I don’t normally read the gossip columns, or at least, i don’t normally admit to reading them; but i was moved to post this on my Facebook today:
Was there a woman who saw those awful pictures of Nigella Lawson who didn’t think “If he does this in public what does he do behind closed doors?”
Suzanne Moore’s comment in the Guardian got me thinking – how is it some men think that they can behave in such a way? And why, when Nigella was so evidently being mauled, was someone sitting there taking photos and not asking her if she was ok?
I’m not an expert on domestic abuse by any means, although i have experienced it first hand, and i’m sure there are hundreds of blogs out there commenting on the same thing, but it just makes me wonder: what was Saachi, the photographer, and the fellow diners at that restaurant thinking? From the pictures, Nigella’s thoughts are written across her face…
I obviously don’t know Mr Saachi – but i would have pinned him an eloquent man. But then, some of the most eloquent seem to resort to either childishly sticking their heads under a blanket and hoping a situation will disappear (rather than broach a potentially difficult conversation) or, violence.
Such actions eventually expose them for what they really are: bullies and cowards.
There are places in Central London that will always take my breath away. Here will always be one of my favourites.
Cars and buses, feet on wet pavement,
Swoosh, tap, pace, and rap.
And you, oblivious to time, you lament
At dark windows, docking your cap.
Dapper old man in your battered suit,
Aiming your lighter toward your fag,
A story set in your own head, you salute
All that is familiar to you; a sad,
Weathered building in Muswell Hill.
Lights green, clutch off, and off,
I launch myself into now, and still
Seeing you, rush from all that was silent.
I’ve been following the news story on the shootings in Annecy, in the French Alps.
I picture the four year old who was found 8 hours later, cowering under the bodies of her parents and think, what sort of human being would do that?
Zeena has inspired me to start a short story…
My ears pricked to the sound of distant sirens. Yes, they were coming my way.
I closed my eyes, but could still feel the steady drip of liquid splattering against my left cheek. It ran uncomfortably down the back of my neck, and pooled under my shoulder. I tried to ignore the fact that it was still warm.
The sirens had cut through a thick and disorientating silence. Their oscillating wail stepping in to replace the heartbreaking cacophony that had stopped just a few moments before. It was a moment I wanted to claw back; the lull slipping away like the unchecked tears from my squeezed eyelids.
I couldn’t, block out the grating monotony of sound. Instead of trying to make myself small, encouraging the world to skip past me, my whole being betrayed me by exploding. It was a while before I realised the new, inhuman scream was coming from my own mouth.
I hope to finish in the next few days or so.
Trapped in my bracelet.
The hazard of one.
Struggle to put on,
Hassle to get off.
I need a firm hand,
To caress my wrist,
In the removal
Of this bracelet.
I’m a bit crap at resolutions, me
I try to find the fusion you see
Between easy, with something impressive
That will raise an eyebrow, or two
I try to allude to tenacity
But in the end my resolve to be
– good melts, like the ice in a baileys dream.
Or, disappears – like my running shoes…(ahem)
It’s something about Willpower..and me.
The two of us – we have no intimacy.
So I steer clear, avoid the exertion
Of beating myself up..or putting me, down.
So! It’s fruitless, and I think you’ll agree
That me, and a resolution will not see
Eye to eye; with an exception of one.
To laugh hard, and often…and mostly at me…