Jelly Bean Man, Tottenham Court Road

I used to collect cacti when I was 9 or 10. I'm not sure why. Although I still like cacti, and I stole one from my last rented house. I decided the landlord couldn't prosecute me, you see I had a plan. I know a lot about cacti. And if my ex-landlord tried to hold back my deposit or get the police involved, claiming, 'There's a missing cactus.' I would simply say. 'I did my best, but the poor plant had a fatal mealy bug infestation.'

They'd never know that the cactus is still in fine health and sits on my kitchen window sill. I could even make it sound more plausible by discussing the merits of methylated spirits dabs or spraying with soapy water. My Mammillaria were my pride and joy, and when they got the bug and died I cried.

I looked around Borders magazine section yesterday, I was feeling a little bit sad, I thought Steve was meeting me for lunch but then he couldn't. He likes Rolling Stone magazine so I decided to buy him that, and buy myself a magazine too. Only I felt like an oddball and a freak, because I couldn't find a magazine on any of the racks that I wanted to read. I have no obvious hobbies or interests, I didn't feel like reading about football, or poker, or music, or knitting. Unfortunately they didn't have a magazine section called 'oddballs and freaks'.

I stuck a jelly bean man sticker on a Platform for Art poster today, so I suppose I have my stickering hobby. But I couldn't see any Stickerers magazines.

I've been thinking today, and realised I do actually have some hobbies and interests. I am a collecter still. Not Stamps, or Dolls Houses, or anything you can buy magazines for at Borders. But I now have 3 collections.

Two of these collections are work related, it helps to keep me interested.

I collect funny emails from players, I don't have any great plan for what to do with these, but sometimes I look and laugh. One day I might even compose these into sections like, 'Vagueness', 'A bit foreign' or 'Overcomplicated ways to say something simple.'

I've also recently started collecting the photos of people who write in to say 'Can I change my picture, someone told me I look ugly.' We get lots of emails like this each day. I'm saving these player's photos and then I'm going to make all these ugly people pictures into a montage to put on my living room wall. The funny thing is that most of these people aren't even ugly. Thee'll be a nice little section of the montage of men with beards. There'll be many ugly babies too. Actually most of the babies really are ugly.

The last collection you may think is strange. I've been thinking about this plan for quite a while, but it's only since I got my new phone that I've begun my new hobby. I take photos of pavement sick.

I'm very pleased with the ones I've found so far. The first was bright red, and next to a tree in Clapham. The second was spilling out of a bucket outside the Plaza shopping center. I can't wait to find some more!

I'm going to put these on a new blog, called 'Art Is Sick' Or maybe that doesn't quite work? artisick? May need to think of a new name. Anyway, that's supposed to sound like 'Artistic' because the blog will be my collection of pavement sick pictures, discussing my theory that public spew can be a form of artistic expression.

I'll put these pictures up, each with a little summary of their artistic worth to the world.

So you see, I do have hobbies.

And even though I didn't think I 'fitted' because I couldn't find a magazine to suit, I bought one that looked interesting anyway. I liked that it fitted nicely in my handbag, and that it wasn't glossy with adverts, and that it was first published in 1733. And I really liked the name, because I like London. It was 'The London Magazine.' On the tube home yesterday I read it's poetry and short stories, and a very interesting review of the Kandinsky exhibition.

I know it sounds a bit pretentious, but I really enjoyed it.

So now I've found a magazine I like, and know I'm not an oddball and a freak . I feel like a normal person, who sometimes likes drawing jellybean people to stick on tube station posters, and who constantly keeps her eyes peeled for pavement sick to photo for a website.

Not black and white, but rainbow

At tea time yesterday the rain poured down outside the window. I looked up and saw the glow of the sun and a hint of blue amongst the grey, and said 'There might be a rainbow.'

Aggi (our new au pair) told us about a beautiful rainbow she'd seen the day she arrived in England, and asked Amy if she'd ever seen one.

'When I was 3' Amy said, and we got on with our tea.

The doorbell rang. I expected it to be Amy's friend Tayba, she's a frequent visitor, although she had just gone home because I'd told her we were eating.

It was Tayba again. 'I wanted you to see that,' she said, and pointed.

At the end of our road was a rainbow. We all left our pasta and went to see it. The base was the darkest colour, but it wasn't perfect because in the middle it was blank, it was white not coloured, it just stopped, then suddenly continued again, as a hazy blur of every colour that it was easier to view as one interesting shade.

This morning Amy discussed favourite colours, as she often does.

'What's your favourite colour?'

She knows I always answer orange. I told her, 'Blue.'

She said, 'Are you just saying that to make me happy?' Blue is her favourite colour you see.

'No,' I said.

I was just really tired of saying orange. I'd said it so often that I wasn't even sure if it was my favourite colour any more. I heard the question but no longer thought when I gave the answer. Only now I was thinking of a blue sky. And I thought of something else too, I thought of questions and answers that you think you know, but don't. So I told Amy that nothing lasts, nothing's real forever, I told her that the way I feel is fickle; only I said, 'wibbly wobbly' because I didn't think she'd know what 'fickle' meant.

I told her I was the sort of person who have to be asked, 'What's your favourite colour today?'

Because I couldn't be sure of anything lasting forever.

Amy liked this idea. I could see her thinking this meant endless possibilities with her 'favourites' game. I felt like I somehow taught Amy a valuable lesson. And me too.

Amy asked me to ask her what her favourite colour 'today' was. So of course I did.

She said, 'Rainbow. I saw one yesterday, and it was good.'

I like blue again today. It's my favourite colour today. I'll think of blue skies while I can.

Good luck and bad luck

I had a good day yesterday at the FunQuay beach, and a happy evening, nothing special, just MOTD and an exchange of brief cheerful emails with Steve as he worked. In Steve's late night long email, that he's made into his own special art form, he commented that I'd seemed happy that day, and that this had made him happy. Then he had doubts about the wisdom of those words, and by the time he'd got his taxi home he'd convinced himself he needed to email again to reassure me that he'd be happy to be with me whether I was feeling happy or sad.

I feel so lucky. The thing is, he didn't need to send the second email. I know by now, that on good days or bad he's thinking of me and loving me, just like I constantly think of and love him too. I've considered how few truly happy couples I know. This still doesn't stop me believing that a few people are just made to be together. I used to read crappy Georgette Heyer's Regency romance novels when I was a teenager, and the phrase 'Grand passion' pops into my head now, and with it the idea of couples so much in love they can barely bear to be apart. Some special love that it's hard not to shout about, two people who are so very good for each other, love that means so much, feels so magic.

So I want to celebrate my love for my boyfriend every day. We've been together for 5 months now, but in emails today we talked about 5 years. Right now it feels like the most likely reason for us being apart in 5 years if if one of us gets run over by a bus.

And I have loads of good things in my life, it's not just Steve. I'm exceptionally lucky in so many ways. I wrote a list, but I won't share it as it would make dull reading. But, yes, most of my life is great. But I still think of myself as an unlucky person.

In some ways, yes, I think you might say I'm unlucky. 2 Really Bad Things have effected me. I scrabbled around in my head to make it 3. Funny that... Because 3 is a more meaningful number? Yes, 2 seems somehow incomplete. It can't be 2, can it? But it is. Well there was one other thing... No, that was a Fairly Bad Thing, not really in the same league. So, it really is 2. So does that mean another Really Bad Thing will happen? Sometimes I do think that, think that I'm cursed.

But this is stupid. I'm not cursed at all, and bad things happen to lots of people. I'm not trying to say I'm special. It's just that when I was 20 I crashed my car, I gave a friend brain damage and scarred her face. So that was Really Bad Thing number 1. And that took a lot of getting over. And then that I'd allowed myself to get over it, that took even more getting over...

