tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-175848882024-03-13T02:35:38.444+00:00lastnightidreamtofelephantsRandom Musings From A Disenfranchised Twenty-SomethingKate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.comBlogger80125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1142692089144732082006-03-18T14:19:00.000+00:002006-03-18T14:28:15.603+00:00<span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Due to the almighty shock of being in full-time work and the fact that there is nothing much going on in my life (that you'd want to read about, anyway)</strong></span> </span></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><strong><em>this blog is temporarily on hold</em></strong></span><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">In the meantime, please feel free to browse the archives and post comments</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;">Sara xxx</span></strong><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span>Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1140196083368251812006-01-26T16:42:00.000+00:002006-02-18T17:05:08.960+00:00Yeah, I know I'm a schmuckApologies for not posting since before New Year. I know my postings are getting more and more infrequent but there is a good reason - mainly that I've licking my wounds. Plus I've been working full time (yes, I know, shock horror, talk about a major lifestyle adjustment), so I don't have the time I used to have to devote to the blog. <br /> <br />Anyway...<br /> <br />New Year was a major fuck up. I know that fuck ups have been a particular speciality of mine since, like, forever, but I really thought I was on the up. I guess it lulled me into a false sense of security because New Year ended up being a cataclysmic disaster. <br /> <br />OK. My idea of extreme fun isn't ever going to be trying to stay sober in the company of a pack of sharp-edged Fulham fools, but I was all into the 'New Year, New Me' thing. Like, 2006 will be the year that Sara gets it together and this is the first rung of the ladder. I was convinced that if I could get past this then the rest of my life would be an effortless climb to the top, scaling the heights without breaking much of a sweat. Let's face it, I'd just gone through a couple of months of painful cold turkey so how hard could one night be? What a Grade A idiot I proved to be. <br /><br />Anyway, James and I get to this house in Hampshire where the party is taking place. The usual suspects are already in residence, including Kate (the bitch), a spectre in sky-blue skintight satin. God knows what's on her mind but she's being scarily friendly which kind of freaks me out. In fact, the whole lot of them are being friendly, which makes me think that James has said something in advance. Either that or they've all undergone personality transplants. Who knows? <br /><br />Not drinking on New Year's Eve turns out to be harder than I anticipated. I cave in and tell myself I'll just have the one... I'll sip it... this one glass will last me all night... oh hell, I've finished it... oh OK then, one more...<br /><br />By the time pudding arrives I realise that my body isn't the temple to depravity it used to be and that my legendary tolerance is kaput. <br /><br />You know that moment when it suddenly hits you that you are totally pissed? That you haven't been conversing in a witty fashion and entrancing the other guests with your elegance and style. Instead, you have been laughing too heartily and for a beat too long at comments that were not even intended to be funny, your elbow inexplicably keeps slipping off the edge of the table, and your dress is not only rumpled but soup-stained as well. <br /><br />I slope off to the loo to try and get my head together. I stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is a 'before' advert for Frizz-Ease, I have red-rimmed panda eyes, a strand of spinach stuck between my front teeth and my nose is flaking. So much for a healthy lifestyle. I looked much better before I got clean - cocaine, my number one top beauty aid.<br /><br />I'm not quite ready to go back to the table so I head to the kitchen for a glass of water, then go into the sitting room for a bit of quiet time. I'm lounging in what is possibly the most comfortable armchair in the world, smoking a much-needed cigarette, when I hear James' voice in the hallway. I'm about to call out his name when I hear Kate's dulcet tones. I keep quiet - the last thing I want right now is to be in her company. They stop practically outside the sitting room door, Kate goes, James, are you all right sweetie? James is like, shouldn't I be? Kate says, well, I thought maybe you'd be feeling a bit strange, being here without Karen. I mean, Sara's not exactly Karen, is she? No, she's not, James replies. He's about to say something else but Kate interrupts, Look James, I might be out of turn here but I really don't know what you're doing. Why are you wasting your time with someone who you have nothing in common with? James sort of clears his throat and mutters something I don't catch, and Kate continues, look, I realise that you probably need a bit of fun right now, what with the divorce and everything, but you shouldn't lead that poor girl on. A shag's a shag, James, you don't have to make it out to be anything more than it is. <br /><br />It's at this point that the night turns from being boring but bearable to utterly shit.<br /> <br />I probably should have gone back into the dining room and acted like I hadn't heard a thing. Or maybe I should have stormed into the dining room, thrown a drink over James' head and a punch at Kate's smug nasty fat face, then walked off into the night. Instead, I take the coward's way out and go upstairs to bed without a word to anyone. When James comes in, presumably to find me, I pretend to be asleep. I lie in bed, crying, listening to the cheering downstairs as the clock strikes midnight. I pretend to be asleep when James staggers in and falls into bed beside me hours later. When dawn breaks, I creep downstairs, the rest of the house still sleeping, and call a taxi to pick me up around the corner. Then I have to persuade the reluctant cabbie to drive me all the way to London (which costs me big time, making me even more pissed off). <br /><br />I spend the entire journey cursing James, cursing myself, and cursing anyone and everyone else I can think of.<br /><br />Unsurprisingly, I haven't spoken to him since.<br /><br />Happy 2006, everyone.Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1135788757694263132005-12-28T16:04:00.000+00:002005-12-28T16:52:38.006+00:00Christmas Cheer<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3716/1422/1600/pud.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3716/1422/320/pud.