I stared at him. My mouth agape.

He repeated it, a small devilish smile flicked across his face.

Small little lighting bolts began to bubble deep inside of me. I felt my cheeks flush.

I was furious. If he thought I was a handful before, he hadn’t seen anything yet.

I got up from my seat, extended my arm and slapped him hard across his check. So hard, that his eyes bulged out and the cut of steak that he had been chewing on for what felt like a decade, flew out of his mouth and went skidding across the floor.

The hubbub of chatter that had been the soundtrack to this short and extremely unpleasant evening, came to an abrupt stop.

People trying their hardest, but not hard enough to pretend that they weren’t trying to find out what the cause of the slap was.

I picked up my bag and without giving him a look, I made my way towards the door. Bitch I heard him mumble as I my hand reached out the open it.

I stopped.

I hated that word. It stung.

Slowly I turned around and marched back over to him. I picked up the bottle of 1985 or whatever year it was and poured the whole thing over him.

A river of red flowed across his crops white shirt. His hands flailing about him, as he spluttered.

I dropped the bottle letting it crash to the floor and continued on with my exit.

Blind dates sucked.



The shrill sound of a miaow awakened me from my trancelike state.

The grey furball jumped down from its ledge and proceeded to attack me with its vocal onslaught.

It began to weave in and out of my legs, threatening to trip me up.

Usually I was a sucker for a cat and would’ve happily entertained it. But today was not a usual day.

I was hangry and a day spent squaring off with a computer screen had not done anything to make matters any better.

My pace quickened but the blasted thing continued to follow.

I crossed the road, and yep you guessed it, the blasted thing followed suit.

For the next couple of minutes a game of zig zag ensued. Me this giant human trying to out run a small feline. It just wouldn’t let up.

Trust me to have a bloody stalker.

I guess I should’ve felt flattered. That a cat found me worthy of following.

The icicles that covered my heart slowly began to melt as it continued to cry out for attention.

I stopped and squatted down. My hand stretched and stroked.

The cat arched it back and make a pleasurable purring sound. Then as quickly as it had begun to follow me, it turned around and sprinted off.

I chuckled to myself as I stood up.

All it had wanted was a little bit of TLC.


There was no better feeling than sitting on the toilet.

When you were on the toilet there was no room for worrying about bothersome issues. No space for urgencies.

No the toilet was a sanctuary.

A place to relax, to escape from others and be by yourself.

You could sit on the toilet for ages. Plotting new ideas. Creating comebacks and responses to things not yet said. Giggling silently to jokes that only you found funny.

The toilet was the place for soaking up news, for learning new things, becoming an amateur chemist by learning the names of different chemicals on toilet cleaners and airfreshners.

You could catch up with old friends, by tap tapping out messages that you didn’t have time to get back to.

Soaking up gossip and entertaining yourself by counting tiles.

But the best thing of all, was the time to have a break, a breather a pause from the hustles and bustles of life.

Just to sit there and be.


Why was he still sitting next to me? There were plenty of empty seats. In fact every single seat except ours was free.

Alarm bells started ringing inside of me. This did not feel right.

I was going to have to move. I didn’t feel comfortable. At all.

But I had so many bags and I was the one who had sat down here first. Why should I have to be the one to move?

I shot death glares at the back of his balding head, but he continued to sit.

Defeated, I got up and moved away. He looked up at me a pained expression on his face.

I didn’t give two shits. Who was he to me, nothing but a stranger who didn’t get social cues and the unwritten rules of bus etiquette.


I was flaming.

The bus finally moved onto my stop and I got off. Not before giving him the dirtiest look.

I felt like I was 10ft tall as I walked towards my house.

I was not going to let anyone make me uncomfortable.


The pain was tearing through me.

Who told me to go and fast myself and eat something that my body couldn’t handle.

I could feel the uncomfortable feeling of bubbles begin to form in my stomach.

This was far from what I needed.

The meeting continued to slug on. I moved uncomfortably around my seat. Every now and then glancing at the clock.

Why did a minute feel like an hour when you wanted to leave?

I wanted to cry. I wanted to stand up and scream for everyone to fuck off.

This was so unfair. Why did things like this happen to me.

The meeting finally ended and I raced out of the room.

The sweet sensation of relief was a reward I couldn’t wait to experience.


The cheers continued. It seemed that everyone was having fun except for me.

I pulled my covers up over my ears to try and drown our the noise, but it was no use. I could still hear everything.

I got up out of bed a trudged out to the kitchen.

The light blinded me as I opened the fridge.

I hated staying in on a Friday night, but then I when I was out I wanted nothing more than to go back home when I was out.

I was never satisfied.

I picked up the mini quiche that had gone off 10 days ago and a half drunk bottle of bubbly and walked back to bed.

This was my kind of fun.


