I know it doesn’t look like it, but this is my mate Gerry and he’s a real sweetie! (Sorry Gerry, I know you are mean and brooding and all that sort of thing underneath it all…). Anyway he’s got an exhibition at Pepe Jeans on Portobello Road, and this Warhol-esque ensemble is plastered all over the walls outside. Other favourites were: Don’t Like Grape Tango and Self-Portrait at Halloween. Popped down last night for the launch and quaffed a few beers courtesy of Cobra. If you pass by I’m sure they’ll still have some of the new, alcohol-free lager the’re promoting left!

Am hungover. Was Baby Sister’s Birthday last night and wine was drunk, red and white. Spent all morning struggling with a translation – loose – of a poem called ‘Pour faire le Portrait d’un oiseau’ (or ‘the poor bird in the picture at the fair’) by a poet I do not know called Jacques Prevert. It’s all about how writing a poem is like painting a portrait of a bird. Have to say got my feathers in such a kerfuffle I had to go for a walk to get away from the travail of it all. En route to inspiration discovered a poor dead pigeon outside the church where Dr Blog always buys his coffee. Considered it my civic duty to tell the boy at the coffee shop, who decided he was no expert in dead pigeon disposal. Moments later a man appeared, who was bigger and older and more expert-looking than the boy. Pigeon was scooped up in a plastic bag, and carried, almost ceremoniously, through the church and out back to an appropriate resting place. I was glad. Pigeons are loved so barely.

I’m reading tonight at Willesden Green Library, 95 High Road, Willesden Green, London NW10 2SF with Bernardine Evaristo, who’s reading from her fabulous new novel Soul Tourists (Viking/Hamish Hamilton). 7.30pm. I’m going to read a short story I wrote for the Tell Tales (Volume I) Tour, called God’s Lift is Out of Order.

It’s funny, because the title is, I realised, part of the reason I write. As regular readers will know, I like to take little snaps on my camera, and I’m also dead keen on signage. One day I misread ‘Good’s Lift is Out of Order’ for ‘God’s Lift is Out of Order’ – and from this I realised that that’s the point of writing for me – it can become ‘God’s Lift’; but a photo will always be ‘Good’s Lift’.

Anyway, that’s only part of the story…

God’s Lift is Out of Order

Aaron is tumbling through the sky. A muddy wash of colour envelopes him like a shroud. His arms are outstretched, groping the air and he’s falling, screaming my name, again and again. His cries are so loud, so insistent, he actually shakes me awake, out of deep dreaming sleep. I sit up, struggling to see in the dark. The air is thick and wet with damp and I shiver as my pupils swell to find the light. My boyfriend Ed thrashes around beside me, muttering and annoyed. He kicks the duvet over the edge of the thin, lumpy Futon and I snatch back at the cover, suddenly aware of the cold. Then I wake up again, out of that weird stage when you think you’re awake, but you’re still in the dream state, and everything’s slow and viscous, like you always imagined sinking in quicksand would be. I’m shouting too now, the voice in my head is the sound coming out of my mouth; Aaron’s words have become my words and as he screams my name I’m screaming his and I can’t stop saying it.

***

I miss the seven-forty-something out of Paddington and now it’s 8.15 and we’re only just pulling out of Slough. I‘m wearing a shoulder-padded power suit to my low-paid publishing job, editing some boring computing journal out in the sticks. Late. Again. The fast train to Reading speeds by, a blast of air clipping my cheek as we lurch out of the station at two miles an hour. I stare out through the dirty glass. Grim industrial estates flicker by, gradually giving way to a more rustic vista: untidy allotments, a little field with a lone and shabby pony, bare Birch woods dotted red, white and blue with old Coke cans and plastic bags.

The train passes through Taplow, Burnham, Dorney, Bray – all apparently pretty Berkshire towns – which is strange because to me they’re four tower blocks along Adelaide Road that have mutated into a meaningless mantra inside my head – Taplow, Burnham, Dorney, Bray – always in that order. A relic from when I was six and spent whole days riding my bike round the block. But today I’m distracted from my distractions. All I can think about is Aaron.

