Porn Stars, Trannies and a broken foot...with a heart attack thrown in

On a Sunday evening I have found myself in Soho, yet again, with a nice Porn Star. The passionfruit kind. Discovering this cocktail must be the most silliest thing to have found. They are deadly, tasty and expensive....something I really need in life right now to take the edge off of all the excitement! And maybe to take the pain away of my broken foot. Another exciting week I have had!

So this was the week my beautiful boyfriend and I broke up. I am extremely sad, and miss him dearly, but sometimes we make mistakes that are irreparable in the short term. It was my fault. I fucked up and pushed away wonderful things that were in my life....but sometimes we unintentionally make these mistakes which fortunately lead on to new ones (I don't mean new partners, just opportunities) It is a great shame I have lost my first love, but in all reality, I am so happy that I had eight beautiful months, and I have truly been in love with someone for the first time (absolutely disgusting). Mentioning this on here is no dig, or a way of rubbing salt in the wound, but I am on a journey which involves me being honest with myself, and sometimes we need to share our feelings....with the world. Maybe I just want everyone to know how much I did, and always will love him. And let's face it. I want him to still know that more than anyone.

Moving on before it becomes too heavy (I think this Porn Star Martini is kicking in....or maybe the olives) the rest of the week whirlwinded into chaos and excitement. I had a very nasty panic attack in the midlle of Waterloo, ended up kicking what I thought was a bin....only fot it to turn into a bollard unbeknowingly, then ending up in hospital at five in the morning! The wait was too long to get an x-ray, so I left to go straight to work! I say I went to work, but after no sleep and being in agony, I ended up dozing off in the kitchen (apologies to the bosses!). A wonderful coworker came in earlier to cover me and I buggered off to hospital, only to discover a fracture in my right foot. And the only way to solve this was crutches. Great.
As a side note, I would just like to thank all the staff at St Thomas's hospital, apart from the inept bints at the front desk, who belittled me for not understanding thier accent, and who couldn't comprehend that listening to thier whiny converstation about 'who needs to know who is coming back from lunch' was the least of my worries. Thank you inept receptioists for holding me there for longer than necessary. Really appreciated it.
So hobbling back home on my knew extended arms, I managed to get a good momentum that cut my journey in half. I definitely will be in the Paralympics this year. Going for gold as they say. After managing to get home relatively safe and sound, I needed a well earned nap....only to be disrupted by a phone call. Not being able to get back to sleep, I thought the only thing best would be to shower, shave and beautify myself in preparation for my audition.

I got to the audition, with pains in my palms, and perspiration in my pits, and stunk to high heaven - not particularily lady-like or attractive. I tried wowing the panel with my seductive prowess, and my sultry expressions (as well as possible in heels with a broken foot). I finished the auditioned and was propositioned by a fellow tranny. After realising we had made such an effort for a five minute audition, it seemed a waste of slap, and costume changes. So we hit Soho. A tranny in leopard print heels, crutches and a fag hanging out of her mouth is a sight you will only find in London. Or San Francisco. But no-one could do it as classy as I. We found our way to Balans on Old Compton Street, and the gorgeous waiters done everything they could to ensure that Stephanie Starlett and I (the cripple) were in eye of everyone and was treated to the service only Monroe herself would have had. ANd That's when I discovered Porn Stars. They slip right down your throat, play with your insides, and give you a wonderful tingly sensation...Almost like the real thing. Passionfruit, vanilla, vodka and a shot of Perrier Joet Champagne. Everything a girl could dream of. If only all porn stars tasted the same. If only everything I put in my mouth tasted as good.

You can probably tell I am turning into a luch. Blame the circles I hang with now. So several cocktails later, two starters and a large glass of red lining my stomach, we toddled off to G-A-Y. It had to be done. And may I add, the queens in there do not measure up to us fabulous queens. We were Queentesential. After realising that we were of a better breed, we buggered off to yet another club. A straight one this time (best make all the rounds) and after a few more drinks and a free bottle of wine, we took over the place, took over the dancefloor, and wrecked the straightboys. The creating that of something relating to the Brixton riots, we realised we mad our mark and tottered back off to Soho to the Shadow Lounge. One large JD and coke and I found myself at the fashionista Daniel Lismores' party, a wonderfully hedoistic event, warm, inviting and everything that was needed to wind up such an impromptu night!
The next day I had an interview for a new show concept, only to be put into the show that very evening. However, with several complications, we couldn't go on stage. That's all I can say. That's all I am going to say.

