Last Wednesday I went to London to help my mom move. Pulling into King’s Cross, I felt dazed and hung over from Will’s birthday dinner the previous night. His mom told us that she didn’t like swearing. I told her that if she opened a South African newspaper ever, she’d see how there are more important things to worry about.
I was contemplating whether I’d been rude or not. And my mom rings: “Which coach are you on? I’m on Platform 1 and you’re pulling in” “Um, I’m on F” “F for Fuck?” “Yes” “Okay, I’ll see you in a second, Sweetheart” “Thank god” I think. “I’m back”. I was a bit gutted that my mom was leaving the area. I can’t see why I’d ever visit Brixton again if she wasn’t living there. Not since Erin’s not there anymore either. It was the area I always lived in from when I arrived in the UK and so feel like it’s kind of like my turf. My favourite place to cry was on the tube. Perferably in rush hour. Because you can sob in peace knowing that nobody will ask you what the matter is. Or care. One time a lady gave me a tissue. The best part was that she handed it over without even looking at me; just knowing I needed what she could provide. I still feel more at home in London than I do Newcastle upon Tyne. I suppose because in London you can get by knowing absolutely nobody. And because I know that all those mutual friends my boy and I have would not be so mutual if ever the shit hit the fan with us. It’s like my constant PLAN B. A safety net I hope I never need use. I’ve not got a family home somewhere. Where the smell and the walls and the pets and the furniture are always the same. Where you can go and shut down and not deal with anything. So I decided that I’ve got London.

On Thursday morning I got a lift to the new place in the moving van. I sat with Paul and Ferdinand and we all listened to a radio show, mentioning some American girl who’d come to the UK to ask a guy out. A guy she wasn’t sure was single or not. Interested or not. We all agreed that it was a shit idea. Passing the tube station, cinema and Trade, I nearly waved the Ritzy goodbye. But I thought the gesture would make Paul and Ferdinand uncomfortable. So I refrained and listened instead to Paul telling us about how many babies the women who go on “Maury and Jerry” have. To how many men. I felt a bit heavy and low. But I always do when I first arrive in London. I don’t know why. It’s like suddenly speakers turn on everywhere. And they play “Life on Mars?” and “Crooked Teeth”. No more N137. I thought about all the relevant bus routes that were suddenly useless to me. And I felt shit because I knew that there was no need to get my bearings anywhere else. That I’ve had two years to do that elsewhere, but haven’t. I know where my gym is. Where my office is. Where Tesco is. But I can’t tell you where I’ll be standing if I decided to cross certain grassy areas. Bye bye bye bye bye bye Brixton. An hour later, when we were unpacking all of my mother’s ten boxes, she said “Where’s the TV?”. And Brixton didn’t seem so long and lost anymore. Because I forgot the fucking thing and we had to go back for it.

12:37 and I have come over with THE FEAR.

You know, it normally sweeps over you at 14:33 on a Saturday with little or no recollection of what you said or did the previous night, while you try desperately to squint away the pain that can only be matched by 8 fat ladies sitting on your baseball-bat-smacked crown. You know, you’ve got some clothes on- maybe some half eaten food next to your crash spot. At least two untouched glasses of water. Mascara everywhere. A barren nothingness filling your memory. And then…like the N35 that rolls right past you after an hour of watching nothing happen at Liverpool Street Station from four until five in the morning, a small flash back creeps up on you; one of yourself saying “And you know, most of us are are cunts”.  That godawful OH NO feeling? That wondering what else you said or did, that anxiety about whether the rest will come back to you or not? We call that THE FEAR. I hate THE FEAR. But I respect it, so that (nowadays) it pays me fewer visits. But today? I’m not hung over, I spent the night with my boy, cat and TV. I was perfectly nice; perfectly sober. Untouched by any tempting nasties who aid and abet THE FEAR. I’ve just got it. And it won’t go away. I’m willing to bet that when I get home tonight, it’ll have moved in, having brought the family along. Old COLD SWEAT. Little NERVES and ANXIETY running around. DREAD and MIGRAINE arguing in the kitchen. SOCIAL NIGHTMARE sprawling in front of my TV. The bastards.

that Ninja Cat and Co were liked.

I really enjoyed doing those canvases and planned to do a lot more- whether people thought them shitty or not. I’m just glad I won’t have to box them up and stick them in the loft now. Though I don’t really feel like I have the time for them anyway. I don’t feel like I have the time for much of anything. Not since I can’t stay awake when I should and can’t sleep when I can.