Dry face. Dry lips. Dry hands. Dry feet.

Every inch of me was dry. My skin was screaming for some form of moisturiser but there was none around.

It was the most torturous feeling, walking around with dry skin. I wasn’t able to just hop out of the shower and go about with my day, so why did I think it was a good idea to shower here?

I mean who doesn’t have moisturiser in their house? That’s actually a sacrilege. It should be a sin not to have a least one tube of body cream in your house.

I felt like crying, real tears were threatening to fall.

I could feel the tightness from all around. It was the worst feeling ever, I felt like I was on fire.

My thoughts turned to the tube that I had placed on my dresser, the night before. It was way to big to fit in my bag, I thought at the time, but I should’ve found a way to make it work.

But living in the land of should’ve wasn’t going to make any difference now; there was no moisturiser in the here and now and there was no way to change that fact.

Begrudgingly, I began to dress and left the bathroom. I gave Godfred a nod goodbye as I stepped back into the room and he muttered a sleep laced bye.

We would be having words later.

Body cream would have to be provided next time if he was to ever expect a sleep over again.

As I made my way to the door, a bottle of Palmer’s Cocoa Butter, wedged in between the side of the bed, caught my eye.

Shaking my head I realised we must’ve knocked it off the dresser when we got in.

It was far too late to apply it now. I would just have to grin and bare it until I got home.


My feet were near dead. Well they would be after I had spent most of the night on foot, trying to find my way home.

Sweat had soaked through my dress and it was now dry; I felt so dirty.

Tears were threatening to fall and my body was screaming for a shower.

The whole night was a fucking disaster.

Go on holiday they had said. Find a nice guy whilst your there and have a summer fling. Live a little.

I swear, sometimes it was best to listen to your guts, instead of following the advice of smug non-singles.

Yeah it was always easy to sit up on your high horse.

But it didn’t lead to them being kicked out of a car in the middle of the Spanish countryside, after refusing to give a guy that you had just met, though who had been a complete gentleman on your dinner date, a blow job. Fucking dick.

Why wasn’t life like this.


I hate summer. I hate everything about it.

I hate the heat, the sweat. The smell of bad body odour, oozing out of dirty people that don’t bathe.

I mean how do you smell that bad in the morning? How?

I hate how it makes me want to just lay around all day and how I never have any energy. I hate the mugginess and how the air always feels heavy.

I hate having to pour endless amounts of sticky sun protection on that turns my skin purple.

I hate having to sleep with the fan on. And feeling cold even though I’m hot.

I hate always being thirsty and how drinks never seem to last long enough for me to enjoy. I hate that there’s never any ice in the ice cube tray when you need it.

I hate restless nights, getting on the tube, uncomfortable clothing, moths bouncing on the ceiling when you leave your windows open.

I hate everything.

Roll on the winter I say.


black vintage typewriter

Cold and hungry and tired.

These thoughts fluttered through my mind more than I wanted them to.

They had started as soon as I had gotten in this morning and they had continued to accompany me for the best part of the day.

Cold, hungry and tired.

I wish someone would turn the fucking AC down! Why couldn’t we just open up a window? Why were people so god damn inconsiderate?

It’s like people got some form of kick out of messing around with the temperature. A battle til the death. Well it would be the death of me if someone didn’t turn it down soon.

And why couldn’t this fucking hour hurry up and finish? All I wanted to do was get my mouth around that juicy bagel that I had gotten up extra early to make. My mouth began to salivate as I thought about its creamy and salmony goodness. This hour needed to hurry up and finish, I was going out of my mind.

Images of my unmade bed, flashed before my eyes. Why oh, why had I decided to start a new television show. I was a diagnosed TV binger; why did I think that 11 o clock on a school night would be a great time to start a new series. I was kicking myself now as my eyes struggled to stay open.

On the subject of kicking, I wanted to kick my foot right through the face of Douglas. Douglas was the latest intern and right now he was hammering the fuck out of his laptop with his fingers. Was is so necessary to type so hard? We get it Douglas your a fast fucking typer, what the fuck do you want a reward. Typing was not going to get you a full time and paid job here, not even if you typed so hard your fingers started to bleed.

I sighed a long and frustrated sigh and gave him death stares behind his head. How I wish lasers were a function that my eyes had, so that I could bore two small holes into him and stop his keyboard bashing for good.

The big hand edged just that little bit closer to the 12. Nearly there.

So close.

Soon I’d be able to get out of this shit hole. Not for good though, just an hour. But to be fair it was better than nothing.

I turned my face back to my computer and stared into the abyss that was my work. This hour was never going to let up.

A shadow appeared above my desk. Lorna was here to rescue me.

I shut the lid of my laptop and got up, my smile embracing her with the biggest thank you of the day.

The great hour escape was about to commence.