easy peasy lemon squeezy

“Finding someone is easy. Finding THE ONE isn’t. Here’s how to tell if what you’re feeling is true love”.

Good Men Project: If your partner doesn’t do these 11 things…¬†http://goo.gl/CeRqfX

Seriously? I do wish that these ‘do gooding’ sites, that specialise in creating copy that is neither of substance nor validated with any real psychology or research, would stop propagating the theory that we only have a ‘one’. That this is what we should be desperately looking for. And never mind the pap content in particular, of this article. Have you seen the volume of readership numbers and ‘followers’ of this media-savvy entity? Yeesh.

While I adore the idea that we may be truly privileged to find someone with whom we share our whole life, the chances of that are too rare to be considered our cultural norm. Why continue to perpetuate this myth?

*goes off on tangent in head, wondering at the history of this seemingly misogynist-led, religion-promoted diatribe*

Meeting people that complement, fit, inspire, astound, and are right for me at any point during my life is what makes the search for love and a partner so much more valuable, and an adventure. It makes the possibilities beautiful and random. It also acknowledges that there is work to be done in relationships to give them the longevity they deserve. That we know there are others out there that may be right, or right now, but we respect the commitment and love we have with our person.

I have had the blessing of good loves and big loves. The sweet gift of second chances. Life is not about The One. It is about finding your chosen one.



Oh what’s all the fuss
You silly old bean
It’s just their noise
As they pose and preen.

They’re all a chatter
With the latest goss’
And it’s all about us
Though we give a toss.

They’re wagging their tongues
And sharpening pens
Pointing their fingers
And back-stabbing friends.

Creating such drama
Where we know there is none
Making up lies
For their own spiteful fun.

And all that do worship
Sit prone at their feet
And give praise to the loudest
Til they’re fat with conceit.

Let them be toxic
And let them spout bile
They’ll burn themselves out
There’s no need to rile.

They’ll be bored soon enough
And find a new prey
Til then just be patient
And know karma will pay.


I suck in air
And my face crumples
Hold my own hands to stop them clawing.
Eyes beam loathing
But leak such hacking sadness
Violence on these lips
And electric air around me.
I am mirrored across the room
At once real, and what a picture.
Gasping sobs breaking free
As lungs release.
As tears release.
As sorrows release.
And months of lonely
Make a halting escape
Breathed out as I count my way
To ease my ache.
In-out, in-out…
A moment still
A shame
A nod to ghosts now flown
And I lean exhausted
Slack-jawed and swollen eyed.
Avoiding my reflection
Too tired.
Too depleted.
Too slow.

Stand up and TV off
And hit the lights
And lock the door and move some cushions.
And slide into bed.
Bring sleep.
Bring dreams.
Bring hope.

Bring hope.

herbal tea with lemon

I am in a cafe; ensconced with affluent hippies, established and crumpled lifestyle retirees, and the waif-like relaxed.  There are layers of well-worn wool and faded sunshine colours. Hair is scruffy. Shoes are flat and comfortable. Everyone is drinking variations on elderflower. A soft murmuring of community, positive and generous to each other. Friendly and inclusive.

There are lentils and goats’ cheese on the menu. And soy drinks cleanse down kale filled sandwiches in soda bread.

The beautiful women are make-up free and wise. A single toddler, peaceful.

Plaited rag mats and honest, bold finger paintings adorn the walls. The cafe’s cookbook on sale at eye’s corner.

My peppermint tea has gone through me but I cant see a toilet. I’m prone and clumsy in my walking boots, Michelin-man jacket and cheap black canvas backpack (I borrowed it indefinitely from my Dad 4 years ago, last time I visited them in Australia).

I breathe in all the grace and poise I can inhale from the vanishing vapours of my tea… and rise to look for the loo. In opposition to intent I have elephantitis and foot it clumsily, tripping on the edge of an old hand-painted floor tile. Gawd. Reverie around me is broken and banged around a bit. Supping patrons are jostled. Now where are the toilets?

Of course the bathroom is outside, across the courtyard. Of course I’ve had to lollop my way through the tables and landed hippies, knocking chairs and catching empathic, kind, smiles.

In the toilet I convene in the bright yellow room with long-legged spiders and the smell of patchouli. And low grade recycled paper. And a moment of stillness and tranquility from the murmurings of the Cafe and the bustle of the market town’s uneven cobbled street. I smile. A spotted, aged mirror reflects my inner calm and lightness. I bound out in the direction of the Plains. Ugly bag and giant walking boots. Lovely damp English air and misty droplets hit my face. Long, sturdy, life-affirming strides.