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />It's all going on <em>chez</em> Sara.<br /><br />Here I am. It's Christmas, and I'm clean and sober for the first time in years. This is not to say that I've given up the booze as well as everything else, it's just, like, everything in <em>moderation</em>, you know? Kind of a scary thing for me.<br /><br />Most of the Christmasses I've experienced over the past ten years have been spent in a haze of alcohol, starting with champagne for breakfast, moving on to wine at lunch and a naughty vodka or six before dinner. Last year, if I recall correctly (and my powers of recall are certainly not that reliable) was the year that Helen and I shrugged off our families and had Christmas together; we started with a line of coke each for breakfast and the day deteriorated from there.<br /><br />So this year has been a bit of a shocker. Just Mum and I in our echoey old house, all glammed up and nowhere to go - my mother being a bit of a stickler for formal dress (her idea of casual is a heel lower than three inches). Turkey for two is a difficult act to pull off at the best of times and resulted in a fist-clenching, gritted teeth show of forced cheer. But we got through the day without killing each other, something I never would have thought possible.<br /><br />No word from my father and the Ice Queen. I guess they wouldn't want to interrupt their month-long holiday in the Far East to lick a stamp and slap it on an envelope. Oh well, whatever. Merry Christmas, you old bastard.<br /><br />I spent today being elbowed viciously by the hordes of desperate bargain hunters rooting around the sales racks in Selfridges, in the vain hope of finding something drop-dead sassy for New Year's Eve. Forget it. It's the same thing every year, and every year I neglect to remember all these garments are cut-price for a reason - that nobody else considered them hot enough to pay the full price before Christmas.<br /><br />I'm seeing in the New Year with James. I'm a bit nervous about it considering that his friends are, on the whole, a bunch of gormless twats. However, it's either that or spend New Year in an orgy of narcotic excess with my friends - not a good idea considering the pain I went through last month to detox myself after years of enthusiastic abuse. So James and I will be swanking around some crumbling country pile for a sit down dinner and God knows what else. And I have to survive the whole thing without the comforting fog of being utterly shit-faced. This promises to be a true test of my resolve.<br /><br />Wish me luck!<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3716/1422/1600/wishbone.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3716/1422/320/wishbone.jpg" border="0" /></a>Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1135330301611137382005-12-23T09:04:00.000+00:002005-12-23T09:31:43.126+00:00MERRY CHRISTMAS!I did promise that I would post soon, and it hasn't happened as I still don't have my broadband connection and it looks as if I won't be getting it until the New Year. I won't bore you with the details; let's just say it's been a major cock-up and leave it at that. So, this is yet another quick blog post using someone else's computer...<br /><br />I've moved into the new flat, which despite being the size of a postage stamp and next door to a guy who enjoys top-volume Dire Straits first thing in the morning, it's kind of great. I miss Helen though. You get used to someone being around all the time, and although we see each other and talk on the phone a lot, it's not the same. Plus I can't scrounge a ciggie from her when I'm too lazy to go to the corner shop to top up my supplies. <br /><br />And as for James... it was a little awkward at first but we sorted stuff out, up to a point anyway, and I think he's turned into my boyfriend. It's weird and scary to be in what could be termed as a relationship - I keep getting freak-outs that he's going to start suggesting Sunday afternoon trips to B&Q to look at paint charts - but I've resolved to take it as it comes. We'll see what happens.<br /><br />I'm spending Christmas with my mother, oh joy, followed by major New Year's Eve party action.<br />I'll try to post again soon, in much more detail.<br /><br />I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and looking forward to a new and shiny 2006.Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1134376661284979952005-12-12T08:33:00.000+00:002005-12-12T08:37:41.476+00:00Another pauseHello everyone - just in case you're wondering, I haven't disappeared again. I've been moving house, so I've been occupied with shifting boxes and trying to figure out how I've managed to accumulate so much junk over the past few years. <br /><br />I will be around over the next couple of weeks but unfortunately my broadband isn't due to be connected until 21st December so posts will be sporadic until then. <br /><br />And as for James? Let's just say that it's looking brighter. A full update will be forthcoming, I promise.Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1133631255931682762005-12-03T17:02:00.000+00:002005-12-03T18:03:46.386+00:00a new chapter (hopefully)I'm back. Finally.<br /><br />I was away for a bit longer than I originally intended but it's taken me a bit longer than I thought it would to sort myself out to the point that I feel human again. I think I'm almost there.<br /><br />It's been an emotional whirly-gig of (almost) a month. So much has been going on in my head that I couldn't describe it here, not without sending you all to sleep. So here's the abbreviated version: a month of hurdles and facing up to some unpleasant facts about myself; a month of re-evaluating this skewed blueprint for life that I seem to have developed over the years; a month to realise that I have wasted a lot of time, hiding from everything and anything and anyone likely to cause me pain, or likely to force me to do anything but coast. I've come to the conclusion that my lifestyle is not big, nor is it clever, and there have been some changes.<br /><br />First of all, I've stopped taking drugs. Not an easy process and it's left me feeling quite ill - which is partly why I've stayed away for so long. The withdrawal process, even for someone who couldn't really be classified as a serious addict, has been unsettling - emotionally and physically. I won't go into the gory details but let's just say it hasn't been pretty. Since I hoovered up my hopefully last-ever line, I've been suffering from a permanent cold and extreme fatigue, which tells me my immune system is totally up shit creek. Funny, isn't it, how an unhealthy lifestyle only really hits home once you've given the stuff up? I'm popping multi-vits like crazy and keeping my fingers crossed.<br /><br />Secondly, Helen and I are moving out of our semi-squat on Wednesday. Our landlord finally gave in to a lucrative offer from a property developer and we're out. So Helen is moving in with Karen and I've found a studio in Earl's Court. I'm really sad about it because I'm going to miss Helen badly - we've lived together for years -but she is a major stoner and my partner in all kind of crimes and misdemeanors, so it's probably for the best. My self-control only goes so far.<br /><br />And James... well, that's a whole other story. I'm seeing him tomorrow for the first time in a long time, so you (and I) will just have to wait and see...<br /><br />Thank you for all your comments while I've been away - it's meant a lot that you guys have been out there wishing me well...Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1131912592712488962005-11-13T19:45:00.000+00:002005-11-13T20:59:07.616+00:00One thousand years of solitudeIt's been a strange weekend, a very introspective one, and some stuff has happened to make me think that I need to take a couple of weeks out to reassess my life and myself and pretty much everything.<br /><br />My life is a fucking mess, and I'm a fucking mess, and something has to change.<br /><br />I've been coasting on empty for so long I think I've forgotten what it's like to live, to really truly live, to grab every moment as it comes and to experience, to really experience, to open my arms out wide, to open my heart, rather than hiding behind that oh-so-effective protective layer of mine that keeps me safe but doesn't let much through. I need to pull myself off my hamster wheel, dissolve my comfort zone and let myself feel, properly feel, probably for the first time since Sam broke me.<br /><br />I need to let myself heal. I need to really look at myself, to meet my eyes in the mirror and not be afraid to look into the depths. I need to learn to like what I see. <br /><br />And I know I need to stop the drugs and all the other excesses I indulge in to keep myself emotionally numb. <br /><br />I'll be back when I've managed to make a dent in that Teflon hide of mine. <br /><br />In the meantime, I found a poem today which I wrote after Sam left all those years ago. I'm not sure it's particularly good but it probably says quite a lot about me, so I thought I'd share it. What does make me laugh a bit is that when I wrote it I obviously imagined myself to have achieved some kind of high-powered business-type job by the year 2005. I guess my life hasn't quite turned out like I imagined all those years ago... <br /><br /><strong>Alternative Vistas: 2005</strong><br />It is your eyes I see when I close mine <br />and pull you out of the dark recesses <br />of my mind at the end of each long day. <br />Finally relaxed, shards of light slanting <br />through the blinds on to the bed, I lie back,<br />shedding suit, briefcase, reams of paper,<br />smart shoes; my uniform, my armour, <br />guarding raw flesh, smothering me, <br />saving me from harsh real world life, forty-five <br />to fifty hours of every working week. <br /><br />When I smell you on strange passing skin, you <br />leap out of the cubby hole constructed <br />for sometimes longed-for long-gone lovers. <br />The soundtrack of my life swells with <br />bitter-sweet thoughts of could-have-been. <br />I walk to work, city smells surrounding <br />my fragile frame; my mind filled <br />with alternative vistas and the look <br />in your eyes when you realise that you <br />could, possibly, might well have, loved me.Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1131746204382306092005-11-11T21:36:00.000+00:002005-11-11T21:58:52.836+00:00The Big Chill<p>Ok. So maybe, just <em>maybe</em> I've been a little stubborn. Maybe I am a bit pig-headed. Maybe I am somewhat unforgiving.<br /><br />As some of you have pointed out, maybe I need to look at recent events from James' point of view.<br /><br />But you know, I hate the fact that James was so bloody mean about my friends. Life has taught me that men come and go but your friends are always there for you, to help pick you up, dust you off and set you back on your feet - whenever you lose your balance. I love my friends, and they love me, and I do not like anyone, even a sexy washboard-stomached naughty-eyed sex-god, saying that they are a bunch of losers.<br /><br />Yes, I realise that maybe James hasn't had the best of times in my company over the past couple of weekends. Yes, I realise that being punched by the idiot boyfriend of one of my best friends is likely to have put a downer on his evening, but... still...<br /><br />So I sat down for a bit and stared at the infamous shag-pile, and came up with a list of pros and cons.<br /><br /><strong>The Case For James:</strong> <br />- he's indecently sexy <br />- he's scarily intelligent <br />- he makes me laugh, a lot<br />- there's an incredible physical connection between us<br />- I'm (usually) comfortable in his presence; being with him feels very natural<br />- there's something about him that I find fascinating<br />- he's a great kisser... and the rest...<br />- did I mention that he's indecently sexy?<br /><br /><strong>The Case Against James:</strong><br />- I'm starting to think that maybe he's a bit of a snob and overly concerned with appearances<br />- he is capable of sulking, big time, which is not terribly attractive in a man<br />- in many ways, we couldn't be more different, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing<br />- his friends suck (but then again, it seems that he thinks my friends suck too)<br />- I have a feeling that there may be more negatives yet to emerge<br /><br />Don't want to call him, but also not sure if I'm ready for it to be over yet...<br /><br />Why does it always have to get complicated? I really should just stick to one-night-stands; all the physical fun and none of the emotional bullshit. Much more manageable.Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1131563230602213562005-11-09T18:59:00.000+00:002005-11-10T06:30:24.210+00:00Happy HNT!<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3716/1422/1600/Picture%20286%202.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3716/1422/320/Picture%20286%202.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://osbasso.blogspot.com/2005/05/guidelines-for-half-nekkid-thursday.html" target="_blank"><img height="66" alt="HNTbutton" src="http://static.flickr.com/27/41652855_6ca8bb2b62_o.jpg" width="100" /></a>Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1131562460715977282005-11-09T18:51:00.000+00:002005-11-09T18:54:21.433+00:00HrmphhhText from James this afternoon: HEY HOW R U?<br /><br />So far I'm ignoring it. If he wants to communicate with me then he can pick up the phone and call me, properly.<br /><br />I'm an old-fashioned girl at heart.Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1131396518692473762005-11-07T21:25:00.000+00:002005-11-07T21:39:37.333+00:00The AftermathSo, we're in the minicab on the way back to my house. James is grumbling away, clutching at his jaw. I suppose he has to be forgiven for the complaining; Dave is fairly puny but he still managed to pack one hell of a punch. So I'm being hugely apologetic and agreeing with him that, yes, Dave is a bit of an idiot, and yes, he was out of order, and yes, I am so sorry it happened, poor baby, I'll make it up to you as soon as I get you alone. <br /><br />Then James goes, Sara, what are you doing hanging around with those people? I'm like, what do you mean by that? And he goes, well, you know, they're kind of, well, a bunch of losers. I say, hang on a minute, James, that's incredibly rude. And anyway, it's not like <em>your</em> friends are so fucking great, is it? <br /><br />We sort of glare at each other and I'm sure more unpleasant words would have been exchanged if the cab hadn't chosen that moment to pull up outside my front door. I flounce out of the cab, chuck some money at the driver and start the usual long search for my house keys.<br /><br />I live in quite a nice area; green and leafy, and like most of London, it's being overrun by property developers with pound signs in their eyes. However, our house is the black sheep of the street. Like a once glamorous movie star past her prime, our house stands firm in its resistance to the 21st Century home-improvement madness. The weed-festooned front garden alone signals a heartfelt fuck-you defiance to the Farrow & Ball colour palette and Zen gravel arrangement of next door. And it's not much better inside. Helen and I could hardly be described as house proud.<br /><br />I open the door and usher James in. It's like I'm seeing the place for the first time. The green shag pile carpet looks even shabbier than usual, set off nicely by the drift of junk mail Helen and I always talk about clearing away but never get any further than kicking into the corner. The bare lightbulb (the lampshade went missing after one of our wilder parties, we meant to replace it, but...) highlights the peeling anaglypta on the walls. The sitting room sofa is one of those nasty Dralon affairs. There is a patch of damp on the wall next to the bay window. The curtains sag. <br /><br />Yeah. It's a dump. <br /><br />I can tell that James is less than impressed, although I'm not sure that the pained expression on his face is down to my lack of <em>des res</em> or his rapidly swelling jaw. I sit him down and decide that the only option is to anaethetise him with vodka. Even if it doesn't numb the pain, at the very least it might cheer him up. <br /><br />Bad idea. James gets even moodier. <br /><br />Eventually I reach the point where I've had enough - I am in no way a glutton for punishment - and offer to call him a minicab. He accepts without any hesitation, and the silence while we wait for it to show up is acute. James practically leaps up when we hear the toot of a car horn outside - showing an insulting level of haste in my opinion - plants a passionless kiss on my lips and throws an, I'll call you, over his shoulder as he races out of the door.<br /><br />In my experience, that can mean only one thing: Game Over.Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1131292163808421002005-11-06T17:37:00.000+00:002005-11-06T20:41:27.180+00:00The PartyI am SO hungover. So please excuse any typos. In fact, it's a miracle I'm able to type at all. My brain is like an arid desert today.<br /><br />Anyway...<br /><br />I took James along to Nadia's party last night. I was feeling a bit nervous about the prospect of introducing him to my friends; James is so different to my usual type that I had no idea how they would react. My usual type is creative, unconventional, radical, with a definite edge - the total opposite to James. So I was working on the assumption that he might come as a bit of a surprise. <br /><br />By the time we get to Nadia's flat - she lives in this really cool factory conversion in Wandsworth - the party's been in full swing for a couple of hours. All the usual suspects are there and they're all very well lubricated. It's like the Fall of the Roman Empire with Ikea furniture. I find Nadia, give her a kiss hello and introduce James. She looks him up and down, gives me a wink and goes, very nice. Where did you find this one then? I'm like, oh you know, just another conquest from The Club. You know I like to keep the punters happy. James gives me a look. I look back, smile and say, James, I'm joking. Sometimes I don't think he quite gets my sense of humour. <br /><br />By this point, the rest of the posse figure out that we're here and within minutes we're surrounded. All my friends have heard about James, with varying degrees of detail, so naturally they all want to take a look at him. It all starts off well. My friends behave themselves, refrain from dropping any major clangers and the piss-taking is mild. The girls are drooling over him, James is loving the attention and on a total charm offensive, and even Joe and Paul are more friendly than they usually are to any of my men (they're kind of over-protective and extremely suspicious of any new testosterone invading their patch). So I'm happy, relaxed and knocking the wine back like it's going out of fashion. <br /><br />Then Dave, Evie's other half, rocks up. I like Dave but when he's drunk he's unbearable; a fully paid-up member of the Angry Pisshead Club. And Dave is totally hammered tonight. As usual, he launches straight into his favorite subject, football, directing a slurred, Who do you support, mate? at James. James goes, Chelsea. Who else? Dave, a lifelong Arsenal fan, goes ballistic. I won't go into the details, suffice it to say that James gets all pinched around the mouth and starts frowning, there's a fair bit of swearing, aspersions are cast as to Frank Lampard's sexuality, to which James' rejoinder is that Thierry Henri couldn't kick his way out of a paper bag. Dave loses it and throws a punch that lands right on James' jaw. <br /><br />I mean, for fuck's sake! What is it with men and football? <br /><br />As you can imagine, being physically assaulted totally kills James' party spirit, and since Evie has dragged Dave home for a major bollocking he can't even get his revenge. So I call a minicab and take James back to my place.<br /><br />And that's when it all started to <i>really</i> go wrong.