As I sit here, gaze flickering,
From pool to people, beautifully blond beaus
Pushing prams around tiles soaked in cloud, not sun,
(Because it’s November so go figure)
The pangs of loneliness surface
But then promptly retreat, like smiling Pennywises
Dipping back into a drainy kingdom
Tag: blog
Ldn
I like London
even when I’m breathing in chemical cancers burped up by buses
and dodging dog turd seeping into the pavement when I’m out for my run
the dozens and dozens of cookie cutter couples
humming around like bees in beanies and bright baseball jackets
that drip vintage down to their kneecaps.
I like London
the convenience, the ease of delivery, the lattes brewing around every corner
that gaping chasm beneath our feet
where people sit and sweat
and bounce from borough to borough in a rattling box
that spot on our walks where buildings bruise the battered skyline
and shed the puffy clouds.
Outside and warm
There’s something to be said
For sitting on rattan chairs and looking up
At a tie dyed sky
The same inky blue I saw in a dress earlier
The one I added to basket but never checked out
This is a sky of another era, a time
When we rode like ghosts on American highways
Legs pressed up against the dashboard
Podcast blaring nonsense
Gently slipping into sleep
Half expecting to hit a deer
That fear every time we rounded a bend
Or you vroomed a little too callously
A cacophony of screeching, and my brain doing somersaults
Playing out the poor deer’s death
And this balmy air also smacks of times in Spain
By the sea where we built our lives
And had a fridge full of food
And money in the bank
Dusted pink sunsets trickling down to the seafront
Paellas baked fresh, inches from the seabed
Tummies content and hankering for margaritas on Friday nights
Warm all the time
Flip flops flung over shoulders
Walks down to the beach and then back to Lidl
For a feast
Work was still a drag, head filled with dread
Every fucking Sunday night
Like some stupidly mundane weekly ritual
The brain bashing, self inflicted fear and loathing in Las Palmas
I was still afflicted like I am now
But those balmy sun dappled evenings
Grinning on terraces
Stuck like insects in a treacly loveless web
Boy was it good sometimes.
A year has passed and you’re back in my DMs
you got your foot in the door
yet again, a beautiful ghost at it
once more
starve you, I tried
there’s whispers you care and you
want to make things right
but I throttle those whispers
they slip lifelessly into unconsciousness
I’m lighting my tongue on fire
just talking to you
but it’s not the same adoration
lingering like perfume
in the air
not the
drop-everything-lets-text-back
frenzy that once furrowed by brow
made me mad with “love”
drunk on lust
in fact
I couldn’t give a fuck.
Is there a name for being bored but, at the same time, not wanting to do anything?
boredom creeps
and the tinted, dirt speckled screen
is no company
when up against
the blood orange gaze of the sun –
burn covering my chest
from yesterday’s bake off.
there’s no escape from boredom
when you’re not procrastinating
because there’s nowt to do
in the first place
but the level of pressure
squashing that nowt
is not nowt at all –
it’s a monstrous fun sponge
sucking life and love from limb
rendering days dry
and desolate
mouths open
but nothing to say
fingers shoved into gussets
in search of redemption.
lemon groves and Spanish marble
sultry Split and Big Apples
so rosy your mouth waters
are so far away
you can’t taste the freedom anymore
and pearl-stained beaches
are no longer on the horizon.
The video call conundrum
Like feeling around in the dark
Trying not to step on toes
Fingers in eyes
Teeth glinting, words warbling
Ignored and then repeated
If still ignored then give it up
Wait for the wave to pass
Then plunge into its dark creases
When you think there’s an opening
(But of course you can never tell)
So you’ll probably end up soaked in shame
A blur in their peripherals
Dunk your head under for a third time
Trying not to get wet
Trying to let your words penetrate
The foamy skin
Stopping short of shouting
Like screaming into the void
But you might as well be on mute
I’ll tear my hair out before this is over
A bald, shadow-slurping mess
Is what I’ll be reduced to
Like feeling around in the dark
For dropped keys on a dusky carpet
Clad in dead skin, fingers twitching
Like being blind at a party
Not knowing who you might grope
Like shouting into the void
Might as well be on mute.
