07 January 2002

Tea Leaf

02 January 2002 / 13:25 ::: Fingertips tapping, legs crossed, pressure on right side of right knee. Feet deep in furry leopardskin slippers. Eyes focused, stinging. I can feel the heat between my toes. Baggy t-shirt saying "Computer operators are data-ble". I got it for my boyfriend in a charity shop in Clapham. Now I'm stinking it up with my night-slept pits and pushing out the front - apparently - with my tits. I'm looking out the window and Amsterdam's getting foggier and foggier. I can't see the windows on the houses opposite. The bridge's barriers are candystriped straws, and I can't see beyond them to the rest of the street. There's still snow on the roofs of the cars, ice under your feet, your hands tingling. As usual when on computer, I'm fretting that b/f will detach himself from his current activity (presently: watching mtv in the bedroom) to observe my onscreen doings. I feel vulnerable on a full-size computer: its giant screen inches from my face, my back on view, a target for stabbers, for haterz, for my paranoia to winch itself up into a point and twist itself into a rope and wrap itself around and around and around binding arms to sides and tongue to the basement of my mouth. I can fold into a laptop like a cat inside a cardboard box, and purr.

03 January 2002 / 18:24 ::: just got back from amsterdam. looked around for my mobile which i had left on the speaker. it had gone. looked around for my laptop which i had left in its bag nestled among amps, guitars, keyboard and other assorted junk. it had gone. both back doors were open, but everything else - stereo, video, jake's powerbook - was still here. i'm trying to find my friend who looked after the cat all week. but i can't find her number. it's in my phone. where is my phone? where is my computer? someone has stolen my phone and my computer. why? how? if i ever find them i'll hurt them till they die.

04 January 2002 / 00:30 ::: i've got the police coming round tomorrow morning, at 8am. that's nice, isn't it? nice li'l policemenz, shiny buttons, funny hats. they'll dust my door for fingerprints. i'll have to hide the assorted bits of cling-film wrapped hash, the baby baggie of grass, that half gram of cocaine wrapped in a bit of bust magazine that's been knocking around for ages - but that's ok. i can do that. then i have to go to work, my new job, where my boss with the shiny hair will ask if i am ok. and i will have to tell her that i have had a bad thing happen. that isn't right. bad things don't happen to me. good things happen to me. i lead a charmed life. no man of woman born, etc. i lead a charmed life, i do. i did. now i lead a charred life.

05 January 2002 / 17:53 :::
my daddy. he's a fat ginger, like me. though both he and i are less fat than we were. we are shedding pounds like skin cells, thoughtlessly, easy as breathing. me through the gym medium, and he through the non-eating medium. my dear little fat ginger daddy just delivered me his dear little compaq pc laptop to work on. he delivered it in a box with A.M.P written on it in the infamous dad-script that i have observed all my life and will miss so much when he

anyway, he delivered it in a box wrapped in a dress that i purchased during an adventure in brazil at the age of 20. the dress has a white top and straps and then a high waistline from which a flowered pattern flares. it is a short dress. a babydoll. babydolls were *the* dresses for the early 90s, inspired by the babes in toyland and designer rifat ozbeck. whatever happened to rifat, eh? i cry at night wondering where the man is now. but not for very long, as i am often distracted by my dreams. last night i dreamt i was being courted by a) the singer from 10 benson and b) a young brad pitt. i would be lying if i claimed that the dream was unarousing. I stalked round shoreditch all day with a smile on my lips, and felt desired, though my face was bare, and my jeans were loose, and my hair flared frizzy round my skull like a corona round the the sun.

06 January 2002 / 19.06 :::
dad's laptop is TINY. it is far smaller than my adored departed i-book. just as when my bike went missing, i scoured the market streets for it. i pictured myself snatching the i-book into my arms, caressing the adorable scar by which i would recognise it, the crack in its plastic housing from an over-efficient hoovering session which knocked it hard flat over in its padded lappie bag. i would grasp it and cut my eyes at the thief and hiss 'it's MINE, bastard, burglar, thief, scummy crackhead, MINE, my baby, my beloved, my very HEART and MIND', and i'd skip off down the road swinging it by its handle like Momus always does in the pix on his website, and the sun would shine and the clouds would clear and i'd be wearing red lipstick and my coat would swing in the spring breeze and boys would look and in their eyes the question would shine: who *is* that girl? and their heads would turn and their little tendrilly haircuts would bounce around their heads and their pretty brows would crinkle and i'd swing by and stroke the little embossed orange apple on the front and i'd slam through the front door and i'd climb into bed and i'd open it up and i'd hold my finger down on the magic round button and i'd press it till it made a singing, chiming sound, and the sunlight would flare off the disused factory roof and the cat would purr around me and i would settle into the pillows and everything would be as it used to be, as it ought to be, and I would be smiling crying thank you thank you love you thank you thank you

only that didn't happen.

instead i looked at all the piles of porn on the pavement and the disused weights and the broken electrical equipment and the books and the mobile phones and the velvet jackets and the raffia bags, and i felt like a spy with darting eyes. my shoes were covered with dirt and my heart hurt when it beat for the empty space inside, space carved out and filled out and now caving in for lack of an i-book symphony in tangerine and white, my ski-slope to the stars, my L-shaped room, my buttery dream, my giddy, giddy, gone gone love.


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