And recently Really Bad Thing number 2 has been bothering me. And I'm not listing it here, because I'm still working on dealing with this, and because... Well, just because. And you can't say I don't share with you, can you?

But back to the satisfaction of reaching the number 3, perhaps a better way to look at it, to satisfy that superstition, is to say that I've had extreme luck 3 times. Extreme bad luck twice, but in the love thing with Steve I've found extreme good luck.

I like to think of him as this number 3, he can be a completion to my run with Good/Bad life experiences. Now I can have a boring life. Now we can both have a boring life. Steve and I talk about this a lot. Our dream as a couple is to lead a boring life.

My only worry is that I might be wrong, what if extreme bad luck number 3 is still waiting? The worst that this could be would be Steve getting run over by a bus before we've been together 5 years.

Oh well, I suppose I'd better make he most of things now and just be happy. And I'll tell Steve to look both ways when he crosses the road.

Notes stuck on our front door

The nasty notes continue to be stuck on our front door. They usually just say, 'Bog off' or 'Get lost'. There's only been one with a letter on the back, 'Dear Amy... You bitch. You smell in the sun, you smell under the moon.' Just weird rubbish, just kids...

I expected Amy to be upset, instead she seems to be caught up in it all, this is her summer holiday adventure. She and her friend Tayba, who lives next door, are investigating spies. When a new note is stuck she's told me not to put it in the bin because she needs to check for clues.

When one came yesterday she said, 'I need to see that, let me check for brass rubbings. Can I have a coin?'

So I gave her a coin, unfortunately she didn't find the vital brass rubbing to pinpoint the evil note stickerer.

She and Tayba have linked these nasty notes to the disappearance of Tayba's scooter from her front garden a week ago, and also the loss of Amy's Tamagotchi from Amy's school bag in June. They fear it may be linked to the 'person who did kidnappings,' he was in the paper. They spend a lot of time discussing how to catch the thief, note-writer, and potential kidnapper, and bring him to justice.

The thing is I'm caught up in it too. The last note was stuck with glue instead of white tac, why was that? And the weirdest mystery is that Amy knows Tayba and Matthew on her road, but no one else, yet the note used her name. Who else could know her name? And who could want to be mean to her?

It can't be Matthew, who's only 5 and would never be allowed out unsupervised. This means the prime suspect has to be Tayba, but she's a nice girl, and Amy's new best friend. It doesn't seem likely, but who else could it be?

Yesterday Amy screamed as a handwritten letter was posted through the door. She shouted, 'Mum, quick!' So we both ran to the window to see if we could see who'd posted it.

Tayba was in the street, she saw us and gave a sheepish wave. I picked up the letter, and opened it nervously. It was an invite to the sale of some toys. And now I had another clue... A sample of Tayba's handwriting!

But I didn't even need to hold her letter near one of the nasty notes, her writing was obviously different, her writing was neat, the notes were messy scrawls.

So it obviously wasn't Tayba. But as I was putting Amy to bed, she told me, 'Tayba told me she used to be friends with Matthew, but she stopped being friends when Matthew stuck rude notes on her door.'

TO BE CONTINUED...

Is that what they say in Columbo or Murder She Wrote? I wish it wasn't still going on, but as it is I'm going to solve this. I'm thinking sand on the doorstep, we'll get footprints. Amy knows what kind of trainers Matthew wears. Or we might get lucky and find a brass rubbing on the next note...

Tooting Special-Day

It was a special day in Tooting today. A few days ago a leaflet came through the door to proclaim that August 26th and 27th were 'Discover Tooting Days.' I'd noted that there were going to be 10% discounts in local restarants, and free samples to taste in the Indian sweet shop. I put the leaflet in the recycling bin, and decided to go with a friend to the FunQuay floating beach at Canary wharf. This promised Punch and Judy, funfair rides, live music and a floating pontoon in the Thames, holding 30 tonnes of sand. I wondered if the sand might fall through the head hole? Then realised I was thinking 'poncho'.

So we set off for Tooting Bec tube station, and on the way I saw balloons tied to every lamp-post. When I looked over the road there was Bart Simpson - he was sitting at a table, and he waved at us. A little further down the road there was a man hanging upside down, he was playing a guitar.

Canary Wharf's FunQuay was good. The sand was so clean it didn't seem real, no shells, no pebbles. The kids enjoyed their fair rides and their organic chocolate buttons. But I couldn't help prefering Tooting Bec's Special-day, where you could 'Discover Tooting' with Bart Simpson sitting at a desk, an upside-down man singing, and jolly balloons wherever you looked.

Scooby dooby doo

How do I sing 'Scooby Dooby Doo, where are you?' and dance with Amy, and laugh, and still feel sad at the same time?

She was bouncing on the bed, and telling me off for singing, 'Ner ner ner ner ner ner ner ner ner ner ner ner - don't hold back'.

She didn't like the 'ner ner ners' but I didn't know the words. So we laughed about this, and then I stopped laughing and thought too much, and the game soon ended.

Why does it feel like my idea of the world is now all wrong?

I still sing Scooby Doo and do silly stuff with Amy, so on the surface nothing has changed. It's under the surface where the problem lies.

I thought/think the world is a wonderful place and people are all nice. I know, it's embarassing admitting to such naivete, is it worse than confessing to visiting a therapist?

I do know there are wars and murders and things. I suppose I've never fully considered those. I rarely watch the news on TV, and avoid reading the serious stories in newspapers. And I'm sure that avoiding all that makes me a flawed person.

Maybe I thought bad things happened to other people, and even blamed them a little? Or at least gave the victim less sympathy by being unwilling to assign blame. Because I've realised that I had to think like this, just a little, to stick to my view that the world was all really happy and nice.

If something bad happens, but I don't believe in badness then I'd try to spread the nasty stuff around, like trying to hide it under the rug. A child is murdered? Well of course that's bad and sad... But the murderer couldn't help it, could he? He was badly brought up, he had a sad life too. But it wasn't his parents fault either. They had a hard time as kids. But his parents hard time was caused by unhappy circumstances, their parents had no money, so in the end it was all really the cause and effect of something insignificant. I turn it into a small thing that wasn't really anyone's fault. I dilute the idea of badness so much, that in my head it becomes, 'Just one of those things'. And I go on believing in a world that's a happy place full of nice people. I believe everyone's trying to do their best, believe when people get hurt it's only ever through the blameless failures of the misguided.

So Amy bounces on the bed as I sing to her, and I avoid the TV news and watch Teen Titans with her instead. And the world still looks happy and people seem nice. Isn't that true? Doing my best for Amy it seems easy to believe the world is a good place with good people doing their best to make it even better. Perhaps I was so caught up in my own happiness I didn't want to believe it could be any different for anyone else?

So it took something effecting me to make me see that it's not like that. And the problem is that I still want to believe that it is all good.

So I play with Amy and laugh, but I'm sad all at the same time. My head hurts. And who do I blame?

Help

My second session with my therapist, the one that Jesus paid for, didn't go so well. Well, that's wrong, it made me think differently, and in many ways more usefully, it's just that it felt like I was bullied into a change of head. And I could see that accepting the truth and facing things was a positive step. It just wasn't a happy truth, and I left the session feeling like that was it. My therapist suggesting I was cured, and not making it easy for me to go back.

Only in many ways I felt worse than before, it felt like I had a head that had been mixed up with a big spoon, without even a, 'See you next week,' as reassurance that the mixture would turn into... well pick your own analogy. I was thinking cakes, but I don't really want a Victoria Sponge for a head. Anyway, you get the idea.

