Did you know that your eyes are flecked with gold?
Well, they are.
Yeah, they’re mostly blue, but there’s definitely gold round the edges.
Go look in the mirror then.
Don’t be stupid, eyes can’t be pink.
Uh huh.
You’re an idiot.
Gold is warm and rich and deep.
Why do I like your eyes? Because they like to lie to me. Ca m’amuse.
Yes.
I think you lie to me all the time.
No.
Because you lie to yourself too.

I hate night-time.
It’s cold and dark and there’s so much ******* light pollution
You can’t even see the stars.
There’s no hope.
You can’t even see tomorrow because by midnight,
Tomorrow has already come
Yet it has hardly been.

I love night-time.
We sing, we dance, we stay up until that old cliché:
The morning light arrives and it’s good,
Another night wasted.
- Wasting time isn’t necessarily time wasted. -
Then the day carries on itself and all I can think is,
What will happen tomorrow night?

It might be cold and dark and hopeless
But it’s fun
And who cares about sleep?

Piqué, piqué, piqué, pirouette.

Arabesque. I stand there and you spin me around en pointe.
You complete me. We dance and the music is like the background
To our focal point.
We are the centre stage.

Echappé, échappé, relevé.
Pas de chat ensemble.
Repeat à l’autre côté.

You take your hands from my waist now.
We need to complete the choreography.
And I feel lonely without you,
Although you are just on the other side of the room,
By the stereo.
I miss you.

Dancers fall for their partners all the time,
So I will never tell you how I feel
Because love will be the thing to tear us apart.

And I said, “I’ll never love anyone.”
And he said, “What about me?”
And I said, “You’re the only exception.”

“There's loads of boring stuff. Like Sundays and Tuesdays and Thursday afternoons. But now and then there are Saturdays.” ~ ‘Doctor Who’*

People think that Tuesday afternoons are boring. These are the type of people who get up at three-***-em on a Saturday afternoon then pa-a-a-arty all that night.

I don’t get on with these people.

No, for me, Tuesdays are glorious. Tuesdays are ‘me’ time.
Tuesdays are full of art, like French and English and cinnamon lattes in Costa as I read a book.

Or I write.
I create some poetry or prose – nothing spectacular but something that means I’ve said something about the world.

Then, sometimes, the afternoon is empty.
I don’t have a tutorial, I don’t have work and I don’t have people. I can just bake and dance and sing without having to pretend.

I love Tuesday afternoons.

Love is...*

Fun, right? Ha.
Enjoyable? Some luck.
Glorious? That’s one word for it.

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…”
Passionately. That is all.
I am you; how could I not be?
I have no choice in this matter,
And now I must wait for you
Here, underground.

How could you leave me
For three years? To fend for myself.
I needed you at the wedding,
To reassure me that I was doing the right thing.
I missed you.

O! Never separate us again –
My life, my love, my soul!
I will wait here, eternally,
Until we meet again

And I can exact my revenge.

You know when people tell you about love?
They tell you about happiness and dreams.
They laugh and bless everything up above.
They tell you everything is as it seems.
You know when people tell me about love?
I think of sunflowers and custard creams.
I imagine fluffy white clouds and doves
And yellow roses and pastoral greens.
You know when people go on about love?
They conjure images of snuggling up
In winter by a fire or a warm stove.
Hot chocolate in a pretty new cup.
When people tell you about love they forget to mention
Pain and anger and hurt and look at you with her.