Chub rub shorts, stability & smacked cucumbers.

Moments recently that have given me That Funny Feeling (and others):

Eyeing up my crinkled sharing bag of Lidl’s finest (no wait, that’s another brand?) sea salt and black pepper crisps which yawns open, inviting our hot grubby hands, on the ‘window ledge’ of a VIP box at the O2. One of the few upsides of someone else’s corporate life. We sip cocktails and watch Lily Allen tying a frilly pink apron on, the word CUCK embroidered across the chest. Hearing the whole crowd scream ‘who the fuck is Madeline?’ was magical.

Re-reading one of my first Substack posts and being smacked in the face by the all too apt metaphor I casually conjured up in writing about a favourite song; ‘[my ex] was always incredibly efficient at learning lyrics but never quite absorbing the meanings’.

Thinking ‘this was worth the £80 Google Home subscription’ when I scroll back through my living room camera (intended to be a Kitty Cam) history and watch that guy kiss me fully and run his hand up my thigh — swaddled in chub rub shorts. My cat looks on, curiously but not passing judgement, from her cushion on the floor.

Hearing the word stable, or at least the casual equivalent (‘your brain is fine’) then catching up with my consultant/surgeon/hero for a further 40 minutes while tension mounts in the nice new waiting room down the corridor. We talk about AI, he tells me about his (now adult) kids and their differing achievements, I give him one of my silversmithing course creations and assure him I’m working towards my dream, which he knows has always been writing books. He doesn’t know that when I get my publishing deal he’ll be the first to receive a proof — and his name will be a couple of pages in from the cover. I say my parents send their love, and he smiles.

Eating smacked cucumber and stir-fried aubergine with Izzy in the South Lanes sunshine, served by perhaps the sweetest wait staff who totally get us. We gossip and giggle as we snack and sip before packing up and pottering along Sydney Street — there’s time to catch a swift one before getting our trains home and we promise it won’t be this long before we next catch up. I climb on at platform 8, sit backwards, I think how lucky I am.

Making a Canva graphic for my birthday garden party, I know who I definitely don’t want to come. Somehow already feeling anxious about the amount of food I’ll need to get in. How much is too much?

Stumbling upon a particular pop culture podcast eight years late to the game, hosted by two Australian women and produced/co-yapped on by a third, feeling familiar warm fuzzies while having their voices accompany me in the shower and then as I get dressed.

Looking down at my dry, calloused hands to see things I made… with those same hands. Every hammer mark, solder blob and fire stain, all mine.

Wanting to laugh my head off when he’s on top of me, because? Who’d have thought but also how could he not? Then I wonder if he feels any pressure. Then I reflect on how much healthier I am mentally — how little I care about his opinion of me, or what he’ll inevitably tell friends that once upon a time were mine too, how much happier and at home I am in my body even now it’s aged ten years since he last saw it and of course, he’s known for liking skinny youngsters who secretly know better. My self worth has not only come up from the floor, it’s created itself a space at the table with a fancy place setting, five forks and a wine-coloured cloth napkin. I enjoy the night for what it is, and am delighted when he leaves in his wedding suit before 10am.

Attending a mini AGM with the team of volunteers behind the local digital rag — barely being able to get a word in without being hurried along by the chair, dipping in and out of social media wormholes when my opinion isn’t desired and topping up the hotel bar’s glass with my own handbag mixture. As we all depart, a friend offers me her old white Panda for £600 — it needs a test drive, and four hubcaps. Then I walk along my favourite stretch of beach with excited eyes following feet, grabbing fingers picking up my favourite type of pebbles, before sitting against a groyne and staring out to sea, munching my packed sandwiches and smoking a rollie I worry looks like a spliff. I count my hagstone haul. 25.

Chuckling when the crowd cheer ‘1066!’ in response to the musical ‘oh-eight-hundred, double-oh…’ posed to them by a panelist on the third ep of ‘new’ Mock the Week. (my review as a former Dave TV watcher: starts off a little bumpy, but gets better)

Looking up from my screen in my second Writing Hour this month (two up on June, get in!) to see all the growing collection of event flyers, course ads — cabins and houses wanting creatives and holidaymakers respectively, the other way round. The most recent additions are branded bookmarks from the new bookshop around the corner that I still have yet to visit, and a scrap piece of paper with a WiFi code and book names scribbled on. Plusnet X8F. Password *m****13****9 (capital H, small B). ‘Reverse Cowgirl’, Mackenzie Wark. ‘Everything for Everyone: An Oral History of the New York Commone, 2052-2072’. I have college in an hour. Billed as Summer School, but it’s more of the same, which is good. I remember now about my face being put on the back of a bus next month, advertising adult classes at the college. Won’t that be hilarious?

— this almost became a blog post, but I caught myself. Until next time… thank you for reading.