I can’t get anything done when the sun’s shining
The sun throws me off scent
It’s a major distraction that colours my skin red and my head cloudy
Prompts paracetamol ingestion
Stops me from working
I can’t write when the sun’s out
It’s like a magnet drawing me away from my desk
Patio porn, the slabs are tinted and sparkling
Sibling reclining on chair, forehead glistening
A sign of heat, akin to holiday
Swap grind for grass
I’m lying on a towel half naked
Singeing my skin
(but consoled in that I’ve got Bondi sands factor 50 on order)
Digital marketing certificate doesn’t get a look in
When I’m grappling with a heated tug of war
And getting a tan is so important
(I’m not entirely sure why)
Another half hour I say, and then I’ll buckle down
Bent over a keyboard
But it rarely happens and by the time inspiration sparks
I’m sprawled on the sofa
The last of the sun dripping through the window
Watching This Country.
Coca Cola fantasy
Beer-soaked bellies tend to bash my chair
as they rumble past, making me jolt,
drink spilling, temper flaring.
Gazing at my caramel concoction,
a tooth-fairy blend of Coke
and sickly-sweet, candy-cane Malibu.
“I’d rather just have the Coke,” I say
And the whole room chuckles
because a spiritless double or gin-less tonic
is just crazy, apparently.
Florida dreams
Driving around Florida was perhaps the happiest I’ve been.
This was back in June when responsibilities were low and expectations were high
when the orange-clad Disney-donning streets always led us to Chick-fil-a or Moe’s at the height of hunger
stomachs beaten by pangs, the allure of burrito bowls and buttery milkshake broths awaiting.
We stopped in at all the parks and scaled iron-fisted fortresses and dropped
down vicious clanging paths
took oodles of pictures for the ‘gram and drank pint after pint of poisonous soda
to ward off the southern sun, bleeding onto our skin…
while fabric Mickeys and Minnies gasped for air
through the winter-laced fibres of their bulbous heads
probably paid a pittance
to stand in the sun and boil like broccoli
skin wretched and pasty at the end of the day; ours firetruck-red.
We went to Medieval Times because you said I ought to get a taste
of American pastimes
there we watched horses charge up and down with stout little fellows on their backs
wielding sticks and swords
jousting like they might have done back in the day
while we hunkered down over a medieval meal
turkey leg, garlic bread, tomato soup and enough Coke refills
to disintegrate a steak, and rot my molars.
6 interesting foreign phrases to describe your lockdown life
Last month, nobody could stop talking about the Finnish concept of Kalsarikännit, “the feeling when you are going to get drunk home alone in your underwear – with no intention of going out.”
It summed up lockdown perfectly, all the while showcasing the beauty of the Finnish language and making Friday evenings getting peacefully sozzled all the more appealing and accepted.
But the Finns aren’t the only ones with quirky, quarantine-appropriate concepts. The Italians, for example, refer to rekindling an old flame as ‘reheating cabbage’ – not exactly the image you had in mind when contemplating sliding into your ex’s DMs, eh?
And in Hungary, a nagging spouse is, somewhat colourfully, an ‘indoor dragon’. How many of you have your own ‘indoor dragon’ to contend with at the moment?
I can’t guarantee these will come in handy on future backpacking adventures or city breaks, but here are six foreign terms that aptly describe the #lockdownlife.
For when you’re feeling lazy
It’s totally fine to not be doing a lot at the moment. Remember, there is a pandemic going on – so even if you feel like you should be baking enough banana bread to feed the whole of Yorkshire or running a half marathon every day, it’s also fine to be a couch potato – or ‘pantofolaio.’
- Pantofolaio
You can use the Italian term ‘pantofolaio’ to describe a couch potato or homebody. A noun first used in the 19th century, it comes from the word ‘pantofola’ meaning ‘slipper’.
An example in action:
“Ho provato a farlo uscire, ma è diventato un tale pantofolaio.”
“I tried to make him come out, but he’s become such a homebody!”
It’s difficult to be anything but a couch potato at the moment – so why not look the part? If you do fancy upping your slipper game in true ‘pantofolaio’ style, apparently >slider slippers are all the rage right now.
