It’s Sunday. I have about 24 % on my phone battery and the charger point at my EasyBus seat is broken. I’m taking an A7 from Stansted to Waterloo, typing this up, because it’s the weekend and on weekends I blog. I need to close the loop, even if I’m tired and it feels like I have little to say.
I flew to Poland on Friday. It was my Mum’s birthday, and instead of sending expensive flowers I sent myself via a cheap flight. My Mum doesn’t really need extra Stuff that gifts bring, so I went all experiential. She was delighted. I should do this more often.
When I was on the plane I came up with a phrase “sexual loser”: provocative, something that gives me feelings and thoughts. I’m not in a position to write that essay, it feels: I don’t have the space required to approach it. Perhaps it’s possible to shove deep writing in the margin’s of one’s life, but I’ve never been able to do it with anything longer than a poem. This is an essay: I have mottos and quotes. Perhaps something to throw on my Medium profile when I resurrect it.
Instead, I have this blogpost, sandwiched between commitments – as am I, between the window and my seatmate. I will get home via Tesco, hold the Manbear briefly and go do my Sunday night quiz. It is the stuff of my life, this pay-the-bills work, but today I’d like to read “Queer: A Graphic History” and be held and do some writing instead.