***

The Prompt Corner, South End Green. The windows were always steamed up, and there were rows of formica tables, checked black and white on top, with surgical green stop clocks on the side, uniform as salt and pepper pots. The owner was Greek or Turkish – I was never sure – and would put up with a gaggle of screeching pubescent girls in ripped fishnets, mini-kilts and monkey boots, drinking two teas and a hot chocolate between them for three hours. Eventually, he’d get sick of ogling Sinead and Cressida – two ballerinas turned punk who went to stage school in the West End and drank cappuccinos – and tell us to spend some money or go. He didn’t want us driving away his core clientele.

Old men with white hair and black wrinkles and a few tweedy academics would sit there all day sipping endless coffees, smoking Gitanes and playing chess against the clock. On Saturday afternoons Aaron would sit among them, ignoring us on the other side of the room. At fourteen he was a nationally ranked player; but as he confided one night while we were lying on the floor of my bedroom, pretending not to notice our legs were touching and flicking through X-Men comics: he always tried to keep his grading low for competitions. I couldn’t understand; my motto was – if you’ve got it, flaunt it. He walked me through the whole concept slowly until the penny finally dropped. You win more money that way.

He only broke even that time, so we all bunked in round the back to see The Exorcist at the Hampstead Classic, on a late night.

About eight of us sat in the back row, feet on seats, munching our way through giant size cartons of popcorn, smoking Bensons and calling each other cunts. All the girls shrieked at the bit with the projectile vomiting and grabbed on to the boys.

‘Your mother sucks cocks in hell!’ we growled, over and over, while attempting 360° head swivels as we trooped out of the cinema at half-one in the morning. I did it too, but only half-heartedly: one because I didn’t know anything about sucking cocks which was embarrassing, and two because I was terrified of becoming possessed like the girl in the film.

Aaron and I weren’t like real Hampstead kids who lived next door to titled architects and TV personalities. We had to get the North London Line home to Kilburn, or walk back past the cemetery. I had an evil step-dad and he had the wicked witch of the north, south, east and west running the show at his place. His real mum was in a loony bin up north somewhere, but we never really talked about that. He was more clever than me: he could read music, write poetry, play chess, piano, basketball. They all listened to Radio 3 at his house, and he could do maths.

On the way back to mine we detoured via the hospital because as usual, I was dying to do a wee. We were fidgeting in the foyer for ages before we realised the lifts weren’t working.
‘Look at that – God’s lift is out of order –‘ I laughed, enjoying the brief moment of my mistake. The sign actually read “goods lift is out of order”. ‘We’ll never get to heaven then.’
‘Or the toilets,’ he countered, suddenly making a face and staggering towards me with a zombie flesh eater look. ‘This is the one that goes straight up to the LOCKED WARD.’
I swiped at him, in that ‘girl hits boy but doesn’t really mean it’ way and tried to look serious. After all, I still had to go to the loo on my own.

***

Back in the home counties. I arrive half an hour late for work and am immediately confronted by Ivy, who calls out, ‘Morning,’ as loud as she possibly can.
‘Trouble with the trains?’ Eileen asks, looking at her watch. I sweep off to the kitchen to fetch a tea and when I return Ivy is standing at my desk.
‘You see -,’ she waves the offending article at me. ‘Look, on page 34 you’ve got COBOL in small caps and here it’s upper and lower case.’
Eileen and Ivy spend their days typing faster than I can edit and complaining about my consistency – or lack of it.

Eileen stares over at me, pushes her low-slung Deidre Barlow glasses up to the bridge of her nose and smiles.
‘So, are you going back for Christmas then?’
‘Back ?’ I ask, knowing full well where this one’s heading.
‘Well, it is Jamaica isn’t it?’ Ivy doesn’t bother with the smile.
I spend lunchtime scouring The Guardian for jobs.

***

Two weeks pass and it’s Christmas Eve before I know it. Ed’s away in Wales with his family and I’m getting ready for Dano’s birthday party. As usual I’m wandering around aimlessly, rummaging through pyramids of clothes; conjuring mess like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat. I start shuffling through an irrelevant pile of papers and turn up an antique card, covered in inky violets. It had arrived on Valentine’s Day – anonymous. But even though I recognised the writing I couldn’t quite believe it was from Aaron.

