Robbing the Hood

I’m looking for Robin Hood,

Have you seen him?

Coz we could really do with his story

We’re being suppressed, shushed and crushed again by those bloody Tories

Cause they’ve fucked up again

Fucked us over again

Acted like we could be friends

But they lied to us

Stabbed us in the back

And friends... they just don’t do that.

So I’m looking for Robin Hood

Have you seen him?

The class war,

Is getting on its armoury

And it took so long to get a society even close to living in harmony,

But the rich are going to get rich

Whilst the poor get poorer,

It has been spoken

That the right for education has been broken,

It’s only for the privileged didn’t you know

Because of course let’s not educate those below,

That way we can do as we please,

With no one to argue their case coz they don’t have a degree.

So I’m looking for Robin Hood.

Have you seen him?

It looks like it’s down to us again

To pritt stick this country back together

Make do and mend.

Because all the king’s horses and all the king’s men

Can’t put this mess under the carpet again,

So looks like we’re going to have to have a voice

And talk over their cowardice noise

Not down with a wolf in sheep’s clothing,

Let’s show them,

And like Red Riding Hood lets have the guts,

To not lay ourselves down to these cuts.

We’ve gotta get our hoods on

Turn our swag on – I think is the phrase used by the young.

And with our

Hoods up

We’ll Stand up

For what we believe

That we should all be treated equally

Because this world is not a eton boy’s playground

Nowhere else in Europe this promotion for the rich is found,

Sat in their second homes

About us they moan

And they laugh and they scoff

But what makes you so much better if you’re a toff?

They don’t seem to understand you don’t need a title

To be entitled

And with each parliament, the injustice is heightened

Coz they’re robbing the hood

So I’m looking for Robin Hood

So please, if you see him,

Tell him, we’re really really going to need him.

The Berry's Revenge

The Robin hopped from foot to foot.

Oooooooooh, he just really, really REALLY wanted some ribena. Hot ribena preferably, but any would do right now.

The problem was he’d given up his addiction for lent.

He looked down at his red plumage and threw out his wings in horror. He was sure his feathers were losing their colour.

Right that’s it, he decided. Either he’d have to give in or he’d lose his right to be a robin. Who’d ever heard of a robin without a red chest?

He hopped erratically closer to the berry bush he’d been perched in front of for the last two days. He shuffled briefly from foot to foot and in a flurry of pent up tension, thrust himself up into the thorny branches. He found the fattest, juiciest berry and took it in his pointed beak. Tossing his little head from side to side he attempted to pluck the berry from its branch.

The berry wasn’t so down with this. So put up a fight for as long as possible. The other soundless berries could only watch in horror as their bestie was stolen away, they struggled in the breeze to reach him, but there was nothing they could do, so were left to watch helplessly as the blood of their brother spilled through his cheeks and the robin was finally granted his wish. They scorned him as he flew away into the late afternoon sky.

The Robin felt triumphant, soaring through the clouds with his treasured prize, the juices already trickling across his tongue down to his aching stomach.

The Berry felt smug. For he was a poison Berry.