<br /><br /><b>I'm too knackered right now to write any more so I'm off to veg in front of the telly. More tomorrow. </b>Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1131179710119752602005-11-05T08:30:00.000+00:002005-11-05T08:35:30.316+00:00Status reportIt's been a weird week. First there was the <i>incident</i> at the weekend, which took me until Thursday to completely recover from, and the major surprise of James being so nice about it all. I mean, I really thought that I'd blown it. In fact, I've been thinking about it a lot all week and my only conclusion is that the guy is either some kind of freak or he has a saviour complex, and I'm not sure which is worse.<br /><br />Oh yes, and I took all your advice and played hardball with the texting thing - I simply refused to respond. It took two days for James to crack but now he seems to have the hang of this calling and talking thing. Much nicer. I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks.<br /><br />I also seem to found myself another job. In addition to working behind the bar at night, I've been talked into helping out in The Club promotional office during the day - yes, it makes my soul rebel to even say the word 'office' but now and then the promise of a fistful of filthy lucre is a great persuader - so I'm finally feeling reasonably solvent, an unusual state of affairs for me. <br /><br />There's a party happening tonight and I'm taking James along. I have a slightly unsettled feeling about James meeting my friends but what the hell... let's see what happens.Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1131176401799175612005-11-05T07:39:00.000+00:002005-11-05T07:48:49.640+00:00QuizFound this on <a href="http://www.anthony1960.blogspot.com">WDKY's blog</a>, so thought I'd join in the fun.<br /><center><table border="1" width="350" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><br /><tr><td align="center"><font size="+2">You fit in with:<br />Humanism</font><br/><br /><br />Your ideals mostly resemble that of a Humanist. Although you do not have a lot of faith, you are devoted to making this world better, in the short time that you have to live. Humanists do not generally believe in an afterlife, and therefore, are committed to making the world a better place for themselves and future generations.<br /><br /><br />20% spiritual.<br />80% reason-oriented.<br /><br /><br /></td></tr><tr><td><table name="qgtable" width="350" height="350" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" background="http://www.quizgalaxy.com/result_images/bg-map.jpg"><br /><tbody><tr height="303"><td width="199"></td> <td valign="top" align="left" border="0"><img src="http://www.quizgalaxy.com/result_images/locator.gif" border="0" /></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr><tr><td align="center" border="0"><br /><a href="http://www.quizgalaxy.com/quiz.php?id=47">Take this quiz</a> at <a href="http://www.quizgalaxy.com">QuizGalaxy.com</a><br /><td></td></tr><tr><td></td><br /></table></center>Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1130966885909796392005-11-03T06:00:00.000+00:002005-11-03T06:17:07.686+00:00Happy HNT!<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3716/1422/1600/1%20sara.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3716/1422/320/1%20sara.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />OK, I confess. This pic was not taken specifically for HNT so it is kind of cheating. But my digital camera is on the blink so it's either this or nothing...<br /><br />I like this picture because it reminds me of how much I love Thailand. It was taken on Ao Nang beach (near Krabi) early one morning after watching the sun rise. Good times. <br /><br />I don't think that beach exists any more - the whole of the Krabi coastline was badly hit by the Tsunami.<br /><br /><a href="http://osbasso.blogspot.com/2005/05/guidelines-for-half-nekkid-thursday.html" target="_blank"><img height="66" alt="HNTbutton" src="http://static.flickr.com/27/41652855_6ca8bb2b62_o.jpg" width="100" /></a>Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1130779241081487712005-11-02T19:00:00.000+00:002005-11-02T19:12:08.283+00:00Things I found under my bed today<p>For some inexplicable reason I decided to tidy my room this morning. Actually, it's not that inexplicable. The flash point came when I couldn't locate one matching pair of shoes - and I have lots of shoes. Even I can't cope with that level of utter chaos.<br /><br />Here is a list of things I found under my bed:<br /><br />One pair of Calvin Klein boxers (scarily last century - and I have no recollection of their owner, even more scary) <br />One pack of Rizla<br />Two (empty) boxes of Durex Fetherlight<br />Four ripped up tube tickets<br />One set of furry pink handcuffs<br />One concert ticket - The Pixies, 1st September at Ally Pally, London (it was GREAT)<br />One g-string, pink, with ribbon ties<br />One slightly grey sports bra<br />One (empty) bottle of Bollinger<br />One (empty) bottle of Jack Daniels<br />One (empty) bottle of Absolut<br />One (almost empty) bottle of Vittel<br />One copy of Scarlet magazine<br />One copy of Vogue<br />One copy of Penthouse (I swear, I have NEVER seen it before)<br />One half-eaten Walnut Whip<br />My favorite pair of Earl jeans<br />One black stocking, slightly laddered<br />One dog-eared copy of Mil Millington's 'A Certain Chemistry'<br />One bottle of massage oil<br />One blonde wig <br /> <br />I'm not sure what this says about my life, except that I'm a lazy cow who never does any housework.<br /><br /> </p><em></em>Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1130775893692342352005-11-01T11:11:00.000+00:002005-11-01T11:08:49.156+00:00A sure-fire cure for any ailmentBlack eyes, grey skin. Below the neck it's holding itself together but otherwise, I'm on a one-way street to Botox. My mother will be delighted when we finally have something in common. I wonder if my father will forgive me for long enough to give me a consultation?<br /><br />I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror for half an hour this morning. Trying to find myself. Trying to meet my own eyes.<br /><br />I'm not sure I like what I see.<br /> <br />Text from James this morning: THNKNG OF U. J XOXOXO<br /><br />You'd think James would have realised I'm a bad investment by now. Remind me not to put any share portfolio I might have in the future in his hands. He's obviously not very good at his job.<br /><br />Helen is taking me shopping. The purchase of new shoes is the only effective cure for the comedown blues.Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1130761705395060212005-10-31T12:30:00.000+00:002005-10-31T12:28:25.483+00:00Singing the bluesI'm feeling a bit sorry for myself. But I suppose that's to be expected considering the punishment I put my my seratonin nodes through on Saturday. My brain feels like deep-fried Camembert and my body looks like it's aged forty-eight years in as many hours. Oh, poor me...