Things were different now: The Prompt Corner was a Perfect Pizza, and I saw more of Aaron’s older brother, who used to come round, chop up vast lines of dodgy sulphate, then disappear mysteriously to the bathroom for twenty minutes. The last time I’d seen Aaron he was fat with Largactil or ‘liquid cosh’ – the stuff they pumped people full of in prison to keep them quiet. He sat round the kitchen table for what seemed like days. He could communicate with Marilyn Monroe. The conductor of the orchestra he played violin with had put a black magic hex on him. He knew what had really happened with the Kennedys. I grimaced. So, the rumours were true: Aaron Gold had taken too much acid and lost the plot.

I arrive at Dano’s party. It’s in one of those big, white houses with tall, tall ceilings in Belsize Park. The bass is booming out Lee Perry and the front room is heaving with people so the whole floor is bouncing up and down in time to the music. I make my way to the kitchen, through a hallway lined with people who couldn’t stand me at school and spot Kevin McConnell in a black trilby, holding court by the fridge. I wave – and wade through the crowd.
Before I can ask, he asks, ‘Have you heard – about Aaron?’
Visions of strait jackets, needles and looming Nurse Ratchetts run through my mind. ‘What? Has his dad had him committed again?’
Kevin looks at me, and pauses for a second, ‘He jumped out of Burnham. Out of my brother Kieran’s flat. Out the window. Didn’t you know?’ I keep staring, and he finishes his sentence. ‘The 22nd floor.’

***

I can’t move. All I can think about is the last time we spoke. It was early days for me and Ed and we were so in love we could hardly walk straight. Ed’s there with my flatmate and her boyfriend and we were all pissing around, having a laugh. The phone rang. It was him. I’d told them all the stories, they knew about ‘the card’.

He was playing jazz piano at Dingwalls. Did I want to come? But I was barely listening and suddenly I was barking strange messages down the phone, mum should never have given you this number and don’t call here again. I could hear this party in the background and his voice getting smaller and smaller and I wanted to tell him I was sorry, that I didn’t mean it, that I missed him. But everybody was listening, so I didn’t. I put the phone down instead.

A thin blond girl trips over my foot and spills red wine on me without apologising. Kevin McConnell finally realises that I didn’t know.
‘When?’ It’s all I can say, even though I already know the answer.
I stick my head out the window, feel the cold air bite against my skin and shut my eyes.

Aaron is tumbling through the sky. A muddy wash of colour envelopes him like a shroud. His arms are outstretched, groping the air and he’s falling , screaming my name, again and again.

I am more awake than I have ever been. This is not a dream.

———–
Check out
http://www.telltales.co.uk
for details of the book and future tour dates – some of which I may be on at some point in the future…

A thousand poems
is my new hourly rate.
(All must be epic.)

Three poems by my mum, Marie Florence. They are all made up from anagrams. See Not Sudoku and Arse for reference.

No 11 IMPERFECT

“You’re a nice piece”
Leered Peter at the temp
On her first day
At The Empire Cinema.
“You’re in your prime
Pert ripe and trim,
Although you remind me
Of a prefect sometimes
Perhaps too prim.
Maybe it’s the way
You crimp and perm your hair.
What’s your price?
I must have a receipt
For the V.A.T.”
His words were a recipe
For an epic disaster
She pierced him with a glare
As she typed even faster
“ How dare you?”
She flared
And flexed her triceps
She had a short temper
I don’t permit such tripe
Pipe down you
Imperfect little creep!
What makes you think
You can peer
At someone
Perfect like me?
Take a trip
Off the nearest pier
You pimp!”
He crept off, chastened,
On crepe soled shoes
Whistling the blues.

No. 14 DECADENT DECADENCE

Anna and Dean
Made a decadent pair.
They both knew how
To let down their hair
They danced entranced
To the cadences
Of the decade.
They caned it
They canned it
Until, dented
And deadened
They ended up
On Deadend Street
Where they need
No addenda
To their decadence.