So I told Steve about the olden days. 'In the olden days they sorted things out for themselves. They didn't get help, they didn't need therapists.'

Steve wisely ignored me and found me the numbers of an organisation who might help. So on a bad day where my head was so weird I felt like cutting it off (that's an analogy too, in case you're wondering. Although if I had cut it I wonder if it was chocolate or jam in the middle..?) On a day I felt bad I got in touch with them. I didn't want to ring their numbers, but I sent an email. Writing I can do. Phones, no thank you.

So I sent an email to some organisation with a lot of letters, letters whose meaning I didn't want to know. And I clicked refresh on Hotmail a lot that day.

I clicked it a lot the next day too. Now five days later with no reply, I'm convincing myself of the olden days approach again. And wondering if Evening Primrose Oil is any good.

The thing is there were a lot of letters in that email address. Maybe I accidentily typed the wrong ones? I could have sent my cry for help to info@crasac.org.uk? And Croyden Rabbit And Squirrel Ambulance Center wouldn't know what had hit them. I would have panicked some old dear in the office who'd be worried about the mental wellbeing of a rabbit called Jo, before she realised rabbits can't type. Oh, ok then, back to the knitting, 'delete'. And all that wouldn't happen in the olden days, would it? They didn't have email.

Two balloons tied together

I don't really understand it, but when I'm unhappy I tell Steve that he should leave me. Of course I don't want him to, I love him, and it's always, 'You should leave' and not,'I'm leaving.'

I have many theories about why I do this, but stil none of them feel right. You may think it's attention seeking, or wanting reassurance, but I don't think it's that, when I say it I mean it. It's almost like I want to hurt myself more, to hurt myself so much I won't feel any of it.

So Steve bats it away, he says the right thing, he won't go however hard I try to make him. He knows it's just my 'weird head' talking and that I love him and would hate him to go. Today Amy pointed out two balloons in the sky, tied together, floating high together, out of control, but never to be parted. Steve had just sent another reassuring email. I was already sure that we weren't going to split up, the balloons felt like magic proof.

Amy said, 'You can make a sticker about them.'

I probably will.

I told Steve in an email, 'I'm going to keep writing this crap until it wears you down, until you see the truth, get my point and it'll be over like it should be.'

He wrote back, answering all the points I made, patient and reassuring and loving. And he mentioned a 'crappy film' he'd seen. And said, 'I hate quoting films because they’re made up, but someone wrote it and they were probably thinking it themselves at some point so it must be real. If two people love each other but things keep getting in the way – at what point should they call it quits? And the answer is never.'

And I thought of his not-quite-real film quote, when I looked at those balloons in the sky. And I though that those balloons would always be together, however high and far the wind blew them. And Steve said, 'I’ll decide who I want to be with. I already have. Get that into your head and put a stone on it so it doesn’t keep blowing away. Write whatever crap you like. It won’t change a thing with me.'

Maybe one day we'll be two balloons, tied together, and weighted down with a stone so that we're still, so that we're safe. He makes me believe that might be possible. I want that so much.

'Bog Off', stuck on our front door.

The doorbell rang the other day, and when I answered it there was just a note stuck with blue tac, it said 'Bog Off'. And there was a blue balloon with not much air in it on the doorstep.

It bothered me more than it should at the time, although I told myself I was just being silly and paranoid. It was kids messing about of course.

Today the doorbell rang again. A note stuck to the door, again it said, 'Bog Off'.

I was quite calm about it when I saw it this time, just pulled it off the door feeling strangely proud of myself for thinking, 'Just kids' instead of looney weird thoughts about blog reading stalkers, or that it was Steve's odd way of ending our relationship. I told you I'd been paranoid and weird..!

So I pulled the note off the door, and I saw that it had writing on the back. It said, 'Dear Amy...' And I'm not going to tell you the rest, because I don't want to think about it.

And I know it's only kids, but it was mean, and nasty, and she hasn't done anything to anyone, and she only knows 2 kids in the street and I know it wasn't either of them. But I'm not getting paranoid again. And she's only 6! And life feels crap again.

Squirrel with 'Ooooh!' banner, Up escalator Oxford Circus

I haven't made any new stickers recently, but yesterday Steve gave me some he'd made. They were funny, silly red squirrels carrying placards. I've no idea how he came up with that idea, but it made me laugh.

I've been a bit, hmmm lately. Well you know I've got a therapist? If I lived in the states I could probably say, 'I've got a therapist' and it would be ok. Not here. Actually I ditched my therapist, or did he ditch me? Anyway, I had a therapist, and Steve thinks it would do me good to see someone else about hmmm stuff. I'm not sure. Although I now Steve thinks it, the squirrels with the banners didn't say 'Get Help!' instead they said 'Magic!' and 'Ooooh!'

So yeah, it's not really done to have a therapist, is it? Not in this country. It's considered fine to care for your mental wellbeing with Evening Primrose Oil or Omega 3 Fish Oil capsules.

Talking to a professional who has advice on how to get your mind to function at it's best is considered wacky, taking capsules made of the squeezed out juices of flowers picked at 8pm is considered normal.

It must be expensive to produce Evening Primrose Oil, as there are so few hours a day when the flowers can be harvested. I wonder, if you buy cheap Evening Primrose oil whether they cheat and use some flowers picked in the morning? They could make a documentary with hidden cameras about farmers hiring cheap foreign labour to shiftily pick the primroses in the early hours.

So yeah, I wouldn't trust in the purity of any Evening Primrose Oil capsule, I'd rather trust in the knowledge and experience of a trained head-shrinker. Although I think the best cure for a weird-head is a boyfriend who'll make stickers to try to cheer you up, and bosses at work who make you feel appreciated even when you're not giving work as much effort as you want to.

And as I headed to work, I stuck Steve's sticker. 'Ooooh!' Where did that come from? 'Ooooh!' 'Ooooh?' It didn't matter, it made me laugh. My boyfriend's very clever. I love him.

Look on the bright side. (Haven't got a sticker for this post. Maybe a cloud?)

Some things are just bad, aren't they?

If you can't think of anything good about something it's natural to avoid thinking about it at all.

But if you don't think about it then you can't make sense of it, and so it will always hurt. I've got something like that going on now.

And it feels like now's the time to try to make sense of it, because of tried the not thinking approach, tried so hard with that it nearly drove me mad. So now I'm trying something different, and I do feel less mad, but much more sad.

My mind instinctively tries to look on the bright side, I suppose it's human nature. So it tries to find a silver lining to this cloud. It briefly toys with the idea of enjoying the sympathy of friends, but then recoils at the idea, hating the label that goes with all that. 'Victim' isn't a word I like.

Then it latches on the idea that bad things can make you stronger, that you can learn from them. This is a fragile hope, because as soon as your belief in this falters then it fails. How can feeling bad mean strength, when nothing feels weaker than feeling confused, sad, disappointed that these feelings overwhelm you?

So what else is there if you can't see any bright side at all? What do you think if something is just bad, and there's no other sense than that?

I suppose acceptance is all you can help for. Only I'm a perfectionist, and an optimist too, I've never wanted to accept less than 'good', I'm just not like that. I don't want to accept bad things. But if I don't, or can't, then where else do I go with this?

And it's funny, that one of the only 'bright sides' I could come up with in all this is the 'words on the page' thing. You're reading this, aren't you? But I don't think that's a good thing either. I hope not. I hope you're not enjoying this.