The Rather Messy Breakup

The Rather Messy Breakup

“Let’s just be friends.”
She carefully placed her tea cup back on its saucer. Fanned out her fingers and told herself that her hands weren’t shaking. He looked from her face to her hands to her face again. They were shaking.
“Excuse me?”
“I think it’s best if we are just friends.”
She stared out of the window for some time. He grew a little worried for her sanity, but was in no position to judge or to push her so he kept quiet and kept his thoughts to himself. She watched a girl dance through the street, grabbing the hand of a boy who was chasing after her as she did so, pulled him towards her and kissed him hard and decisively on the lips before dashing off once more. Lucky bitch.
“I don’t agree.”
“You don’t agree?”
“No.”
“Ok.”
Well, that was the oddest response he had got to this usually very successful line.
“Can I ask why?”
“No. Not really.”
“Right...”
Well, this was very awkward.
“You’re really going to have to give me something here.”
“Can I ask you why you think we should just be friends?”
“I... just don’t think we would work.”
“Fine. Well then you can understand why I don’t think us not being together and just being friends will work.”
“Umm, no, actually I don’t understand.”
He wished he had ordered a pint now. He had not had the forethought for this conclusion. He thought it would have been a clean break, barely worth ordering a coffee over. A quick –Hey how’s it going, so I’m just going to, yep there you go, break your heart, here have it back- and Bob’s your Uncle done!
“Let me tell you what I don’t understand then maybe we’ll come to some form of understanding together.”
She laid her hands flat on the table. That was better. She felt more in control.
“I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to be with me. It’s just all a bit silly isn’t it, because I can tell you now what everyone is going to say when I go home in tears and down a bottle of vodka: You’re too good for him, he doesn’t know what he’s missing, he can’t see how great you are, you don’t need him, you’re better off without him, he’ll see how great you are and will come running back and then you can reject him, he’s intimidated by how great you are, you’re too beautiful for him... do I need to go on, or do you get the picture?”
He got the picture, but wasn’t quite sure what to say to any of this. Most girls went home and did their crying and questioning behind closed doors. Out of sight. Out of mind. And that was a routine that had served him perfectly fine. He was ok with it. Don’t fix what ain’t broke and all that. Did she not get that?
“But we won’t work together.”
“Why?”
“Because my heart’s not in it.”
“And my heart’s not in us not being together.”
She leant back away from the table and took a leisurely sip of her cup of tea. Yes, this was a lot better, a proper solution finding conversation. None of this statement-bish-bash-bosh-we’re over and done business.
“But you can’t force two people to be together.”
“Then why can you force two people to be apart?”
She had him there. And she knew it.
“Why should you get your way? Why can’t we do it my way?”
“Because it doesn’t work like that.”
“Who says?”
His hands messed up his perfectly crafted hair that he had prepared earlier. If he was going to dump her, he had wanted to look good whilst doing so, it was that extra twist of the knife that those doing the stabbing did, though God knows why. It’s not very kind. Anyway, he wasn’t looking his best anymore. His carefully composed look was looking worn and distraught, his shirt frantically untucking itself from his distressed jeans (not that his jeans shared this emotion, they had just been stressed when dyed), his cheeks flushed and his hair was not looking quite so artistically messy.
“I don’t see how you can only see that we have to do it your way. We do it your way and I’m unhappy but you’re happy. We do it my way and I’m happy but you’re unhappy. It’s an equal balance either way, so each conclusion should be on the cards.”
“But you can’t force me to like you.”
“You can’t force me to not like you.”
“But... but you can’t force me to stay with you.”
“And you can’t force me to leave you. You see where I’m going with this yet?”
He saw where she was going with this.
But what was worse, was that he saw (in some weird, and roundabout way) that what she was saying actually made some form of sense. He desperately didn’t want it to. But it did. Damn.
“Now, let’s say that we’ll date for this first month, then not the second, then will the third... and so on and so forth. I really think we ought to start off as dating seeing as this was my idea, I should get some form of credit for it! And we’ll stop when either you fall for me, or I fall out of love with you. This way we’re equally happy and equally in pain.
Right, pick me up tonight at half seven, and make sure you’re on time, you know how particular I am, and remember to change your online relationship status when you get home. I love you boyfriend.”
She kissed him firmly on the lips. He could not reciprocate, too stunned by what he had got himself into. She cleared her throat and tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for an appropriate response.
“I... err, love you too... girlfriend.”

The Tree of Knowledge

How do the owls know so much?
Well, I’ll tell you.
The owls, they sit in the trees and as they do the trees whisper through their leaves the secrets of the world. And the owls spin their heads and hoot “woah!” And then they fluff up their feathers, that are now so full of knowledge, puff out their chests and fly off out into the night, hooting out everything that they’ve found out to be right.

And the trees, they sigh in the breeze, yet another flighty friend has taken off again, they harden their bark, they will not cry over this again. But their leaves descend in showers, everyone can see them track their way down to the ground, but no one says anything. No words of console for those weeping willows. The people and animals rush by in their busy lives, ignoring the pain in that arc that shelters them from the rain.

But the trees, they remind themselves that it’s ok. One day those below will all be gone and they’ll be the last ones standing at the end of the day.

Plenty more fish in the - OH SHUT UP.

"There's plenty more fish in the sea, you'll get over me."
She told him.

She was right.

Now he preys on COD.

The Folly of the Fantastic

The Folly of The Fantastic

No, there’s not much I don’t love about living in the countryside... road kill, there’s a lot more road kill in the country, but I suppose mathematically and logically that makes sense if you take the wildlife-car ratio into consideration, but still that’s one thing I could do without, having to shovel carcasses on my way to and from work every day.
The people play a huge part in what makes the countryside so great, people are just much lovelier in the countryside, no one’s rude or cunning, everyone is honestly nice, and honest come to think of it, they only speak the god’s honest truth, and on the whole are just generally more beautiful beings.
Everything’s so much more beautiful here.
Why hello there Mr Fox.
Like my Fox, my very own fantastic Mr Fox, he’s so much more beautiful than any of those scraggy city foxes.