No.2. INHIBITED

Bide with me
Hide with me
Dine at mine
Forget the diet
Smoke Bidis and watch
The tide comes in
With me.
Don’t be inhibited
You can bend
Your behind over my bidet
Any time.
You hinted you
Felt indebted
But don’t be shy
I promise I won’t bind you
No need to be tied
I’ll edit out the debits
What’s mine is thine.

insects
we were afraid of them
they made us scream and scream
my best friend always more than me
she had to do BUPA and Valium
and other stuff because it was a
really serious phobia
compared to my amateur
teenage hysterics that did not warrant
a specialist
she was even frightened of ants
of course i had a story too
a moth flew between mum’s glasses and her eye
and flapped and flapped all brown and furry
when she was only five in Westminster Abbey
so that made me afraid
and then in that hot summer there was one
as big as a hand that fluttered
against the cornicing
you could hear its wings beating
like a heart through a stethoscope – loud
i did not see an insect all day today
insects are terrifying because
no orifice is sacred
that is why i happily can kill them
i can’t believe they are tasty
prawns are the only pink insects
it is the sea that makes them that way
i like their legs best
perhaps i would survive armageddon on cockroaches
roasted broiled baked fried spatchcocked poached jerked
i do not want to know their habits
just eat the legs
in a needs-must situation

What is it about faded grandeur? It’s irresistible. A bit like Kate Moss – they had it all – even the pool – thought they were flash. Look where it got them. Oh how the mighty fall. (Advice to Kate: don’t worry about admitting that you ‘tried’ cocaine, just say you didn’t inhale.) Anyway, I think this could have been a case of location location. Maybe a patch of no-man’s land between Kennington, Oval and Vauxhall just wasn’t the place for the only pub with a pool. I’m tempted to climb out back, take a look, but I’m scared. God knows what I might find. The fossilized bones of a forgotten extra from Get Carter face down in a dirty puddle? Maybe it was also the weather. Okay, maybe it was the wrong thing, in the wrong place, probably at the wrong time. Five years from now I’ll weep when I cycle past another block of converted luxury apartments – with a pool. Not just because they’re there, but because I didn’t make a mint putting them there and the hope that I might make that mint will finally be over because someone else did what I didn’t do and convert the only pub with a pool into luxury flats. That’s why I like it: somebody really believed in that idea. It didn’t matter that nobody else had done it, and there might be a reason for that. This was the only pub with a pool. All those dreams dreamed too big and made small again by life. The only pub with a pool. All right, I just like saying it, the only pub with a pool, the only pub with a pool.

I saw a bunch of roses chucked in a bin on Notting Hill Gate and immediately reached for the trusty Nokia, only to find I’d run out of memory. So imagine my delight when these two turned up on a wall at the end of my road the very next day. Two decapitated red roses, no stems, no necks left, velvet and bloody against the concrete. They looked like a pair of perfect lovers. As it happened, I needed a flower for a meditation session, so I separated them and took one on a little adventure. I felt intermittently guilty then imperfectly omnipotent about breaking up this lovely couple. They wouldn’t get old and die together now. I imagined I’d re-unite them later that night, but of course I didn’t get round to it. The lady in the newsagents noticed the flower cradled in my hands and smiled. ‘Smell it,’ I said, ‘Yes, that’s a real one – you can tell because it’s perfumed,’ she said, inhaling. I knew she wanted me to give it to her, and I wanted to, too; but I couldn’t. I needed to keep this one for myself.

Hola amigos,

I’m back from Ibiza. Thought I’d therefore post my t-shirt diary from Sonar in Barcelona June 05. Ooh, this blog is sooh up to tha minit. Seriously though, I’m always thinking that for men it’s tough because they don’t really get the skirt and dress option. T-shirts are their only sartorial creative outlet. That said there’s a lot of ladies chatting camiseta. I was accused by one girl of just wanting to snap chest shots. As if! Actually, there’s something satisfying about photographing strangers and leaving their heads out of the frame. It’s all very ‘who’d wear a t-shirt like this?’.