Self portrait, to be stuck at Tooting Bec

I went to the BP Potrait Award exhibition after work today. I think I've been to this every year since I've lived in London. I'm not really an art lover. I just like that this exhibition's there, it runs for months, it's at a convenient location, it's free, it's one room with just enough paintings that you're neither bored of looking or left wanting more. I like that you can see the winning picture, and agree or disagree with the judges. And there's a 'Visitors Choice' prize, with a card to mark down your favourite, that's fun. Yes, I like this exhibition, it's an easy fix of amateur art appreciation.

So most years I've lived in London I've found a spare 20 minutes to enjoy this celebration of painted faces. One year I went with Alex, on an evening when we had a babysitter and didn't have a better plan. The gallery seemed unusually busy, and it was only when we noticed so many faces that looked like those staring from the canvas, next to the legend 'Self portrait' that we realised it was a special night with the artists in attendance to discuss their work with the public.

I didn't discuss anything. Just compared their painted faces with their real ones, and we went home after 20 minutes as usual.

I decided to visit the gallery today because I'm in a bit of a fug I suppose. You know, just stuff. Just a head playing tricks on me when it should know better. But when I tell it that it gets even fuggier. And no, I don't now what the fug I'm talking about either.

So I decided this fug might be lifted by looking at the painted faces of many people. I hoped I could find some sort of cure for self-obsession and introspection, and really rather pathetic 'me me me' nonsense that's suddenly, annoyingly, come upon me.

So I looked at the paintings. I'm not sure it helped my fugged up head get better, but I enjoyed looking at these pictures.

What to say? I noticed that few of the painted people were smiling, they looked thoughtful at best, and many looked sad. Most had a name listed on the card description beside them. Or else the artist's name and 'self portrait'. I admired the realism, or skill of the artist, or the emotion conveyed, or the style on show, but the thing that struck me most was that I didn't know these people, and couldn't however long I looked at them. Obviously you could speculate or assume about their lives, but there was no way of ever knowing what these people were thinking.

Well, I know that's obvious really. But it made the whole seem thing seem quite pointless, and it was quite a lonely feeling, to think we were all looking at faces of people we couldn't know, and considering them thoghtfully, without ever understanding if they were happy or sad, or what really mattered to them, whether they were madly in love, or merely wondering what to have for tea that day.

And I wondered if it was any more interesting to look around at the people visiting the gallery. Maybe in their real world, not painted, faces I would understand more about the world than in stylish, empty, portraits?

But of course I could learn little about any of them either. Any more than they could learn if they looked at this head in a fug woman, scribbling in a notebook, sitting on the bench of the gallery. They wouldn't look and know that I was trying to make sense of all this, and then scribbling the words, 'trying and failing.'

And another thing...

When Steve writes this subject heading in an email I love it. It's like he's been thinking about me, even when he's finished writing to me. It's like he's always thinking about me. Which he tells me he is. And the funny thing is, I believe him. :-)

We use a lot of smilies in our emails too. :-) <-is my smiley. :o) <-is his. At first I felt self concious about this email punctuation, after all, he is a proper writer wouldn't he expect better? And I have enough interest in 'proper writing' to know that it's a lazy way to express yourself. But after a typical introspective, smiley-infested, email debate, we both decided not to worry about it. We're both comfortable with :-) and :o) we both know it's lazy and not proper writing, and neither of us cares one bit, we're too busy smiling. :-P <-he gets used a lot by both of us. Or :oP <- in Steve's case.

Anyway, the thing is, my therapist said that I might use writing to make order of the world, to make it tidy, to make sense of things. I'm not sure, but maybe. And maybe that's why I'm writing so much at this confusing time.

I'm not sure what that has to do with publishing thoughts on a blog though. So far I have only 'draft mode' posts. But if you see this, I must have made sense of that side of it. Either that, or I could drunk and hit 'Publish' in a wild who gives a fuck moment... :-P

:-)

Mr.Big Potato Daddy, Clapham South

I wanted to call this post, 'Jesus paid for my therapist.' Only I have a system now for blog titles, so I didn't. This may change. Actually my therapist made me realise that this whole blog might be a bad idea. Partly because of the title.

I ran away from my old blog when it felt like it was all getting a bit too personal, a bit too revealing, a bit too sad. It felt like writing it was hurting me. So I decided to ditch all that and enjoy happy, silly, (magic), fun stuff. Only writing here has never felt good, it's strangely never felt like 'home', although I very much wanted it to be.

I thought it might be to do with the upside down monkey in the top banner. I actually decided that was the problem with this blog, on the day I decided I ought to see a therapist.

What did we discuss? Well that would be revealing and personal, wouldn't it? And this is a happy, silly, (magic), fun blog, of course.

We talked about my wittering. Steve and I call it 'wittering'. It's just that I'm the sort of person who likes to chatter about every little detail of the day, and I suppose I like to have a bit of a moan too. If something's on my mind I like to say it, and then it feels as if it's gone. Instant betterness.

Is betterness a word? I don't really know. I like it, so that's ok. And you'll think 'poor girl, she's got a therapist' and forgive me if it's a word plucked from nowhereland. Oh yes, and we talked about blogging as wittering. Blogging is just wittering with your fingers on a keyboard.

And what else did he say about blogging? I didn't ask him about the upside down monkey, as it happens. We talked about the fact that I was a bit obsessive about it. That I would often choose to blog or write rather than sit and watch TV, and that even in my lunch hour I would rather write than shop. Even though the office is off Oxford Street, what sort of a girl am I? So, it's witter, witter, witter, my busy mind talking to... you? Myself? I don't know... It didn't seem to matter who. It wasn't about that. Blogging was busy-ness, distraction, self absorbtion, but at the same time it meant I was too focused to really stop and think. To properly relax. Yeah, witter, witter, witther all about happy, silly, fun... Oh yes. Right. Like I'm trying to convince myself. And happy, silly, fun feels strangely like hard work after a while.

I could convince myself for only so long, before I could no longer believe that an upside down monkey was my only reason for unhappiness.

So off to see a therapist, who'll hopefully sort me out. He explained that if you're the sort of person who likes to witter, but someone were to put a piece of tape over your mouth so you couldn't talk, you'd probably feel weird, and unhappy, and almost like you might explode.

I'm not sure exactly what he meant by that, but the first session made me feel great. I wittered about something I didn't uually talk about, that it was hard to talk about, that was messing me up. He promised he wouldn't just tackle the problem, it wouldn't be that I was only fixed up like a car with an engine problem, he said he'd tackle the cause of the problem so I'd work better forever. I imagined being like a shiny new car, polished, gleaming, as good as it can be.

And I believed him. And I'd heard that he was good, and at £100 an hour you'd expect good.

I'd taken a lot of persuading to go at all, so the money had seemed the least important issue. I expected to be fixed up in one session. Then I decided it was worth many sessions in order to gleam, to run as well as I could...

Of course I wondered where I'd find the money, but the therapist was kind, and I think he knew I was desperate, so he offered to help for whatever I could afford.

And I'd just won £110 by having Chris 'Jesus' Ferguson in the WSOP last longer bet at work! So I told my therapist this, I told him, 'That's another session!' So I promised him £110 for the next session. And he called me a 'generous sprite' and we hugged as I left.

And I smiled all the way home, and especially when I saw my 'Mr.Big Potato Daddy' sticker. It had been made at Amy's insistance, when I'd felt very low and uninspired. It reminded me of doing my best to be a good Mum, even on days when I felt bad. And I hoped that if I stopped feeling bad, and shone, with the help of my therapist, and Jesus, then I could be a really great mum, and feel properly happy, instead of forced, unreal, pretend happy that was silly and not fun at all.

