High, Low, Gigolo

Me and my house mate sat around talking about the limits one would go to with their other half and we considered our own limits. Well we talked about the things done, said and played with the other halves. The explicit picture for a bit of eye-candy, assuring love messages, messages assuring annoyance and the reven not sending a message to send a ‘message’.

Which evidently led to, the who’s and whats of dating a white guy. Continue reading

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Fixing the Fridge, on a Sunday Night

full-fridge-1729679_640What makes you do things? I have had many reasons over the to encourage me or ‘make’ me do things.

On Sunday evening as I was cooking for my dear friends and I realised that the light of the fridge had stopped working. I checked the temp of the fridge, looked in the freezer for melting ice and did all the adulty things you do to check if the fridge has actually stopped working. Continue reading

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They Were All Poor

I walked home from work on 3 occasions last week. I put my £3 plimsolls from H & M and just walked. It’s about 5km and it’s a nice, high road heavy walk. In some parts you have the tall trees towering over you and in other parts you have tall council estate blocks that cast a shadow over my heart. The life and art of London, those tall towers. I grew up in a working class area myself, I’m not sure if the area was better than most council housing but I lived grew up in a small cottage.  It had a bit more space and it didn’t feel so dense. It was on the rims of East London, by the docks and my mother’s house was small and cute, and clean and bright.

Across the road from it was a park and even though there was a major carriageway right by it, if you twisted your body to the left and kept your double glazed windows closed, it felt like you were looking out at the meadow. Continue reading

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I Wasn’t Talking About My Keys

2_6422_2Last night I went to see my old school friends, we sat around and chit-chatted about those good old days. There happened to be a ‘Top 50 of 90’s R&B collection’ on MTV and we sat eating Chinese and talking about the people that tainted our lives other the years.

My 18-year-old VW Beetle died this summer so I had to get a train to Basildon. And do I love a good train journey. The gentle rocking of the train as you sit there reading, reminiscing or planning. There is something therapeutic about the rhythmic repetition of noise and swaying. Continue reading

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