- Fiaca
‘Fiaca’ comes from Lunfardo, a slang that originated in the late 19th and early 20th centuries in Buenos Aires, Argentina. It’s used to talk about “the feeling or state of being bored, idle, slothful of unmotivated” and when we use it to describe a person, we’d translate it as lazybones, layabout or bum.
An example in action:
“Qué fiaca que tengo!”
“Man, I feel like a slug today!”
This is something we’re all experiencing: trudging from bed to desk to fridge and back to desk, flicking through Netflix to find something binge-worthy, all the while ignoring the towering inferno of work, emails and deadlines piling up. ‘Fiaca’ is the ultimate killer of productivity.
For describing relationships
It’s a weird time for relationships – both romantic and non-romantic alike. Some haven’t seen their parents or partners or friends in months; others might find themselves house-sharing with an ‘indoor dragon.’
- Házisárkány
This is a Hungarian word literally meaning ‘indoor dragon’ and used to refer to a nagging, restless spouse. If you’re not used to sharing a house with your significant other, tensions might be high during this period. It may be you find yourself (or your partner) morphing into a mythical beast, breathing fire upon seeing plates piling up in the sink or socks strewn across the floor.
An example in action:
“A házisárkány soha nincs megelégedve.”
“A domestic dragon is never satisfied.”
Catch Budapest describes it as “a harmless joke” and strongly recommend that we keep treating it as such.
- Cavoli Riscaldati
The Italians use ‘cavoli riscaldati’ (literally meaning reheated cabbage) to talk about “a pointless attempt to revive a former love affair”. According to Christopher Moore, author of In Other Words, it comes from a proverb:
“Cavoli riscaldati né amore ritornato non fu mai buono.”
“Neither reheated cabbage nor revived love is ever any good.”
Interestingly, some parts of Italy use ‘minestra riscaldata’ or ‘zuppa riscaldata’ (reheated soup) instead of ‘cavoli riscaldati’.
Essentially, the idea is that nothing will ever taste as good when reheated. How many of you have thought about reaching out to your exes during lockdown? Snap. But now all I can think about is how I deserve much more than just reheated cabbage. Maybe some Waitrose kale or pretty pink lettuce from Harrods instead.
For those early mornings and late nights
Arguably, we’re probably saving a lot more money by not buying as much coffee during lockdown – but that doesn’t mean to say we’re drinking any less.
- Tretår
‘Tretår’ comes from Swedish, literally meaning a ‘threefill’ – a second refill of a cup of coffee. Hardly surprising the Swedes have a word for this – according to the Telegraph, they were the sixth biggest coffee drinkers in the world in 2017.
Language Insight says ‘tretår’ is likely to be used on a Monday morning to help kick off the working week.
Despite no longer needing to get up at 6am and commute for two hours, my caffeine intake has sky-rocketed during lockdown. I’ve upped my daily dosage from one to two and sometimes three cups to get me through the day.
This is down to a mixture of boredom, comfort (everything just feels cosier when you’re clutching a hot brew, doesn’t it?) and also because it’s from my own stash and therefore free. Knowing how much I must have saved by not forking out on overpriced lattes on Tottenham Court Road makes my Nescafe taste just that little bit better.
- Nedoperepil (недоперепил)
‘Nedoperepil’ is a past tense verb used by the Russians “to say that someone has drunk more than they should have, but still less than they could have (or wanted to)”, according to Lingua Lift.
Searching for further clarity, I also consulted Wiktionary: “to have too much to drink, but to be unsatisfied and want to drink more; to be drunk, but not blacked out (literally, ‘to underoverdrink’)”.
If you’re out in a bar and the barista refuses to serve you, you can say:
“Но я же недоперепил!”
“But I haven’t yet drunk as much as I can!”
Seems like the perfect balance, right? Merrily sozzled but not sozzled enough to pass out and not remember anything – plus, it doesn’t always result in a hangover. ‘Underoverdrinking’ could very well become the nation’s new pastime.
The fact Russia has a word for this is mind-blowing – and to be honest, not totally surprising.
talking to my pillow. 