So I no longer like this blog, and especially it's OTT title, but I do still like the magic bit, that feels like the only real bit of this blog. Even my therapist could see that my blog was my magic, it was just the wrong sort of magic for a while, maybe if I could make it the right sort everything would be ok?

Question Mark, stuck or not stuck?

Do you think some people think more than others? Question things more? Or even question things too much? I don't know.

Sometimes I think I write to try to make sense of things, to put things in order, to understand.

I have so many unfinished blog posts lately. Half hearted. Half finished. They feel failed.

This is the one I need to write now. My explanation of the 'question question'... I wonder if I'll actually get to the end?

What if something big that happens? Something that makes you mind buzz with so many questions?

What if you wonder... Is it a big thing, or a little thing? Is it my fault, or not my fault? Should I be worried, or not worried? Am I reacting right, or am I reacting wrong? Should I be sad, or not sad? Do I talk about it, or do I never talk about it? Is this normal, or is this not normal? Should it hurt, or should it not hurt? Am I coping, or am I not coping? Should I think of this, or should I not think of this? Do I need help, or do I not need help? Is it me, or is it not me? Is this something, is it nothing?

The worst you can think about it is, 'It's me!' The best you can think is, 'It's nothing...'

Somewhere in the failed logic of computing both these thoughts at once, there's a gap. It's bad and it's good, it's yes and it's no. It's impossible.

If you think 'It's all me!' and also, 'It's nothing' - that can't work. Sense can't survive. Your head fizzes, and it gives up. The question can no longer be computed, that bit of your head shuts down, it fails. But the question doesn't go away. It can't, because it isn't answered.

'It's nothing' is the easiest program to run, it practically runs itself. While 'It's me!' is so strong it won't ever end, it's powered by your soul.

So 'It's nothing' and 'It's me' run in tandem, neither works because each one prevents the other functioning. A little bit of your head is misfiring, but the rest tries to get by. Well, that broken bit isn't really needed. That question is still unanswered, but there are many more we can compute.

So life goes on. But that broken bit of head is sparking still. Sometimes you test it to see if it works yet. A reminder of that question, or else a look, or an act, anything that reminds you there might be sparks there. Sparks that might turn to flames.

And so the head fizz computer malfunction can spread... A question? Any question..? This is a question..? This is about questions isn't it? Now any question calls upon this bit of odd head. Any pressure can remind you that there's a pressure within that computes and provides confusion as an answer. And the flames take over. These flames are fuelled by too many unanswered questions, by uncertainty, by the unknown. By... argh.

'Argh' is a word I've written in many emails to Steve recently. It's a word that seems to sum up the bit of my head that doesn't work right. I don't even know how to spell it. 'Aargh' or arrggh? Another question to plague me. I don't even know how to spell the feeling I feel, let alone know what those letters might stand for...

And Dolly brings a mouse into the house. And I scream. That's normal, isn't it? And I see my pretty cat move from out of the corner of my eye. 'A mouse!' I think again, and I scream again. And as I know I over react, I know I can't help it. This is just me now, 'Is it a mouse?' I don't answer the question logically anymore, I don't think anymore, it's just that my question-answering-spark ready all the time, it's instantly ready with it's fucked up program of, 'It's me!', 'It's nothing...', and all the rest of that lunacy and fear. And so the program that isn't working takes over.

The, 'It's not working' part is strong. Sometimes it seems your head attempts to close for maintenance, with 'out of order' daydreams, or else to fix itself with 'this is the plan for today' super-busy-ness, or perhaps sometimes to explain itself with, 'Out for lunch, back soon' reassurances.

And when you think enough to question how and why your mind is behaving like this, you realise there's a problem, and so you decide you should get help. Help which will provide easy answers to all your questions. Answers which will put out the flames, and even convince you those sparks are necessary, like the sparks of any internal combustion engine. So you say 'Ok. Oh, that was it'. You see the answer. You decide - ok, I see that now.

You decide, that's the answer. Right. And then...

So what does that mean?

Red Spot, Tooting Bec platform poster

Can mobile phones be magic?

My instinct says 'no'. I don't mean to exclude any bits of the world from magic-ness, or to emphasize any bit as being magic-er than the rest, but when I look back at all the things I've decided are magic I find that natural things predominate, with an apparent magical subsection for anything with a silly name.

Some natural magic things -

Monkeys
Caterpillars
Tigers
Snakes
5 leaved clovers
Magpies (haven't blogged about that yet)
The Wednesday Morning sky on Oxford Street
Innocent Smoothies (5 fruit in a bottle!)
The number 5
Fruit?

Some funnily named magic things -

Tooting Bec
Richard Herring
Muffins
Mr.Big Daddy Potato

I'm sure there's lots of magic stuff I've forgotten about too. Like, didn't I once have a brief magical fling with the power of Soho Square? I suppose that could fit both categories. Soho ho ha ha. And it's a green place too. Plus it was to do with Pret a Manger Avocado Salad wraps. Enough said.

Anyway. My point is that shiny plastic, microchip, man made, practical things, such as mobile phones haven't been magical for me before.

Maybe that's about to change?

I've had a Nokia pay-as-you-go mobile for 6 years. Make that 7 actually. I got it when I was pregnant with Amy. You know, just in case I went into labour in Sainsburys. I realise now that the time between going into labour and needing a partner is plenty to get you home to use a landline, but the guy at Carphone Warehouse didn't tell me that.

As you can imagine my 7 year old Nokia is rather basic. I've been persuaded to upgrade to a new phone because I've sent a lot of texts to Steve recently, and also because of the look of shame on his face every time I'd get this bottom-of the-range 7 year old phone out of my bag. So I've gone and found myself a new monthly contract phone. I got the Nokia N73.

Yes, I'm showing off. I know the name of my phone, and I know it's a good one. The Nokia N73? Oh? 3.2 megapixel camera. Out just last week. Yes, that's the one!

I'll be honest. A phone with a camera. A phone with a colour screen. A phone with more than one menu... That's going to feel special.

But is it magic?

I think it might be.

Well, maybe not the phone as such... But you see there's this tiny red dot..?

Red is my least favourite colour you know? I have a six year old. I have to give a great deal of thought to favourite and least favourite everythings, colours especially.

Yes. Favourite colour - orange. Second favourite - yellow. Third favourite - green.

Then Amy says crossly, "But green is one of my favourite colours!"

And I say...? My least favourite colour - Red.

I made a hole in my favourite T-shirt today. That was one of the many little things that I carefully haven't been writing to Steve about.

I feel quite down at the moment. I've been letting lots of really stupid little things get to me. Things at work, things at home. Mum staying things, Steve being away things. Things form the past, things now. Just things. Just everything.

I know it's silly. I know nothing is really bad. But knowing that only makes it worse, doesn't it? You scream at yourself, 'You're being silly!' Then hate yourself more for the silliness and screaming.

I wanted to go out tonight, I wanted to go and play poker at Gutshot. I haven't played poker for ages! I haven't been out for ages... And as it's the WSOP final tonight there's a free buffet. I'm a sucker for that kind of thing. It's not the food. I'm a vegetarian so buffets are useless. No, it's the occasion. I like that events like the WSOP final tables are marked, noticed, made something of, by a buffet in London.

And Steve's there writing about this for Gutshot, so if I go I might get to talk about him. He is my favourite subject. I have a six year old so I know about favourite things. Favourite subject - Steve (by a mile.) Second favourite - Big Potato Daddy. Least favourite - work.

It was a boring set of circumstances that meant I didn't get to Gutshot. Instead I stayed in and shopped online at Sainsburys. And I forgot to buy muffins too.