<br /><br />I also feel like a bit of an idiot. <br /><br />James was lovely on Sunday morning, especially considering that he was probably expecting a night of torrid sex and all he got was a frozen physical wreck who wasn't up for anything more than a cuddle. I mean, let's face it, you treat a girl to a swanky hotel in the hope of a supremely dirty weekend, she talks you into dropping your first e and then she freaks out. Not the best scenario, is it? If I were him, I would probably never talk to me again.<br /><br />But James was Mr Super Considerate. I really can't figure him out. Took me home early on Sunday morning as requested, helped me into the house (yes, I was that fragile), looked me deep in the eyes, and told me that if I needed him to just call and he'd be over like a shot. Then he kissed me gently and took off. <br /><br />All this perfection - it's almost too much for me. <br /><br />God, I'm a cow, aren't I?Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1130621880311167552005-10-30T11:59:00.000+00:002005-10-30T11:40:56.636+00:00A Certain ChemistryJust got back. Desperately want to sleep, I feel terrible, but I can't so thought I'd post about what happened yesterday...<br /><br />James picked me up yesterday in his ancient rustbucket (apparently it's a classic - an Alpha Romeo GT something - all I know is that it smells of damp dog, the heating doesn't work, and there's an annoying leak located directly above the passenger seat) and whisked me off, as promised, to a secret location in Sussex.<br /><br />I was expecting a Bed & Breakfast in the finest British tradition - the kind of place done out exclusively in man-made fibres and melamine, presided over by a grim-faced blowsy bottle-blonde with American-tan clad cankles. I was wrong. We turn off the main road down a long gravel driveway and park up in front of a beautiful manor house, its old stone walls covered with creepers. James grins at me, what do you think? I'm like, well, yeah, I guess it'll have to do.<br /><br />A gaggle of liveried flunkies compete to wrestle the tatty overnight bag from my hand and we're whisked off to a room the size of your average London flat. I love hotels and I doubt that I've ever stayed anywhere quite as nice as this; as soon as we're left alone I race around like an over-excited puppy while James sits on the edge of the four-poster bed, watching me with what can only be described as amusement. A tin full of home-baked biscuits! Chocolates! Two sofas! A desk! A decanter of port! A hand-written note from the manager! Flowers! A basket of fruit! Big squishy towels! A balcony! I'm in hotel heaven. I turn to James and smile, OK. I'll admit it, I'm impressed. He smiles back, that was the intention.<br /><br />We order drinks from room service and sit out on the balcony. The hotel garden is massive, stretching out as far as the eye can see. I sigh happily and decide that if Helen and I ever get evicted from our almost-squat we'll be relocating to the South Lodge Hotel.<br /><br />So, James goes, what's this surprise you mentioned? I can tell from the anticipation in his eyes that he's hoping it'll be some sort of sexual kick. I'll go get it, I say, don't go anywhere. I head back into the room, quickly find what I'm looking for and go back outside. Close your eyes, I say, and give me your hand. James does as he's told - I do like an obedient man - and I place the surprise on his outstretched palm. OK, I say, you can look now. James opens his eyes, sees the two white pills and goes, Sara, what the fuck are these? I go, isn't it obvious? James goes, yes and that's what's freaking me out.<br /><br />Last time James and I went out the conversation turned to drugs. It seems that James is a bit of an innocent - beyond experimenting with mushrooms at boarding school and a few lines of coke here and there, he's barely done anything. However, I got the distinct sense that he's more than a bit curious. <br /><br />I'm like, oh come on James, don't get all coy with me. You seemed very interested in the whole e thing the other night. And what could be a better setting than this? I gesture around the room. I'll take care of you. Plus, I have a cast-iron guarantee that these are top-quality pills. He looks uncertain until I say, and anyway, shagging on e has to be experienced to be believed. I wink, trust me, it'll be a positive experience. I obviously choose the right tactic because five seconds later James has swallowed his pill. I do the same, order more drinks, and sit back and wait. I haven't taken a pill for a while so I'm quite looking forward to it.<br /><br />Coming up while drinking vodka and ginger ale and enjoying the rolling green of the South Downs is a surprisingly calming experience. I savour the usual pinpricks, the tingling that starts at the base of my skull, spreading warm and tender, then warmer still. I turn to James, can you feel that? He looks uncertain, I think so...he rubs his neck, maybe. It's taking a long time, longer than usual. I'm starting to think that maybe I'll be having words with Marty The Dealer when I get back to London, no way is he getting away with selling me substandard goodies, when it hits me like a truck.<br /><br />My ears register a long-drawn-out moan. It comes from me from deep inside me the moan of a child in pain cold air squeezing my skin... unbearablepressure... waveafterwaveafterwave crashing crashing... hits a spot in the deepest centre of my brain...won'tstopwon'tstopwon'tstop... sick... sick...sick to the core...got to lie down... too much green too much sky too much space it hurts to look at all that space i have got to get inside lie down wrap myself in duvet hide... feetlegsarmsbodywon'tmove .. stucktomychairgottomovecan'tbeartostayhere.. toomuchspacetoomuchairtoocold.. ithurtsithurtsithurtsohgodithurts .. ihavetoliedown<em>whywontmyfuckingbodylistentome</em>? I have to fucking well lie down...nownownownownow<br /><br />a lull in the pressure, in the fucking awful <em>thing</em> pressing down on me freezing me numbing me with painpainpaintoomuchtoomuchpain.... and I drop from the chair on all fours across the carpet sinking into the carpet my hands are dissapearing into this fucking shag-pile luxurious blood-red hotel carpet have to keep going across this widewidewide pool of blood swimming wading keepgoingkeepgoing pull hands out keepgoingtheefforttheeffort arms so heavy legs so big so heavy and i get to the bed pull myself up one big surge of effort never knew i had it in me god this is sososososososo hard and im on the bed the softest bed ever to cradle my body under the duvet so warm im shaking juddering a fucking power drill in my spine splintering driving fleshandbone and dark warm dark warm...safe safe safe its ok im safe icanbreathe i can breathe<br /><br />What could be an hour or five minutes later - I don't know, time has gone to a place unrelated to any part of me - my brain slowly starts to settle back into my skull and I register the feeling of foreign skin pressed up against my back, strong arms holding me tight, warm breath steady on my neck. I stir, feeling my way. James' voice whispers in my ear, Sara, are you alright? I whisper back, yes. He says, I was really worried about you, you freaked. Are you sure you're alright? Yes, I say. I'm fine now. Didn't you feel it? That was the strongest pill I've ever taken. He says, I felt it. It was fine, nice. But I kind of put a downer on your high? I ask. You could say that, he replies. And then he squeezes me gently and it feels like the best thing in the world. Safer than I've ever felt. James and I are so close it feels as if we're sharing the same skin. He kisses me gently but I'm washed up, wrung out, exhausted. All I'm good for is lying curled up in that soft, soft bed, James against me, contact from head to foot, just feeling, sensing, listening, a sponge, absorbing, no energy to respond. <br /><br />I think that might be the last pill I'm ever going to take.