, originally uploaded by ampster.

I love the little jars of Marmite in their neatly lined-up rows. I love the envelopes with the bubble-wrap inside. The cheap imitation pads of expensive air mail paper. The glittery sellotape. I love the Wham bars and the Vimto bars and the Haribo. I love the needles and the cat litter and the stretchy things that go through the top of net curtains. I want to plant kisses on the Hellman’s, right on their squeezy jar tummies. I want to roll cans of cream soda from cheek to nose to cheek and fellate to melting every Cadbury’s Snowflake. I daren’t even smile hello to the man who might be retarded, the one who works and lurks and unpacks the papers, because something inside me might squeeze out my eyes and prickle like tears. When I see Jay, the man who owns the shop, I make like it’s no big deal, and I put ten pounds on my Oyster like I still live there. I love Jay too though I know he went off me a bit because one time I got mixed up with Hindu and Muslim and Ramadam and Diwali and whatever when we were talking when I was buying the paper. He didn’t have a proper conversation with me for like two months after that. But I think we’re through that now. I haven’t told him I’m pregnant, haven’t let my coat swing wide to show the Jimmy-bump that’s proudly sprouting. It’s partly because the boy I’m fucking - the dad-to-be - looks a little bit like his teenaged tracksuit-topped and ear-pierced son, and I don’t think Jay would approve of me fucking his son, so I keep mum, I play dumb, with the bump on the downlow. I wrap my coat round so nobody knows the globe I’ve swallowed. I press the collar to my chest and push down so my heart won’t explode all over the shop yelling YES LONDON YES LONDON YES LONDON YES.

Labels: personal

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