As I online-shopped I also responded to one of Steve's very nice emails - without writing about a single one of the things on my great long list of things that are bothering me. Well, he's working, and I want him to be happy not worried. But I'm saving them up. He's back on Sunday. He won't know what's hit him!

One of the things on this 'bothering me' list was about my amazing new mobile phone. And I mean amazing... Nokia N73. It surely must be the best phone in the world? Do you know you can put your music on it too? So as I was playing with it, and taking photos, and videos of Amy pulling faces... I noticed a little red speck on the screen. Just a little red speck. Just a red bit where the proper colour didn't show. When I'd seen that speck it seemed like I couldn't see anything else about my amazing new phone.

I'm very bad at getting things done. Especially at the moment. I knew I was unlikely to kick up a fuss and get a new phone because of a tiny red dot, I knew I was unlikely to even have the get-up-and-go to read about what this red spot meant. It was just a tiny little speck. So I would convince myself that it was meaningless, and that no one else would even see any problem, all at the same time as hating my new phone and feeling like it was quite ruined now.

You see, red spots on mobile phones are magic. They're just a tiny little thing, but I let them spoil my enjoyment of the best phone in the world. (Nokia N73) That magic speck is just like all the stuff that makes me depressed right now. I see these, and not any of the super features of my Nokia N73, 3.2 Megapixel, life.

Unfortunately thinking like that won't stop me focusing on that tiny red speck (rather than enjoying the 1GB of storage for MP3s) but simply being aware that there's a whole phone there, and not just an ugly red speck..? Well, that's quite a helpful start.

And I now think the Nokia N73 product manual is more magic than any Tooting Bec tiger - with the 'Care and Maintenance section' the most magic-ked part.

It says, 'Some displays may contain pixels or dots that remain on or off. This is normal, not a fault.'

Which means I don't have to shout, 'You're being silly!'

This is normal. That's what it says. And it says so in this magic place.

So you see, I love my Nokia N73 with it's little magic red spot.

Kissing in a tree, to be stuck at Kings Cross station

'Mum and Steve sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.'

Any used to chant this playground rhyme to me all the time, before I told her, 'Yes, Steve is my boyfriend.'

She's been unhappy and difficult lately. I thought it was just being 6. I thought me splitting up with her Dad had messed her up. I wanted to blame food additives, or the wrong sort of TV, or a phase of the moon, or some weird brain disease. All I know is that she told me she hated me and that I didn't love her. Of course this is infuriating and ridiculous, but the more I'd tell her how silly it all is, the more she'd stamp her feet and say, 'You don't even like me!'

My Mum is staying this week, to help with Amy as I still haven't found a new au pair. She commented that Amy seems happier than she'd been on our recent holiday, and I think this is true. She hasn't had one of these 'everyone hates me' strops for nearly a week now. The worst I've had to cope with is, "You don't love me. You like me but you don't love me." And she didn't even stamp her feet as she said it.

The day before Steve flew to Vegas, I was heading to York to see my family. I got to the station to buy tickets and filled out a form to buy a new Family Railcard. There was a long queue at the ticket office. I had heavy bags, I was leaving later than I'd planned, there was a train due and we'd be pushing it to make it. I was stressed by all of this, plus tired too. I'd stayed up till 4am enjoying my last chance to be with Steve for a few weeks, then Amy woke me at 6am.

I finally got to the front of the queue and asked for a Railcard and two Returns to York, when I tried to pay I couldn't find my bank card. On the way to the station I'd tried to take cash out, but the machine hadn't worked. I realised that heavy bags, hurrying, and most probably lack of sleep, had all conspired to make me leave my card in the machine. I didn't have another card. I didn't have cash. I couldn't get those tickets.

I was cross and upset. I wondered what to do. I thought of ringing my Ex first of all. Thirteen years of asking him for help when I was in trouble was a hard habit to break. Amy sat on my bag, patiently, always good when there's a crisis, and I tried not to cry and wondered what I could do. Of course I decided I had to phone Steve.

The thing is, this isn't the first time I've lost my bank card. I lost my purse in the ladies loo at Borders a few weeks before (don't ask). Steve had helped me then. He's always helping me..! I've lost track of the number of favours owed. I can't think of one that I've given in return. It's just worked out that way. Steve's been a babysitter for me when I've been stuck for childcare, he's looked after Dolly when I've been away. He's loaned me money loads of times when I ran out of cash and the bank were sending my card to number 22 not 22B. These are just the practical favours he's given, the tally with emotional support feels equally uneven.

I think we're a very happy boyfriend/girlfriend, but Steve recently pointed out that he doesn't feel we're a 'couple' as yet. I think that's true, and perhaps this is to do with my reluctance to call him from Kings Cross station when I need help?

I did call him in the end, because I couldn't think of any better plan. He said he'd be right there and buy the tickets. It felt like a big favour. Do you think the word 'favour' should be used between a couple?

I should know that Steve wants to help because he loves me. Just as I would want to help him if he ever needed it. Of course I would, I'd do anything to help him.

And if I thought like that, instead of getting miserable at yet another favour 'owed', then we might be a proper partnership, we might actually feel like a 'couple' not a boyfriend and girlfriend.

As I got on the train, with Steve helping with bags, and holding Amy's hand, I knew I wasn't going to see him again for three long weeks. I hadn't expected to see him at all that day, yet there he was, rescuing me when I needed him. Of course I had to kiss him goodbye...

As Amy might put it, 'Mum and Steve, saying goodbye. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.'

In York, Amy told my Mum and brother, 'My Mum has a boyfriend. I saw them kiss.' Everyone smiled about this, and reassured her that this was perfectly normal.

I think it must be very hard to be six, and to realise that your Mum is in love with someone else.

My Mum may be right that Amy is happier right now. I think I made many mistakes at first, she'd sing her kissing taunt, and then say, 'Steve is your boyfriend...' At first I'd always deny it. I was trying to protect her, to break it to her gently. So, 'He's a friend who's a boy.' I'd sometimes tell her.

Sometimes she'd ask, 'How much do you like Steve? Do you love him? Is he your best friend..?'

How do you tell your daughter that they're no longer the only one you love?

I told her slowly, badly, deceitfully... But she knows it all now. I finally got there, with a, 'Yes, he's my boyfriend.' In the end I even said, 'Yes I love him too.' She saw us kiss at Kings Cross station, so it surely must be clear?

On holiday she told us that no one loves her, and turned into an angry demanding monster whenever we wanted to go to the shops, or if I wanted to put sun cream on her, or if I used the wrong tone of voice for a Wednesday lunchtime.

My Mum told me that I shouldn't have kissed Steve in front of her. She's right I'm sure. No, actually I'm not sure at all...

It's not easy loving someone else when you want the best for your daughter, when all she wants is to be the most important person in your life. I kissed Steve, yes, and I love him, and I love Amy too, of course. It's simple for me, not so for her.

The last few days Amy and I have talked a lot. I've told her that Steve is my boyfriend, and that I love him, but that I her just as much as always.

She seems to be starting to understand. She seems more secure, we've been having fun once again, with Daddy Potato cartoons on the walls, and jokes about Yorkshire, and 'Pick On Gran Day.' And her new golf set, and laughing about Bratz being rubbish, and so many more happy, silly, (magic), fun, mother-daughter games.

I hope things will be ok, that the kissing song won't be used as a taunt anymore, that she'll accept that Steve and I are a boyfriend and girlfriend, who might one day even be a couple.

I was emailing Steve yesterday when she wanted me to play. I left the email and drew pictures with her.

"Who do you love the most, me or Steve?"

