Rosie's Lament

Have you ever stolen anything? A sweetie? Some nail varnish? A magazine tucked under your arm? I stole a man once. I stole a husband. I stole him softly and sweetly. Whisper by whisper. Gaze by gaze. I held his hand under the table. He made me skin shimmer and my blood sparkle. He called me his little ruby. And now the guilt seethes in my belly like a snake pit. I don’t have much to say. There’s nothing to say. And there’s nothing to do except slip away quietly. The Middleton Players are a very well-respected troupe. Mr Middleton has his pick of young actresses, I’m sure he’ll have no trouble replacing me. I’m sure it isn’t the first time that something like this has happened and I’m quite sure it won’t be the last. I didn’t think it wrong. I didn’t think at all. It was as though it had already happened. But I did feel. Yes. I did feel. For him. It wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t a means to an end. But this is the end.

Past Triumphs.

I've just finished rooting through a big stack of my writing from when I was a nipper. I started when I was around 12, and, oddly, filed it away in chronological order. When I was 13 / 14 I was obsessed with CD inlays. The first thing I did was go to the bit where bands said thanked everyone - starting with God (I listened to a lot of ring wing American pop - Backstreet Boys, NSYNC et al) then working their way down through their fellow band members, managers, families, secret girlfriends, then finally, the fans. So I started writing my own. This is one of them, from around that time (1998/9). It's written with a purple felt pen, and at this time I dotted my "i"'s with a circle. Not a heart. I had some class. I am not proud. LLOYD - Thank you for being the funny, sweet, serious, flirty, punishing, draining, exhausting, magical person you are, and always will be in my eyes. I love you baby. Now. Now then. I told you I wasn't proud. Now although this is a bit cringey, it's mostly pretty harmless, and a little bit sweet. Except that: a) I'm a bit worried about the fact that my 13 year-old self would thank someone for being "punishing" a) It both reveals and explains my lonely weirdness around that time. c) I have no idea who Lloyd is. This person, then boymanlove, this epicentre of my being for at least the amount of time it took me to write this down. Nothing. Nada Another highlight from my research was a agonizingly long, painstakingly hand written in double writing It's called Strangers and the title is followed by the subheading "For Omagh" The year was 1998. It will not be appearing here.

This is what happens when I try to cook.