The rest of the weekend was having dinner with cabaret and burlesque performers, meetins Swedes and Danish ladies and drinking more Porn Stars at Balans. I didn't expect ANY of this to happen after leaving drama school. I seem to have found the perfect balance of work and play (however little I seem to be working). It's also nice to feel that I can leave anytime I want to go see the rest of the world. Being free is the only feeling a healthy 20 year old should be feeling.

Life is good. We'll see how the next week fares out. A few things planned, but apart from work, nothing set in stone. I'm a fluid as a waterfall right now. And tired as an arsehole in a sex shop. SO I should sleep now.

Every cloud has a silver lining...mine doesn't...It has a velvet rainbow lining. Glittery.

What a week. It's nice to start feeling the benefit of why I left. Stability is such a misunderstood word. We think it's having a stable job, a stable relationship, a healthy social life and enough money to be able to do the things you want to do. We are forced to believe we must be 'mentally' stable. Nothing must ever be of kilter.

If I wanted to be in a stable something, I would have been a horse.
It's been a turbulent week to say the least. I've made silly decisions, drunk to much of the good stuff, been an opportunist, been at the right place at the right time and met some lovely people. I've laughed, I've cried, I've drank, I've suffered, I've walked and talked, wined and dined, been on highs and lows and slept too little and far to much.

Although it's severely lonely in Lodon, I've never felt so safe. I'm reaising things  I wouldn't have if I stayed where I was. I know I have a long way to go, but right now, I'm discovering the difference between dependence and independence. The difference is there is none. Only interdependence. I can feel lonely and push people away when I want to be self destructive, and I can also call on people when i need to be picked up. The self destruction is a bugger. I've managed to stay relatively afloat by not running myself into the ground yet. You maybe thinking 'But it's only been a week'. With me, my life can be better than pie and I can be singing 'I feel pretty' and with in moments i can be humming the tune to 'On my own', barely getting the notes out due to the floods of tears I'm forcing out. I'm like a prostitutes pair of knickers. Up and down all the time.

I went for a walk after my interview today. Not because I needed 'me' time, or to think things through, but because I can. And that felt nice. That I can now do things if I want to, and the only thing that holds me back is me being a negative hag. I walked past some mansions. And for the first time I felt that wasn't unobtainable. I didn't feel intimidated with something that was worth more than what I will earn in my lifetime. I wasn't scared because I sat there thinking if I want it, I will get it. And if I want it hard eough I will work for it. I didn't philosophise. Or ponder. Or doubt. And I still don't. I only wanted them houses because they were pretty. They reminded me of when I was a child. I used to have Polly Pockets before the time I understood what 'being thatway inclined' meant. And I loved playing with them. And I remembered how I couldn't just settle for one. I had to have a whole town. I didn't pester my family for them, but they kept buying me them because they knew I liked them. It was the same with lego. It was the same with them shiity 'shag bands' we had as kids (which when broke, you had to shag the person that broke them...I was 10, and didn't have a clue what that meant and luckily I never found out until later in life). But I was like that with fabric and art equipment in my teenage years. Then it was female clothes and make-up, and props, until I had no space in my room and it seeped into the hall way. Lets face it. I have an addictive personality.

But I didn't look at the houses and think 'I want that house and that one, and I want a car and a partner and a good social class, but it is all unobtainable because I will never earn enough, I'm not good at what I do, that class would never accept me..etc, etc'. I stood there and didn't doubt myself. Or idealise. I felt rational, and dare I say, realistic.

It could be because I had an interview for a job today, and I got the job. So naturally I was in a good mood. It pays really well and I think it may be a job that will help me better 'myself'. I'll be leaning about speaking to new people and jumping in head first, being rejected and not taking it too personal and learning that doing well gives bonus's. All things I was learning at drama school and would have got a lot out of if I stayed, but resenting staying there was preventing me to allow myself to be in a safe environment to do that. (In no way am I putting down drama school, I'm just not ready for it yet)

So now, I am going back to my pint of spitfire. Because I am a real man. None of that red wine shit. (On the contrary I had a lovely glass of mulled wine at the Lockside Lounge -plug plug plug....and glug glug glug)

Don't forget to repost this blog, make it widely known on the  world web, and then they can make a book and a film out of me like they did with Julie & Julia. And I want Streep playing me. Or Mirren.

It's funny how laying our head to rest on a pillow that we're not used to can give us such an unnerving sleep. I've just ended coming back to Southend to pick up my douvet and sort a few more things out and I have been inspired by my resting ground.

After spending the night in a very comfortable bed in a very nice flat in Lambeth,  I had a very disturbing sleep on Sunday. Maybe it was to do with struggling to breath, given this horrid winters air.  Maybe it was the bizarre dream of me being a hoe to a bunch of 'Niggas'. Or maybe, it was the fact that this was going to be my bed for the next two months.

Now I don't get homesick very often. I leave places for a reason. But somehow, I had a pang of longing for my Southend bed, including it's springs that dig into every possible inch of your body. it may not have been the bed I longed for, but it was more being in that environment. To be surrounded by the things you know; the network of people you have been with for a length of time; the uninteresting high street which was easily accesible, is a great comfort of being stable. Now I am in the middle of Lambeth, have no idea where everything is, and not only do I have to get to grips with the local amineties, but the rest of London. Very daunting.

I've always had a bed. My painted white cast iron bed in my blue room, my bunk bed in my Harry Potter den, my horrid, wheeled eighties looking bed, my mums brass bed when I was at nans, hostel bunk beds, ex boyfriends untidy bed, camp beds, halls beds, borrowed beds, boyfriends even untidier beds, air beds, boyfriends aunties beds, sofa beds, and now this bed. But the thing is, I always think about the next bed I'm going to sleep in. Then look back and miss all the old beds. It's bedlam. When moving in with the grandparents, mums brass bed didn't feel like mine, as it only felt like a matter of time when I would be leaving. The bed I ran off to at uni was uncomfortable, and I spent the year resenting being in that bed and waiting to move into a new flat. The irony was, when I moved into the new flat, I soon discovered how expensive matresses were, and ended up aqquiring a free double matress - from halls. But what with my boyfriend moving out of his home and having to crash on sofas and the like, it became a place of stability. It was the only place we had together which was totally private. It became MY bed. It wasn't like the bed at mums, where I was afraid to have even straight boys sitting on my bed, for fear of my mother entering my room with fresh orange in a jug, pretending everything is normal when we all knew that she was paronoid that I was trying to seduce them under her roof (my mother knew me far too well). It was a bed that told me when the dribble ridden bedding was in need of changing. It was a bed where I didn't have to change the sheets if I couldn't be bothered. It was my territory. It even had my own scent on it.

But now i have a new bed, a new life and shouldn't look back.

A bed always feels so much more comfortable when it hasn't been slept in for some time.


(sorry for the shortish post, I just got bored)

Into the wilderness

It's hit me. The feelings of loss, regret and fear. I've never felt this before. I want to say it feels nice, but it doesn't. I know things will be fine, I know they will work out for the best if I look forward, but after you leave somewhere, the temptation of looking back is just too unbearable.

Spending the next two years studying, graduating, then being flung out into the open world now doesn't seem as boring as it did when I was at school. I haven't even spent one night in London and already I feel lonely. I have left a town full of really nice people who actually did care about me. Right now, I can't comprehend why I ran away from it all. I was scared of becoming boring and was battling being young. Now I am scared of actually being responsible for myself. I don't need anyone to tell me 'I told you so' anyone to tell me 'You'll get through this' or anyone to say 'It's just a phase'. I know these things. I will be telling myself for weeks. I will get through this. And this is a phase. As you can tell by my self justification, I am trying to answer my unanswerable questions.

Maybe I'm feeling like this because of a AWFUL journey from Southend to Lambeth. Now usually the train betwixt these places is usually rather pleasant, minus the odd oriental fiend eating and calling people extremely loudly. But today, of all days, was full of, all I describe them as is wankers. Some stupid, teenage chav who screamed at the top of her lungs but getting retribution from her brother who received a 'nipple cripple' off his sister. She the proceeded to storm off down the carriage, letting every other passenger know of her annoyance. We then had Sir Phlegm. Who would not stop coughing up the entirety or his tar-riddled lungs. After the Two teenage chavs alighted the train, we were met by three chavettes who rode down the isle on their scooters, making everyone aware of their presence. The tube journey didn't get any better. If carrying a vast array of suitcases and an accordion between my boyfriend and I wasn't hard enough, the Northern line being closed was more than helpful. Not only the closure of the most important line, the other half decided it would be a good idea to get off at the wrong stop, or get on the wrong tube at that. With his idea of not going to a particular station because it had many stairs, we unfortunately ended up getting off a station only to use the stairs down and up to only go back on ourselves to get on to the eventual correct tube.

I apologise if you didn't keep up with that account of the tube journey. I hope you can now appreciate that I didn't have a clue whilst being on that adventure due to the intermittent moments of me trying not to break down in the middle of a station, or push my other half off of the platform. I am sure I must be suffering from a male version of PMT.

I am extremely aggressive tonight. I am extremely lonely, too. But do you know what? Big deal. This is a blip in my emotional cycle. When I find some form if stability, I shall feel better. This isn't meant to be a blog about people feeling sorry for me, or to donate anything (although money IS greatly appreciated), it is merely as a memoir for me to look back onto and think 'What a dick I was'. Then laugh and realise that not much has changed.

Before I sign off, I just want to apologise to, and thank the lovely boyfriend. I don't want to be one of those soppy twats, but I just feel that I haven't shown my appreciation. And what better way than to publicly let him know...It's what any self respectable 14 year old girl in love would do...I'm not one of them but I really look up to them, they know how the world rolls.

So thank you, Joe Morrow. You are quite wonderful.

To everyone else, I'm impressed you read my page of  horse mess. When I get my head straight, I promise something more legible.

However, I did promise you that from the start....

Peace.
xx

Something has changed within me...

...It may have been the fact that I just cooked macaroni for the first time and succeeded; or used the words 'Where can I talk to someone about Self Employment' today, but I must say- 

This maturing thing is FUN. (all in capitals to emphasise my point.)

After a few weeks of feeling under the weather, temperatures are widly now into the upper twenties, with many sunny spells on their way. This isn't due to the tia maria with tia maria I am currently drinking, or the fact I still can't work out my thermostat, but may be due to the fact that I have now come to the beginning of my journey. Packing light.

Now this is something that I have always struggled with. An outfit for every occasion, and accessory for every hour, and a prop for every minute. I have spent the last few days tidying and packing my flat and I can't understand how much crap that I have. What active, fit and spirited 20 year old needs a bloody zimmerframe?  Clearly me - you never know when you or a colleague is going to be playing an incontinent retirement-home inmate. It was time for me to invest my worldly possessions to the charity shop. Try six bags of clothes for starters. I am impressed that my granddad only has to take away a small box of clothes back. Oh. And a trunk of female clothes and high heels.

This arising feeling of not having too many possessions on my person is lovely. I am going to miss having my sewing machine to hand, or my vast array of women's hats to try on in the mirror, but at the same time it's nice not to be tied down with so much stuff. I'm not a materialistic person. I do like buying things (second hand mainly) but I only like having things around me in case other people need them. I'm like an Egyptian bazaar. Only a fraction Egyptian, and the rest of the equation bizarre.

The trouble is, when I say packing light, I should have said packing for two. Me and the unruly Miss Cairo. My other half. She's like me, but a total slut. I not only have to take my stuff around with me, but I have to lug around her three pairs of heels, her eight costumes and her box of make up. Bloody woman. If she gets on my tits this journey, she is going. I lie. She has to stay. She makes me far to much money for me to loose her. You could say I am her pimp, amongst many other words. I just hope she behaves herself tomorrow night at SLEAZE at the Lockside Lounge in Camden, where she will be a go-going in a New York style burlesque show (quick plug)...I think you should go and gawk at her and throw tomatoes at her. Or chastity belts, so she gets the hint.

With it being late and all, I think it only wise to sign out and get on with the packing. No sleep for me. Now that's a silly idea, sleep. You wouldn't want me feeling awake, I'd end up writing some incoherent blog...

All I can do now is apologise for using a song title from Wicked to be the title of my first post on my first blog. I wouldn't want to give you the impression that I am some commercial theatre loving 'mo. I'm not. Just a regular 'mo. Who just so happens to be into wearing bras and knickers, and gyrating his hips to make a dollar. So just your average 'mo really.

So goodnight, farewell, auf wiedersehen and all that sound of music stuff.

NB stop with the musical theatre referencing. It's not funny. Or respectable.