Not since I’m slow to do things because I’m sick and subsequently annoyingly overtly female and emotional and pissed off. I feel like I’m keeping tabs on a million things but accomplish next to nothing. I want to go and sniff out some more small box canvases, but can’t really justify leaving the office. And I can’t care to concentrate on much else either. Not on top of whether my thighs are growing or shrinking. Or if I have back fat or back muscle. You know. Important stuff.

I’m also feeling harassed by my sub conscious. My dreams are so fast paced and terrifying and busy that my real dull life seems like a tedious filler. But one I’m only barely aware of. I’m waking up panicked in a wet oval of cold sweat. And the last thing I can remember of a far more vivid and colourful realm is having to run the most difficult and ridiculous errands- whilst carrying a cat and a goldfish in the same gladstone bag filled with milk. Stupid errands that have people’s lives depending on their successful execution.

And then I wake up bothered that within a task there was another: to a keep the goldfish alive when I knew I simply couldn’t. But desperately tried to anyway. And the only reason this really irks me is because I can’t help but feel like I’m doing the very same thing with my real life: running around like a dickhead trying to salvage something that is already wasted.

Bah and Fuck.

I got Catherine a My Little Pony for Secret Santa last year. I know. I probably could have done better, but I think I was far too flushed with blind relief that I picked the name of someone who has personality and a sense of humour from the “hat”. Indeed, I could’ve drawn the social bomb scare from Development who I took to talking over on client calls in case they were put in the awkward position of having to decipher and respond to his muffled grunts.

When Catherine left, I put the thing in my office. I figured if she wasn’t coming back for her scarf, fluffy ended pens or tinned ready-mix tuna mayonnaise, she’d hardly drop in to collect a toy. Still, I don’t particularly like ponies. I’ve never been on one and never took to gluing pictures of them to anything I’ve ever owned. At a push you can say any enthusiasm I have for horses goes as far as betting on them- but that’s about it.

Needless to say, my pony has wasted the few months it had to wow me. I feel nothing more for it than I do the lifelike pigs, army of plasticine men or James Bond’s car, which all lie scattered around my work space.

I often look over at it, waiting to feel a pang of nostalgia (because that seems to happen so easily to me) but there’s nothing. Not even the flower on her hindquarters smells like the ones I had in the 80s. I feel more than ever that little girls have shit taste and so, actively involved myself with bettering my office décor.

Our washing machine has been leaking. Our “Jesus, we were lucky to find this” rented house has been smelling damp. There’s a dark(ish) stain running from one floor to the next. And our land lady doesn’t seem especially perturbed by it.

I can’t fathom why someone will dismiss constant damage to their home. Indeed, the whole thing is going to start rotting from the inside out.

On Friday, 15 minutes after people start to order Ninja Cat’s company, I have to leap in a cab and dash home to hide any trace of my cat and wait for the guy who tends to Leaky Bathroom Stuff. I ask J for his house keys, since mine are currently hiding from me.

All the way home my ass is clenched. I am fucked off that I have to leave work while there is work I still need to do. Especially since I’ve spent the better part of the day focusing on my own little mail out. I also hate keeping people waiting and know that I am.

The worst part about being a in a massive hurry is sitting on the tube, standing in a lift, waiting in traffic- being generally still and silent. Worse is if there’s “music” playing. Music that doesn’t have lyrics. Music that people like to play while they eat. Bad music. I wonder if Gmail has broken up my mail out again. It has.

I clamber out the cab and notice, as my key bounces off the lock, that I’ve come home with the key to J’s office, not our home. I get into our back yard and look up at the cat’s window. “I can get through that” I think.

I climb onto the coal box and push my head through the window. As I put in and take out each limb in turn, I try to figure out if I can climb inside without falling and smacking my head on an adjacent countertop. “Fucking narrow kitchen” I think “Fucking wide shoulders” I think. “Fucking shrubs in the sink” I think.

I get inside, triumphant that I managed it with my high heels on. I kick them off and start to sprint around the house looking for Stan the Man and all his neglected toys. Jamie rings and tells me of twenty or so emails I need to respond to and asks if the cat is hidden.

I hide the cat, deal with emails (badly) and try to get some work done. I realise I don’t have the files I need, ring Jamie and apologise for neglecting his client.

When 8pm rolls by without any sign of the British Gas man showing up, I allow the cat to move freely through the house. He doesn’t.
I feel a giant penis for putting work after my “painting stuff”.
And I still feel incredibly on edge.

Still. I got through the window with my high heels on.