some personal news

dispatch from the sea of love

When I realised I’d somehow gotten myself knocked up, single again, at the inexplicable age of forty eight, my first thought was, Impossible. My second was, Goddamn unisex toilet seats. My third was, What if it’s some twisted eucharistic miracle-curse, like a Sarah-Abraham-Isaac thing? My fourth was: I can’t bear it. Literally. My pelvic floor will break.

For days after that I did nothing but meditate, read pulp spy novels, overwater my plants and favourite fur knicker-and-bra sets on Vinted. I subsisted on a strict diet of cold milk, hot cross buns, and mango nicotine vape juice, straight from the vial. When I wasn’t sitting still I walked round and round Kensal Green cemetery listening to Sloan’s Coax Me on repeat.

Then out of nowhere, a fifth thought. This one a memory: