I can't see where I am going.

This song is truth.

Home.

I grew up in a semi-detached house which had a biscuit tin that was always full. When I was a little girl I had cereal for breakfast and half a cup of tea. My sister and I would ask our Mam if we could have a biscuit each to dip into it. She would usually say yes, but even if she didn't I'd usually scoff at least three. But I'd hide them, because my sister to this day can't keep the teeniest secret.

I rarely admit to myself that I like routine.

Church. It's a Christmas thing.

Six o’clock mass on Christmas Eve is for the pansies who aren’t committed enough to go at midnight or on Christmas morning. I attended one with my mother and sister earlier this evening. We had no trouble finding a bench. It’s fair to say that the numbers have dropped significantly in recent years, and I sat down with a humph. A quick glance around revealed that somebody had had a baby, somebody else’s gran had died. Nothing makes me realise my own mortality better than going to church.

I didn’t have to be there. But I did really. I was told I didn’t have to go. But its part of Christmas and I couldn’t have opened my presents without going. It’s an OCD thing, or a guilt thing.

I’ve been a member of the same church for my whole life. I went through christening to confirmation and grew up with members of the congregation. I remember going there when I was tiny, sitting on the floor and leaning on the wooden bench to draw pictures. And I remember when I got to old to get away with that…

My relationship with Catholicism is one which dwindles most of the time. Christmas is the only time I make the effort anymore, and it is my lack of faith rather than lack of effort. And who can I blame for that? I’m not a cynical person. On the contrary I’m very open-minded and there are times when I’ve thought YES. I’VE GOT IT. Namely, on a retreat I went on in Kintbury. I found God there. I should go back there.

Mass is the problem. Oh dear, I’m bordering on the brink of religious debate. But if I, supposedly a failed young catholic, can’t comment on the way it is practiced today then who can? Numbers are dwindling in churches because the way mass is given just doesn’t make any sense anymore. (NOT because of the acts of some perverted priests. They have nothing to do with the religion itself and I’m reluctant to comment on it further.)

Today, priests still have to be men. Abstinent men. And I’m supposed to sit there, put my hands together and repeat after you? Tonight when I entered the church I was handed a leaflet. It was basically INSTRUCTIONS about how to pray. Kneel at this line, bow at this, stand on your head now. Ridiculous. And these are the same prayers that have been drummed into my head since age womb. Which I know off by heart but refuse to chant because I don’t know what they mean. And I refuse to pray in that way, God knows what I might be saying. No literally, God knows.

Then, as the church was horrendously cold, I applied some Vaseline to my lips. My mother fixed me with a stare which said “I’m going to smash your fishtank.” and I quickly put it away. I forgot! You’re supposed to be uncomfortable in church! Oh good, the priest is singing now. Again.

Oo! It’s the second hymn! This is good. It means we are half an hour through the service. Since I was a child, the progression of mass has been dictated by the hymns. And seeing as the only clock in the church is hung on the back wall, to avoid any unsightly head-turning, you can decipher how close you are to going home by how many verses are left.

Oh no… I’m having a coughing fit. I haven’t been well and now I’m coughing. Nobody can hear the reading! Shit, and everyone is looking at me. Well, whateveeerr you should have come at midnight. Read louder, old lady! Don’t you know that nobody has heard the nativity story before! This is unsightly, I’ll have to leave. I walk all the way down the aisle, past the priest and into the toilet. Seriously though, putting the toilet ON the alter was bad planning. Oh that’s a font? That’s right, the toilet is just to the left. I drink water out of the toilet tap and go back, steps echoing horribly, back to my seat. Minutes crawl by. There’s a tickling in my throat… oh gawwwwd. Oh sorry. Forgot where I was. But hear comes the coughing. I can’t possibly pull off going to the toilet again. I slip out the back. I feel myself relax as I tread in the snow, straight across the road into Dominos. No bottles of water. Perfect. Can of fanta it is. And I trudge back in and clamber to my seat.

I can not look at my mother. I feel ASHAMED. Genuinely. But I really could do nothing else. I disguise my can under my bag and try and shut up. Priest is singing. “Only say the word and I shall be healed.” WHAT IS THE WORD? I have always wondered.

Ok, I’m babbling now. The point is – and this is a broad statement – rethink the mass system to bring the youth in! Stop preaching about doing good and serving the lord and actually do something! I’m all for faith, I think it gives life perspective, but only if it actually encourages you to better yourself. I think people should be comfortable at church, that anyone who believes in it should be able to lead it, and that there should be more singing. Lots of singing. It makes me happy.

Merry Christmas!

This is a blog.

So... I never did write that blog, but I shan't dwell. Those memories are swirling about in a little purple mug in my brain. I can still poke my finger in (via one of my dodgy ears) and taste the vibe of Kingston. Senses can be strangely connected in that way.

So s'all good. The sadness is gone, and now I am craving the future. I've been working a full time factory job, which is a funny story to tell, but not really a funny story to live. So I shan't tell it. The point is it's almost over, and soon I will be back in London.

These could be the most important couple of weeks of my life. I applied for a fair few jobs today, most because they pay high, but a few because made my heart skip a beat. I'd love to have a job where I get to work in the arts, as a writer or on something I can get passionate about.

I hope I find it!

The Sweetest Sadness

I am completely confident that I am the only one home, because I am the only one left. My three beautiful housemates have gone and so have all my things. I don't have a pillow. I don't have any photographs. I'm moving out in the morning.

I feel as pale as my walls. I am exhausted, but I don't want to forget how I feel in this moment. I have had an incredible time in Kingston, I can't even comprehend how much I've changed here. I wouldn't say I've grown up, don't be ridiculous. But I've found out exactly who I am. And I know that the sadness I'm feeling now comes as a result of all the brilliant times. I'm so happy I had them, but I'm so sad they're memories.

I'll be more articulate tomorrow and write a real blog. I might even use examples.

How do I feel in this moment? Horrified.

Things

Ridiculous things I found out today:

1) Obama, Bush and Clinton are all going to be in Newport in September for the Ryder Cup. AirForce 1 is going to fly into Cardiff Airport. LOLZ.

2) Cardiff Central Train Station doesn't have a platform 5! BUT, it does have a platform 0! Weeeeeird.


In other news:

1) I saw my sister play a bully in a play, and made evil eyes at the girl who has been bullying her in real life. IIIIIIIrony. The little bitch wasn't scared to hold my stare though. She made me feel a little inadequate as a scary "defender" figure, but I felt better when two girls greeted me like a celebrity. "THE SISTER FROM LONDON". Sort of. I'll take it.

And Biz was amazing in the play. obvz. Front row, standard. PROUD.

2) I went to a book launch tonight of a photography book called Present that has my writing in it. I'ma start clawing my way up the alphabet now. I feel I'm somewhere around "X-List" in famous terms.

3) I'm too sleepy to write about any of these things properly. I'm all muggy like the morning sun. I have one of those milky sort of sheets that lingers somewhere between the sun and us before 9am and doesn't quite let it be officially daytime yet wrapped around my brain. It's quite nice actually.

4) It's good to have a keyboard with a working "Q". Queen. Quim. Quintuplets. Quizical. I feel a "Q" poem coming on.

5) ENOUGH.

Hanging Hannah

The artwork below is by Hannah King, and it was used as part of a magazine project by Ciara Ip. I wrote this piece to go with it.

My name is Hannah and I like to run with no shoes or socks on. Wooden floors are hard but have no secrets; you know where you are with a wooden floor. Grass is a bit slimy and sometimes has worms in it. I don't like worms, or grass really. Grass is a carpet you can't trust. Carpets are the most fun. I can curl my toes around the fluffy spluffs and grip them tightly. I don't think you would be able to pick me up with my feet gripped like that. My Mammy would think I was very heavy if she tried. If people put carpets on the ceiling, they would have no problem walking upside down if they gripped it with their toes just like I do.

I woke up one morning all squirmy, squirmy. I had been dreaming about the seaside, or I might have been remembering a visit I made one time with my Mammy. There had been a park near the beach and I had spun on the merry-go-round and slid down the slide. I did those two activities over and over again until I was bored. I don't have any brothers or sisters, so there was nobody to play with. The other children seemed wrapped up in their own games - pretending to be pirates or parents or shop owners. I listened to their conversations, closing my eyes and playing out their stories in my head. Soon everybody started to leave as the sun was setting, but my Mammy was having a little snooze on the park bench... so I decided to run! I wasn't trying to get away from anywhere, neither was I trying to go somewhere, but I needed to do it! I sped off towards the promenade, the wind from the sea blasting against my face and my feet barely touching the ground. Down the steps I went, trampling over the pebbles and slowing down as I reached the sand. And there I collapsed and remained still, gazing at the sea which shimmered under the setting sun, until my Mammy's arms blinded me. And then I woke up.

Mammy always does everything the same. She puts me in my high chair and feeds me lots of mushy from a bowl. It is really tasty porridge, and I put the jam from the middle all over my lips to decorate them. Then she dresses me. It is a normal day in 1990, or around about, and little baby me is just jumping on the bed, happy as Larry, while my Mammy tidies up the house. She pulls her hair back tightly so she can see everything. But she doesn't have eyes on the back of her head. She can't see me bouncing and I am bouncing very high. The blankets feel good under my feet, but the air feels even better. I like jumping just as much as I like running. There is a rushy, gushy feeling of freedom and flying. But when you are flying, things can move underneath you when you aren't looking. Sometimes things can move when you are looking too of course. But I'm not looking, and the whole world is moving! The bed is far behind me and I am soaring. Flying is better than running, there is space everywhere, and the air takes hold of me like it does a lost feather. But then I am falling, and my belly does big flips and I grab the curtain. The curtain is surprised and grabs me back, but I am caught and hanging from the rope and I don't know how it happened. I want to cry but my mouth won't let me breathe. The rope is really hurting my neck and my toes are going tingly and just when I feel like I am about to go to sleep...

... my Mammy comes back and sees that I am not on the bed anymore.

"Hannah!" she screeches, with a voice I have never heard her use before. She yells and it sounds like she has thousands of tiny animals inside her all screaming and trying to get out. She grabs me around the waist and yanks the rope away and then I am free and she is hugging me very tightly. Holding me up to her face, she shudders like she is scared of me. I start crying and my Mammy cries with me. She cuddles me and I can smell her and my neck stops hurting. She strokes my hair and my face and tells me that I am very naughty.

But she doesn't know that I was bouncing. Cheeky.