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.
I’d resorted to using a website
For lack of natural introductions,
(a curse of a more modern age).
In my naïveté, I thought it more honest,
A chance for virtual reciprocation,
or, where a tangible love could bloom.
So, after searching for the right date site
(and this took much procrastination!)
I found one with feasible Connections,
And that’s when I found you.
I’d shilly-shallied before I ‘waved’
(I felt mechanical in my deliberations)
Heart stomping: ‘This? Antithesis of romance!’
I’d ruled out the sexagenarian,
He had Viagra, but owned no notion
Of what is to be Christian.
And the posh man with the Porsche,
(He earned 70K, and had just won a promotion)
But challenged my personal belief in creation.
You: the frankness of your emails wooed me,
(and, you were blasé about your diction)
You had me, when you texted me in the afternoon.
But then, on iMessage you confused me;
Silence. A sudden loss of basic communication.
Should I Skype you, to find you? Or Vibre, or Text?
No heart-full words on WhatsApp, and we’d not Facebooked.
Oh! Remember when we had one phone?
When there was just one answer machine?
The red light either blinked, or it didn’t.
We have a plethora of forms for expression
In twenty first C – your silence scares me,
I really like you. But, you’re just not into me.
(Inspired by the film, ‘He’s just not that into you’)
She tipped the rest of her tea into his lap and stamped out of the busy café. His eyes were as big as saucers.
Jen had bought the Kit Kat and a cuppa with her last pennies. She’d fancied chocolate to go with her peaceful read.
He hadn’t asked if he could sit in front of her, but when he’d opened the wrapper and taken a finger of chocolate, she’d seen red. She’d carefully put her bookmark back in her book and placed it in her bag. She’d then taken the three remaining chocolate fingers and stuffed them in her mouth. Her tea was still hot; she’d scalded the roof of her mouth.
The only problem was, when she got home, she found her Kit Kat at the bottom of her bag.
There are places in Central London that will always take my breath away. Here will always be one of my favourites.
Two years ago i found out my husband of five months had cheated on me. Happy Anniversary:
Your eyes disappointed me most.
What I mistook for deep wells of honesty,
Were actually fathomless pools of regret.
And, each declaration you bestowed on me
Was your own, furtive lament.
Now i bow to you, awesome piece of work.
And though mascara peppers the porcelain
I think: how clever you have been,
to use that same mouth for her and me
And not stumble on the intent.
Your deception was so profound,
not even the altar could alter it.
Your words still sit like bile on water,
Dirty consequences of your infidelity
Fixed in my heart like cement.
Oh yes, I bow because of you,
Not the last debasement I ever do.
Wine wretched stomach retching,
And a topsy-turvy salute,
To love that came and went.
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.