WEBVTT

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I am supposed to write, I say. I'm supposed to

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say something, Paris. Your embrace, the memory

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of it, is now two days old and my daughter has

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just left mine, and London's, along with some of

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my makeup brushes. I'm supposed to write and

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I'm late and I don't care because cuddling my

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daughter all night and morning feels like an

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achievement. I'm being quiet, or trying to

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be. I've been trying to separate anger and frustration

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from pain, and I'm prepared to surrender. No

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more theories, however impractical my mind could

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be. No more worries, hopefully. What about nightmares

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and memories? How to deal with them gracefully?

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I said no more theories, sorry. I had been busy

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scheming and planning my exit. But exit from

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what? London? Having to deal with tax returns

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instead of that messy pile of poems? And why --

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because it is hard to be alone and deal with

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all those? Why -- because being alone is where

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I'm unloved most? No more whys. No more exit

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plans. I'm working on my surrender. I'm rebuilding

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my trust with my body, with my breathing, and some

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kir royal or Hendricks and light tonic with a slice

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of cucumber and four ice cubes when it's appropriate.

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I'm working on love, and that discomfort in the

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centre of my belly needs to be taken care of.

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Or else, I'll think another appendix surgery

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might be coming. I'm working on accepting that

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the road to paradise involves tunnels and disruptions,

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even the Northern Line, if you're feeling lucky.

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So what if I still have to do my well -paying

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day job while living in Wimbledon instead of

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living in a stylish boat (or a mansion, whichever

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comes first -- surrender, remember?) in Paris and

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running my concept pop -up restaurant? So what

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if I still have to see my boyfriend for a few

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days at a time instead of thriving in his arms

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every bloody (or non -bloody) day? Well, that is

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a lot of what, actually. But this is not 2016,

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Paris. I'm not going to recklessly decide to

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be with you and say to hell with the rest of

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the world only because I didn't know how to regulate

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my pathetic impulses, however close I felt to

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jumping off a cliff then, only to discover some

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part of myself. Hell, I'm still not great at

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regulating them, but here's luck. Here's luck

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to calm, here's luck to feeling jittery only

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in the face of creativity -- and some other sexy

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endeavours, obviously!