She's asked that question so many times lately... I told her I loved them both, that you couldn't measure love, that it wasn't like that.

I feel like I'm constantly trying to find the magic code words that will make her happy about all of this. Strangely, 'I love you most,' doesn't seem to be the right password for this question.

She seemed to accept what I'd said, and we happily played. After a moment she said, "It's ok that you love Steve, but I don't want to see you kiss."

I don't mind being creative in hiding this. I'm sure there are plenty of places we can still kiss.

Jo and Steve sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G..?

Rainbow, Tooting Bec platform poster

I asked Amy's friend Ruby what her favourite colour was, she said, "Rainbow".

That's a funny coincidence I thought, that's Amy's favourite colour too.

In fact most of Amy's schoolfriends when asked for a favourite colour list 'Rainbow' amongst their carefully considered choices.

The girl next door is 10, when the favourite colour question came up recently she told Amy, "Rainbow isn't a proper colour".

Amy said, "Well, I like blue and green as well".

The 10 year old looked like she was considering continuing the debate.

"Do you like rainbow?" Amy asked.

Her friend nodded, "I like rainbow. Except for yellow."

Amy looked smugly at her, "You don't really like rainbow at all!"

Innocent Smoothie, not stuck (didn't use the tube today)

Playgrounds on Sundays are grim places. I felt lonely at a playground today. Amy played with her plastic golf set, and two Polish children soon invited themselves to join her game. This plastic golf set looks like it could be the best pocket money toy I've ever bought her. She likes it so much she won't even let me take a turn, this means I have to read the Sunday papers undisturbed in the sun. I had plenty of time to read the 'Escape' section article, '50 Best Family Days Out'. Instead I read the magazine.

I don't like plastic toy golf, so I don't mind that Amy just wants to practise by herself; but if I had joined in perhaps I'd have had less time to feel lonely when the Observer grew dull?

There were no couples in the playground today. Just solitary carers with children. A a clear display of Sunday self-sacrifice; playgrounds are no place for grown ups, the benches are uncomfortable and you sit for hours with no prospect of a cuppa. There's a glazed look in the eyes of most parents as they provide juice, and a weary tone when voices are raised for tickings off. I saw plenty of 'going through the motions' parenting today. Well, Sunday is a day of rest, and a playground is a good place to switch to auto-pilot. Your kids will be far too busy on the swings and slides to notice that you sometimes wish you didn't have them.

Sunday playground parents don't strike up conversations. A weekday mum with pre-school children will chat to other mums and share playgroup or potty training tips. They need the company, they need any help they can get with a 7 day a week, 24 hour a day 'lifestyle choice'. Well, it's not a 'job', is it? Most new mums are still keen to consider the benefits of socialising their child.

Sunday parents should chat, we obviously have so much in common. We must all be bored, we're all having a bad day because no more imaginative way to spend a Sunday was planned. A playground visit is always a 'need to get out of the house' trip, not a 'wouldn't it be fun to go to..?' one. It's a place to go when something gets broken, a temper snaps, or when a partner needs a break. Sometimes it can be a replacement activity when a more elaborate plan feels like too much stress.

Sunday parents don't talk to each other, instead we sit and read, or send texts, or stare into space apparently relaxed and enjoying the sun. If we chatted we'd have to reveal something about ourselves and our lives on a Sunday. We decide privacy can't hurt.

So this Sunday it was Fruitstock, the Innocent Smoothie free festival, which meant kid's activities, music, and all manner of fruit inspired summer fun. This was in Regents Park. I spent my Sunday on Tooting Common, at the playground.

Amy was happy today, so I suppose that makes me a good mum. I'm sure all the mums in the playground were good mums. I'm not so sure they were happy ones.

Fairy Cake, York Station

Did you know that Goblins like fairy cakes? Baby goblins love their food, their mothers despair of their constant demands for cakes and pies, pastries and sweet things.

Satisfying goblin appetites isn't easy, obviously mother goblins can't cook in a regular kitchen. And have you ever seen a goblin shop? Of course not. The way goblins make fairy cakes is with magic.

I know a mother goblin who loves to cook more than anything. To her there is no greater joy than making perfect goblin food.

She has a cave where she creates cakes, and stews, and elaborate layered pancake fruit creations. Sometimes she makes pretty iced sugary novelties that can make even the grumpiest toddler-goblin smile.

As she wonders what to make, her whiskery ears twitch in anticipation. She closes her bulbous eyes and concentrates. She conjures up spots and stripes, and tricky fluffy swirling clouds, pink marzipan pigs, the softest sand, baby boots and rhododendron petals; she tops it all off with an old rowing boat on the river. This is the kind of cooking she loves. Then she tests it, and tastes it, usually it needs more seasoning. Her fingers fiddle then, prodding, squeezing, preening, pampering to ensure her creation is the best that it can be, before she'll finally declare it 'done'. The eating of her handwork is the final stage, but it almost feels the least important. Sometimes she'd be serving to guests, sometimes she'll savour it all alone, or....

"More!" Her baby called, "More cake."

Her little goblin pulled on her apron, unravelling it's bow. She tied it quickly again, patted him on the head, and wondered what to make for him to eat.

Fairy Cakes were his favourite. And a different sort of concentration was needed to make these. Butter and sugar and flour, each the right quantity exactly. He liked these cakes fluffy and light, she had to beat the mixture well.

Two brown eggs, fine flower, sugar sweet...

"Can I stir?" She always let him.

"Can I lick the bowl now?"

She tried to interest him in making the icing. A fun finale.

"We could do pink with blue spots?" she suggested, "Or blue with pink?"

"Are they ready yet? I'm hungry!"

Snow stars?

"Cherries on top?"

Or crystal daisy petals, dusted with a bridge reflected in a moorland river?

"I want cherries. Cherries now!"

She popped one in his open mouth. She smiled proudly as he swallowed it without chewing, without even a pause for breath, "Plums! I like sugared plums. And can we have treacle pudding and custard?"

She could feel the magic tingling. Snow stars with a sprinkle of old snow wall? A ladle of love lost on a holiday in Spain?

"Treacle pudding! Can't you hurry up?" She loved the way his spiky tail swished with arrogance.

"I'll ice the cakes, just a minute."

"I'm hungry now! I want cake. Can I have crisps too?"

To Goblin's food is everything. You might not be aware that the phrase 'You are what you eat' is derived from Goblin lore. Magic food will make magic creatures, young Goblin's grow big and strong, and then metamorphosise into creatures that reflect the food they eat.

This process fascinated the Goblin mother of course, she wanted her own little monster to be the best that he could be, and to her he was as perfect as a bittersweet day in April. She loved his tummy, fat and round from eating her round pies, his teeth brown and sticky from so much sugar, his wrinkly skin, salty and rough as corn snacks. And she could see the spark of magic growing within him as he ate the special cakes she conjured.

They'd once made sausage cars with roast potato wheels, and raced these through the air until they crashed, then gobbled up chunks of the hot broken meat as it fell into their laughing mouths.

She cooked for him all day long, fairy cakes and sweet pastries; cinnamon toast was another of his favourites. She'd cook cinnamon toast under the grill, and as she waited for it's sugar to bubble she'd make swirling head picnics for herself to pass the time. Pretty feasts of oak forests, and summer sparkles, and the musty smell of libraries, a good hand lost in poker, with just a teensy pinch of Birthday surprise. Cinnamon toast burnt easily, and couldn't be neglected. So she'd finish her magic head picnic as she cut up her Gobling's food, and as she tried to persuade him to eat the charred toast. Busy with her own feast she'd sometimes have to force scorching hot sugary squares into his screaming mouth. He'd shoot caramel scented breath at her then, and she'd admire the power of his cinnamon flames.

