#85 The Offcuts
A daffodil, the Beckhams and two gay hockey players walk into a bar
No newsletter last week because I didn’t have anything to say. I used to be gripped in fear when words wouldn’t come, but this time I decided not to force anything and simply let it go. There are so many other creative projects and ideas floating around my brain at the moment that I have allowed to absorb me completely. They are a safety net to prove that, for the sacrifice of a week of missed Substack newsletter writing, there is much more to come.
One ‘distraction’ is The Artist’s Way. I have just finished week three of twelve. I started before Christmas, before deciding to stop and pick it up again in January. Recapping the first two weeks that I’d already covered, I realised I’d already implemented subtle changes and small improvements into my routine. Unknowingly, these things I wished to be different now were and seeing it in action has been a resounding encouragement to continue.
I finished As Young as This by Roxy Dunn, and it was fine. I find it hard to relate to female characters who pine and yearn for the validation of a romantic relationship with a man. By the end, all hope I’d had for the main character to find a sense of value derived from herself or her own life was gone. The ending felt rushed and left me deflated. Onto the next. Slutty Cheff’s Tart was a birthday gift. This week, I added her to my list of people I admire for a task from week three of The Artist’s Way. Her dry, satirical, and raunchy writing possesses the kind of courage I strive for in my own writing. Read the work of those you want to take influence from and all that.
Other links:
MDMA saved our marriage - reminded me of Secret Lives of Mormon Wives’ Jen Affleck and her husband having ket therapy and falling asleep on the sofa
Light pollution is slowly killing us
I have no idea how to make myself do things
The meaning of happiness through the eyes of a 13-year-old
After Sex and the City, and Girls, comes the newest “urban misadventures of privileged, self-absorbed women” - I Love LA
Slutty Cheff’s reflections on the sensual enlightenment from food and sex
Can women still choose freedom?
Alex Elle - In relationships, longevity doesn’t equal alignment, care, or emotional intimacy
I’ve seen the Brooklyn Beckham fallout referred to as ‘Beckxit’ and I have no notes. The Independent referring to him as ‘former photographer’ was a subtly backhanded and therefore much appreciated comment. Though this terrible attempt to jump on a trend by Wowcher helped me to gain perspective on the fact that, truly, for better or for worse, everything is copy. Even a man publicly ostracising himself from his entire family and expressing his hurt at the breakdown of parental and sibling relationships. A meme is worth a thousand words, right?
I went to see the Strike a Pose! exhibition at the Photographer’s Gallery in Soho on Saturday, celebrating 100 years of the photobooth. The display was a very tiny archive collection (like a 2 x 3 metre room). I enjoyed being a voyeur, looking at photos of strangers’ faces from the past. Some alone, some with loved ones, all dressed up and intent on capturing a memory.
For all of January’s flaws and bad reputation, the TV has been incredible. Traitors has been and gone. I shall mourn the loss, but revel in the success of a traitor triumph over the faithfuls. Idris Elba is back with another season of Hijack. Episode one ends in a twisty cliffhanger that will unravel itself weekly up to the start of March. But most importantly, Heated Rivalry came in and caught me totally off guard. It is the best romance series I’ve watched in a long time. I laughed, cried, and rooted so hard for the will-they-won’t-they gay love story. I impatiently await the second season.
The fucking stupid jingle for Victorian plumbing has been stuck in my head, and intermittently throughout the day, it’ll just burst out of me uncontrollably.
Following on from last week, I also have a new addition to the ‘weird flavours’ of things. I raise you a Glade Bubbly Berry Splash air freshener. For the boujie shitter who would like to mask the smell of their poo with champagne.
This week, daffodils have promptly arrived on the grass outside my flat. It’s too soon! I’ve tried telling them. But more have appeared. Their bright hope and optimism juxtaposed against the bleak perpetuity of January. I bought The Complete Book of the Flower Fairies by Cicely Mary Barker for a short story I’m writing, and found the story of the daffodil.
I’m everyone’s darling: the blackbird and starling
Are shouting about me from blossoming boughs;
For I, the Lent Lily, the Daffy-down-dilly,
Have heard through the country the call to arouse.
The orchards are ringing with voices a-singing
The praise of my petticoat, praise of my gown;
The children are playing, and hark! they are saying
That Daffy-down-dilly is come up to town!
