dog to the farm bullshit, but I didn’t believe them. Or perhaps they told me the truth, they told me they had to put the dog to sleep, but I didn’t believe them neither. I thought they didn’t want to tell me that the dog got fed up with me and went to another child who wouldn’t eat his food. Probably just a chubby kid. Why is it related to the difference between a greyhound and a whippet? It’s dog innit.

Sadness is running fast, fast and faster, but she can’t escape her condition, no matter how far she runs. She hopes to fall in the canal, to drown quickly underneath the green surface formed by some kind of seaweed. Green, like the colour of your favourite drink as a child, a diabolo menthe. She’s not the one who should drown, but she can’t think clearly. Sadness wanted to be hit by a car while cycling in the dark. Enough for someone to take over her life decisions. Perhaps just enough to be carried away in a place where someone would tuck the bed sheets under her chin and would give her some water when she’s thirsty. Instead she has been kicked in the shins, hard and harder, her body is sore. Sadness can’t see the path anymore, she’s crying too much, she must stop on a wood bench. She has never been there, it’s beautiful despite the fact she wants to jump into the river, there is weeping willows to make her notice she’s not the only one crying out there. When she sits, an orange butterfly lands on her right arm, moving its small wings. They stay here together until she stops sobbing. How ridiculous is sadness? She’s fairly desperate, she doesn’t know why she feels so lonely all of a sudden, like there is nothing left around her, all the furniture has been removed, her memories erased, her friends and family evaporated. She screwed up her possibilities, she is as stupid as she knew she was. She thought about happiness, still sat on the sofa. She would beg the universe, knees on the floor, to get a chance to go backward in her life and sit next to happiness again. Unfortunately, that is impossible. She will have to run fast again, fast and faster to join her friend on the sofa. She knows she can do it, she doesn’t want to drown anymore, she wants to drink a diabolo menthe.

I don’t like takeaway anymore

I would enjoy a takeaway if I knew I could go to the restaurant itself if I really wanted to. I would enjoy a takeaway if I knew I was just being lazy. Lazy by choice. Deprived from the possibility of entering the space and sit down on a bar seat, I feel like a fool having the food on my bed. Like, what’s the point? What’s the point of bringing this lukewarm pizza onto a plate far too small to contain it whole, and sprinkle crumbled crust all over the cover duvet? I don’t know where to put the lid of the smoked bbq dipping container, and it will probably stain the fabric without me noticing. Last time the delivery guy just dropped his entire bag on the floor, and I had to rummage through it to find my pizza box thinking wtf am I doing with my life? The capers were not caper berries as usual, but the small pickled one delicious with skate wing, not with my pizza. Salt on salt, a bit too intense on top of the already salted anchovies. That wasn’t what I expected. But come on, you’re eating a pizza on your bed, watching Normal People on BBC iPlayer, your expectations can’t be that high, and you can’t complain about capers while this guy is obviously struggling with his bag full of food as he puts it directly on your doorstep. Let me pinpoint something here, I agree you like cheese, I like cheese too, we all do, but craving for cheese is not an excuse to order that cheeseburger filled with a steak hâché. Remember when you ate that out of date frozen one and you thought you’d die in your Parisian flat, or catch an uncanny virus and still die in your Parisian flat. You even called the poison control centre and they told you to wait forty-eight hours. At the end I didn’t die but I should definitely discard steak hâché from my life. Eventually I just gave up pretending to enjoy soggy bun and mushy fries delivered with too much packaging, and I decided to become a grown up, making my own quite enjoyable burger with halloumi and lot of vegan mayonnaise mixed with a copious amount of sriracha. The fries I could find at the shop are definitely the one I despise, the large one, tasting like wet cardboard, but at least it’s my fries that I hate. Okay, I could also do my own fries from cut potatoes, but I can’t honestly come from takeaway to make my own fries. I don’t have a fryer anyway. And let’s be honest about it, I don’t want to risk burning my face with some jumping cooking oil from the saucepan just for some hand-cut fries. This is not the plan. This is not my plan.

My last trip to the offy

Done with the quick laid-back shopping where you idly grab a chocolate bar with crunchy caramel, a bunch of cheese wrapped in red wax and a packet of those little scampi & lemon flavoured fries stuff that no one knows the name of. You don’t even know what you will get before entering the shop, you’ve been driven by your instincts. And your instincts fancy a quick fix, a sugar rush, caramel stuck in your molars, salt on your lips, sticky fingers and a distant headache after this disgraceful feast along a content feeling. You had what you craved for. You were addicted to those late trips to your local off licence, wearing nothing but comfy pyjamas and Birkenstocks. No one to judge you in an off licence, everyone you cross paths with is doing the same as you. You just have to glance at their arms – no one is using a metallic basket in such a place, you’re not here to linger, except some strange people from time to time doing their real food shopping – and notice a pile of random items they hold like an unwanted child. Anything to reach the £3 card minimum spend which is clearly the most annoying rule in the entire world. However, you know that a chocolate bar, a bag of sour candies and a pack of crisps will do. You can always add three clementines you didn’t even choose properly to reach the amount required while the shop owner waits, crossed arms over his chest, for you to decide if you want to give up your treasure or spend a little bit more. Because now you’re spending £4.59, and that wasn’t your initial plan. During the day, there is always an occasion to enter the small cluttered shop. If you join someone you’ll automatically stop by, to grab fours cans of Pilsner or two of IPA, it depends of the type of person you’re meeting in the park. When you arrive at the counter, the owner is always watching his little top right corner screen, not paying you too much attention, but enough to feel like you’re a human being, knowing that you could easily start complaining about your lack of sleep or the text you’re waiting from this guy you’ve just met. He would listen to you but, you’re not taking advantage of that, you end up giving a shy smile. About the screen, you always wonder what he’s watching all the time, you barely see the images and the sound is not coming clear. You must think to ask the next time you’re going back to the off licence.