As he grew bigger she became practised at dodging these flames. Standing well clear she could be impressed by his firey breath, as strong as the smell of burnt sugar that filled the cave. She'd put up with singed fingers as she fed him, admire his aim as he shot his flames beside her head. She loved him, even as he made her baby-
lamb, waterfall, Morocco, disintegrate in a puff of smoke, which she quickly and cleverly moulded into a steaming fry-pan of his favourite apple doughnuts.

The breath that shot towards her half-closed eyes seemed deliberate, she fondly contemplated that he was as feisty as she'd been at his age. 'Monsters do as monsters do', her Mother had always said. She felt a tinge of sadness, as she thought of her mother, and the enchanted feasts she'd once made.

As her Goblin boy grew bigger he needed more nourishment, she worked harder than ever to fill his fat belly and fuel his ever-hotter flames. She tried her best to please him, and cooked trays and trays of fairy cakes for him. Still sometimes he shouted that she was neglecting him, and as he did a blast of his scorching anger would sometimes burn the whole batch. Then she'd have to start again, as he screamed at her, and hot tears filled his eyes, blinding him to the fact that she was already mixing another bowl.

She spent the days cooking to please him. One long day she thought he'd never have his fill. She was near exhausted when finally he belched, then yawned, and she knew he was satisfied at last. He fell asleep with his head rested on an arm that ached from so much stirring.

She was hungry. She knew she should make herself something to eat. But would it wake him if she did? She thought briefly of blue sky and an empty ocean, a quick and easy snack. Then he stirred in his sleep. Her head was instantly full of eggs and flour again, 40 ounces, so 10 eggs... But she hadn't the energy to stir cakes now, even if he'd let her use her arm. So if he woke what would she feed him? She decided she needed sleep. Some said goblins could feast on dreams.

When he woke her baby seemed bigger than ever. He towered over her, almost filling the cave. She knew she must cook.

"Cake" he roared.

"How about pancakes, my dear?"

Pancakes. Yes. Perhaps with lion mane, fluffy white spittle, sawdust and a smudge of blood in a muddy forest floor... She felt better when she'd eaten, but she was still hungry. Smashed china doll, a fist at a throat, gasoline, a speck of hate in a shadowed courtyard.

Her baby was hungry.

"I want cake."

Her whiskery ears twitched, her bulbous eyes closed. Rotten eggs, lumpy sugar, mealworms in flour, nettle oil margarine.

He gobbled it up.

"More."

She conjured a giant furnace, intending to cook him a huge cake, perhaps if she made it big enough it would fill him forever? The heat from the furnace filled the cave, so hot she could scarely breathe. He didn't mind the heat, his blood burned with fire now. He was quite a magnificent creature, but restless, unhappy. She was his mother, she knew. She worried. If she could make the right cake she knew he'd be satisfied.

Goblin lore said, "You are what you eat." She wondered when her job as cook would ever end...

Her baby looked at her, a look reminded her of a misty mealtime in Spring. She was proud of what he'd become, so big, and stong, and mean. He opened his huge mouth, teeth brown and sticky from too much sugar, opened it wide as if to kiss her. But monsters don't kiss, of course. There was only one thing on his mind, as it always was on hers...

"Monsters do as Monsters do", her wise old Mother had told her on that bittersweet day in April.

"I'm hungry," were the last words she heard, as she finally fulfilled her wish to make perfect goblin food.

Platform for Art poster stickers. Dancing monkeys - Tooting Bec (4) and Oxford Circus (3) Tigers - Tooting Bec (5) Tooting Broadway (1)

Alongside the escalators at Tooting Bec tube station there are many posters for 'Platform for Art' an initiative to bring art to tube travellers. I like this idea, and 'Poems on the Underground' too. Although I think it's a shame that all the Platform for Art posters are the same design, I've seen these same posters at Balham, Clapham, Oxford Circus and Tottenham Court Road stations too.

The poster shows a row of explorers in a snowy place, perhaps Antarctica? The walkers are in single file, and this line of people with their feet raised high look like they're dancing. The title of the photo is 'Walking Dance'. This poster has given me an idea for a stickering challenge. At the back of this line of explorers, there is surely room for one more...? I'm going to see how many dance-stickers I can add to these posters. I'll try to add one to every poster that I see, and I've seen lots of posters so I'll be busy! I'll keep count, and let you know how I do.

Branflakes, apple and toast, to be stuck in Vegas

I noticed that in the North there are more old people on buses. Does this mean that people live longer in Yorkshire? I wondered why this could be. Perhaps a diet of fish and chips, and meat and Yorkshire pudding is healthier than any trying-too-hard Southern diet of Mediterranean food, and supermarket sushi? Perhaps the health giving benefits of eating fish and pasta are negated by the stresses of giving up all the yummy foods we've been brought up on? Northerners eat bacon sandwiches, stew and dumplings, and treacle tart and custard. The people in the North are fatter, but everyone knows fat people are jolly! I know it's supposed to be healthy to be thin, but scientific research has proved that happy people live longer. Yes, go stuff your smiling face with chocolate!

Of course the number of jolly pensioners on buses in the North might be nothing to do with old people being tubby fatsters. Something else I noticed was that the system of getting on buses is different in the North than in the South - they actually have a 'system' in the North. The Northerners even have a funny, quaint old fashioned word for this, they call it a 'queue'.

Obviously the pushing and shoving while using Southern public transport is stressful, the orderly way Northern pensioners board buses is bound to make them happier than the Southern oldies. And of course, scientific research has proven happy people live longer! It could even be that eating pasta and olive oil has led to Southerners developing a Mediterranean-style hot blooded nature; this means they're prepared to fight for the last seat on the bus, brandishing supermarket carrier's heavy with jars of Dolmio and packets of mixed peppers - also risking injury. If you eat a steak and kidney pie for lunch you won't cause that kind of trouble.

Of course like most things these days, musing about pensioners, makes me think of Steve. He's been away over a week now, but I haven't blogged about how much I miss him. I'm trying to show some restraint! He's busy and working long hours at the WSOP in Vegas, but we've been in touch every day, we've used texts, emails, phone calls, messenger, I sent him a post card from Whitby, even a letter containing some stickers to stick.

Steve's main concern in Vegas, aside from being shouted at for not reading his boss's mind, is the food. He says it's stodge. He hates stodge. He just wants toast and bran flakes for breakfast, instead he gets gigantic muffins topped with treacle, sugar-sprinkles and nuts. He found fruit (it wasn't easy) but said he expected to open the banana and find it chocolate coated. A recent email said 'we spent $198 on donner'. I thought he meant kebabs. It wasn't actually, but I like his funny spelling mistakes. He writes quickly and tired at the end of the day, when he can get his laptop off the other writer. Apparently his colleague, Barron sometimes, 'finds retty girls and stares at them.'

Every time I saw a pensioner couple on a York bus I'd decide that Steve and I would be like that one day. It doesn't sound very romantic does it? Yet being wrinkly and retired sometimes seems like our best hope of spending significant time together.

I'm glad Steve is eating the right sort of food, Vegas serves a Northern diet, lard sandwiches with stodge pie for dessert. He'll come home happy and fat. We'll wait at a bus stop together, queuing while everyone else pushes in. I like this, waiting at a bus stop means time to chat, and if we don't get a seat he might put his arms around me to support me as we stand. I think we'll catch buses like this until we both have bus passes and pensions. Steve might eat healthy bran flakes, apples and toast when he gets back to England, but I know we'll be jolly because we're together.