<br /><br />What a waste of a four-poster bed.Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1130526033206884702005-10-28T19:30:00.000+01:002005-10-28T20:00:33.360+01:00Countdown...Just a quick one before I rush out to work.<br /><br />James is picking me up tomorrow morning and whisking me off for the promised Sussex shag-fest so I probably won't post again until Sunday... watch this space!<br /><br />(...the anticipation is practically killing me.)Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1130443822891754452005-10-27T20:15:00.000+01:002005-10-27T21:10:22.930+01:00HAPPY HNT!<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3716/1422/1600/sara%20legs.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3716/1422/320/sara%20legs.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Happy (late) HNT!<br /><br />Do you know how hard it is to photograph your own legs without falling over?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://osbasso.blogspot.com/2005/05/guidelines-for-half-nekkid-thursday.html" target="_blank"><img height="66" alt="HNTbutton" src="http://static.flickr.com/27/41652855_6ca8bb2b62_o.jpg" width="100" /></a>Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1130357141378436912005-10-26T22:30:00.000+01:002005-10-26T22:19:26.536+01:00After Hours : Part TwoLike I said in yesterday's post, I rarely frequent our after-hours drinking club anymore as I just don't have the energy for all-nighters - I guess that's what happens when you hit the wrong side of twenty-five. But one night last week I found myself still buzzing after the club closed - all that freedom and nowhere much to go. It didn't take too much persuasion from Suze and Danny to get me to revisit old haunts.<br /><br />We walk down the Tottenham Court Road before we turn into Soho. The streets are filthy, littered with boxes and cans from the kebab shops up the road. Every other shop doorway serves as a shelter for the homeless, buried in makeshift nests of cardboard and tattered blankets. Hollow eyes peer out of the dark as we pass the discount bookshop, an expressionless voice asks for some change. As always, I try to meet the eyes with mine before I say, no sorry, before I walk on. Being ignored, steps quickening, faces averting, being refused any kind of acknowledgement because you lack the security of bricks and mortar, that must be the most painful cut. I might not be able to give everyone money - I try to limit it to a daily delivery of sandwiches for Billy who lives in the doorway of the Empire, and buying the Big Issue from my local seller - but at least I can give acknowledgement. And sometimes I think that feeds the soul more than a pound coin ever could.<br /><br />Our drinking club is not exactly legit; the fact that it doesn't announce its presence to passers-by can make it hard to find. All the doorways in this (seedier) part of Soho look the same; dented and rusty metal, smelling of piss, neglected, unmemorable, anonymous, without name or number. As usual, we ring the bell and a hatch slides open to reveal a pair of suspicious eyes. Our faces pass muster and the door swings open. We squeeze past the bouncer, a granite-faced boulder of a man, into a narrow corridor and head up the stairs.<br /><br />Except for the blacked-out windows, it looks like the worst kind of student sitting room. Tatty old sofas, vinyl armchairs and chipped formica tables jostle for space. A makeshift bar, built by someone with only a passing acquaintance with D.I.Y. runs the length of the room, topped with bottles of rum and whisky and a couple of plastic cool boxes filled with beer. It’s not the sort of drinking establishment that has Apple Martinis on the cocktail menu, but as usual, the place is packed.<br /><br />The first time I came here I was scared shitless. A lot of the punters wouldn't look out of place in a police line up and there is a distinct odour of menace in the air. Ready rolled spliffs are sold from a box behind the bar, useful for those nights when you’re so mashed you can’t speak let alone skin up anything thinner than a retro-sized tampon. And if you fancy a line nobody bats an eyelid if you chop it out and snort it up straight from the table. The only thing they don’t like is the really hard stuff. Not a problem for me. I have <em>some</em> limits.<br /><br />We grab a table and send Danny over to get the drinks in. Suze is like, I <em>so</em> need a drink. Five auditions this week and nothing to show for it except a bruised ego. And to make it even worse, Ty dumped me. Suze has been going out with Ty for as long as I’ve known her so this is big news. I go, what happened this time? Hoping that my pleasure won’t show on my face - Ty is one of the biggest arseholes I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. Suze goes, he’s been fucking some tart who, he says, makes me look like an amateur. She sneers, although frankly, I find that hard to believe - it's not like I've ever heard him complaining when he's got his cock in my mouth. Suze's words are hard but her eyes are wet. It hurts me to see her like this. It hurts me to see <em>anyone</em> like this. I put my hand on her arm, are you alright Suze? She's like, what do you think? Of course I'm not fucking all right. She shrugs me off, oh fuck it, he'll be back. He always comes back. He always comes back when the thrill of fresh pussy wears off. She smiles but it's hollow, shrugs, like, you know, whatever. <br /><br />It really pisses me off, the way Ty treats Suze. And I’m even more pissed off at her that she lets him get away with it. Every time he comes back, tail between his legs, full of self-pity, excuses, protestations, and there’s Suze - welcoming arms wide open, so fucking grateful to have him back that she’ll forgive him anything, wipe the slate clean, present herself to him like a gift when what he really needs is a push in the direction of the door. It’s way past pathetic. All that love stuff, it sucks out your brain and leaves a vacuum instead. Whatever happened to self-respect?