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I'm little, red headed mess, more hair than mass or sense. All I really want to do is make something magical and show the world and have it be proud of me.

Monday, 16 March 2009

Its Not About The Size Of The Boat; Its All About The Motion In The Ocean.

The suns out, once again, and I rise out of my bed like Persephone.

I climb onto my windowsill and knock down all of my empty china tresury boxes and kick the five pairs of sunglasses down onto my bed. I grab my phone from the bedside table, hitting the lamp on my way and crouch, looking out at the identical little tan-brick houses behind my own. I press 5 and wait to be connected to Rubey, but she's probably sleeping behind her floor-sweeping mauve black-out curtains.

In five months time it will be Summer. I can see myself, sitting in my new New Look dress almost-new low-rise grey converse, my Rochelles and my namesake necklace, on the kitchen counter, probably waiting for Rubey's train to arrive and my little pink bubble of a radio blaring out my Motion In The Ocean album and me singing along and dancing, admittedly mostly to Trannie, and the sun hitting the signal-ariel and hitting the silver bit on the washing machine.

Ahh, Summer.

Walking in the sun, thats what I most look forward to. Losing myself behind my Vannesas in the crowd of broadstairs beach, rooting myself in the seabed and watching the world go by. Going home at dusk with Valerie and Caroline and staying with them at their Mum's new house there. Lying back on the pebbles on Brighton beach, feeling the stones digging into my Topshop dress before getting too uncomfortable and walking up the pier and getting perved on by the mentalists of Brighton and outer Hove. Going to Leeds to stay with Rubey and walking across the bridge that she seems to be obsessed with and standing there for ages, getting bemused by the lights of the clear, flowing river. Walking for hours until our legs ache and we have to stop and slope into the nearest Debenhams cafe before she asks me if I know where we are, even if I don't live there and she does. Going to Southend and making Elly Wood flirt with the bird-nest-hair man called Sydeny who operates The Cow Jumped Over The Moon ride that we go on over and over just because of Sydeny, just because its better to watch someone useless at flirting flirt than say, Ellen.

Oh, memories memories, can you form memories that are yet to happen?

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