<br /><br />I'm so glad I'm out of that game. I am so, <em>so</em> glad.<br /><br />I don't stay at the club for long that night. I guess I've kind of lost my appetite for it.Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1130250163187905762005-10-25T15:29:00.000+01:002005-10-25T15:23:37.040+01:00Update on JamesIt seems like forever since I last went out with James, although it was only Friday night. What's that? Four days. Not much, but it seems like a long, long time. Weird.<br /><br />He's been texting me every day, which is kind of nice, but also a bit of a cop-out as you don't have to say much, you <em>can't</em> say much, via SMS. But today James sent me a text saying that he wants to take me away this weekend - to a hotel in Sussex. I guess I'll be swapping some shifts with Suze because that's an offer a girl just can't refuse.<br /><br />But I'm also planning a little surprise for him...<br /><br />Wait and see.Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1130245838537561622005-10-25T14:52:00.000+01:002005-10-25T14:57:27.156+01:00After HoursI've posted about the Club before but to save you the trouble of having to go digging through my archives for details, I work behind the bar at a West End nightclub in London. It's kind of shit but it has some advantages for a work-shy office-phobe like me. But the worst thing about working in the Club is the manager, aka The Fat Bastard (the description says it all).<br /><br />Suze, Danny and I are the regular barstaff and ancient in terms of the usual job longevity - I've worked here for almost two years, Suze for coming up to three years, and Danny for ten months. The rest of the bar staff come and go so quickly it's barely worth the effort of remembering their names. Suze, Danny and I get on pretty well. I wouldn’t say that we’re best mates or anything but we’re united by our wish to witness the total humiliation and downfall of The Fat Bastard. So far, it's proven to be a superglue bond.<br /><br />Suze is a wannabe actress who'd shag her granny on live telly if she thought it would get her name up in lights. So far, fame has proven elusive; Suze spends her daylight hours at castings, lining up with everyone else like a herd of cattle on their way to the branding shed. She’s resigned to having world-weary eyes flicking over her for a split-second followed by a clipboard-brandishing casting agent telling her that she’s too old, too young, too short, too tall, too ugly, too attractive, too big-titted, too small-titted, or just plain not right for the part. It’s not quite the stuff dreams are made of but she’s working hard at it.<br /><br />Danny is, well, he's just Danny. He's just another no-hoper without a dream to call his own, waiting, hoping, for the call to something, anything, better than this.<br /><br />We're usually out of the club by 3.30am, unless Don, the owner of the joint, is having a lock-in. On the lock-in nights one of us stays behind to tend bar and keep the Don posse happy - it's not too bad, there's usually a couple of notes in it for us and a taxi home. But on the nights when Don is nowhere to be seen, and when we feel up to it, or need to chill in likeminded company, we head for a private member's club hidden in the back streets of Soho. Don't get me wrong, it's not along the lines of the Groucho. Our after hours drinking club is the kind that you don’t need an exclusive membership for; you just need to look like you’re not a copper. We don't go there that often, or at least, I don't anymore - my energy levels are running on empty more often than not these days. But Suze and Danny did manage to drag me there last week. I'll post about it later.Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17584888.post-1129928173319612672005-10-24T08:31:00.000+01:002005-10-24T08:31:35.280+01:00Childhood MemoriesMy earliest childhood memory is being in a room made up of shadows. Figures are moving about around me and I am up high, possibly in a highchair, with something squishy in front of me. There is no emotion associated with this memory.<br /><br />Another memory. I am small and sitting on a child sized chair. I have an orange in my hand and I am peeling it. My mother tells me not to swallow the pips or a tree will grow in my tummy. I wait until she leaves the room, swallow three pips in quick succession and wait in terrified anticipation for a tree to burst out of the top of my head. Nothing happens, so I eat the rest of the orange.<br /><br />I am at school. I must be around five years old. My nose starts to bleed and I am sent to the sanitorium. The nurse sits me on a chair and gives me a tissue to hold to my nose. She tells me not to move. Then she leaves the room to go to the nurses' office. I can hear her talking loudly to the sanitorium sister. Time passes. I need a wee. I really need a wee, but I can't move, the nurse told me not to. I call out but she doesn't come. I wee myself. I sit there, crying, nose bleeding, watching as the wee pools under the chair and trickles out in thin lines across the linoleum. I listen to the loud conversation from the next room and wait for her to come back.<br /><br />I am seven. There is something nasty under my bed. I have to jump from the far edge of the rug stretched by the side of my bed onto my duvet. It's a long way. If I trip or miss the edge of the bed it will grab my ankles and pull me underneath. My heart pounds, my cheeks burn, my head buzzes. I back up until I am level with the wardrobe, steel myself for the olympian effort I am about to undertake, then run, faster, faster, faster... edge of the rug, leap, feet leave the floor, I am flying, flying through the air, and land, thump, safely slap-bang on the centre of the duvet. The relief is immense. Then, careful that no part of my body even peeps over the edge of the bed, I squirm under the duvet and tuck it around every part of me. Then I stare at the curtains and tap my feet until I fall asleep.<br /><br />I am ten. My parents have stopped speaking to each other. They talk through me instead. Breakfast is the worst time. My father asks me to pass the milk, which is next to my mother's elbow. My mother asks me to pass the sugar, which is in front of my father. My mother's eyes look blank. My father's eye twitches. I pass the things they ask me to pass and eat my breakfast quickly. Then I go upstairs to my room and wait until I hear the front door slam and my father's car spraying gravel in the driveway.Kate B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11997733172043900832noreply@blogger.com8