And Etta Madden was right. The fox that she met with every morning was far more beautiful than any fox she had ever seen. But more to the point, he was far more beautiful than any fox I’d ever seen either, and if I say he is the most beautiful fox in existence then it must be so. To further my case, between us, Etta Madden and I, we’ve seen a fair few foxes in our time, so I feel I am completely justified in saying that our personal fantastic Mr Fox is the most beautiful fox ever. Fact.

On this particular slightly too cold morning she met with him again, sat in her kitchen sink as usual, smoking obliviously on a cigarette and swigging already cooled black coffee whilst succumbing to another hung-over contentness. She winced as each minimal movement made by her origami folded legs caused the bruises on her knees to reawaken, which in turn informed her absent memory that it had been, once again, a sick night. She bit into her peach, watching the fox bathe in the sunlight. He was a character alright, choosing to live in a poison ivy bush that grew on top of her neighbours shed. It had baffled her the first time she saw him, she hadn’t known foxes could climb that high, let alone craft a comfortable and inhabitable home out of such an unstable residence. That was when she had decided he was no ordinary fox, and was indeed fantastic, as fantastic as her childhood stories had painted foxes to be.

Not to mention the beauty of him. He was one fine fox.

She bit into her peach and realised a second later than she should have, that something most definitely was not alright with the substance in her mouth. Coughing and spluttering she spat the remnants of peach onto the kitchen side, adding to the crusty party leftovers. She shuddered and looked down at the mouldy fruit in her hand.

Ok, so there’s one last thing about the countryside I’m not a fan of. Eating your own fruit. Yes it’s hideously middle-class (and therefore of course must be fantastic) to pick your own peaches off your organically grown (of course) little tree, just for the sake of social situations where you can offer a peach and say “These peaches are from my little tree in the back garden”, inflicting a wholesome glow on yourself whilst provoking an envious tinge on your companion, which is of course the main aim of everyone’s life. But this countryside fruit is tricky and manipulative, it looks so juicy and full of goodness from the outside but on the inside it can be flabberghastingly rotten. Give me a chemical pumped excuse for a fruit any day of the week.

Downing the dregs of her coffee, coffee grains and all, she turned back to watching her morning companion. He always looked how she wished she felt. Beautiful. Composed. Radiant.

Bloody smug fox.

And every morning he would clock her through her hatched kitchen window, watching him, and it would begin, as it did this day, their daily staring competition.

Here we go.

She shifted her position in the sink so that the hot tap wasn’t jabbing her purple-pink bruise, and locked onto the symmetrical face. The fox flicked his perfectly bushy tail from side to side, taunting her to be distracted, but they had played this game for far too long for such a simple trick to work.

Don’t you even think of trying to win today Mr Fox. I will beat you. I am determined. Today is the day, I can feel it.

The fox knew better than to take these words seriously though, it had been the same every day, they would stare, neither party giving in, and then Etta would have to leave for work. Always the same. No winners. No losers. Always ending with a nod of recognition and the sentence

Same time, same place tomorrow Mr Fox.

But still Etta was deludedly certain that today was the day, something was different, she could sense it. But then again, maybe she was just attuned to the autumnal change in the air, the electricity flooding the trees’ veins as the leaves started to depart, falling like fading broken hearts as they tore themselves away from the strong, dominant arc of bark; the all-knowing wisdom of the trunk.

I know you want to run today fox. I can feel it. You’re filled with pent up energy, I can see it you’re more nervous today, you want to go, you want to run, it’s ok. Go.

Are you still playing those pointless games with that fox?

Her eyes remained glued to the fox’s sly black pits whilst Harry helped himself to a glass of water from the tap, splashing Etta abundantly in the process.

You don’t understand Harry.

I do understand. I understand that you’re going to be late for work.

What time is it?

Going on half nine.

Shit.

She slowly unfolded her legs and wiped the water droplets off her last-night tights whilst still keeping eye-contact with her crafty companion.

Damn it.
This is not over Mr Fox. You are fantastic.
But I’m bloody fantastic.

You’re crazy, that’s what you are. Talking to a god damn fox.

You wish you had what we had.

I’m actually really ok.
Now, get out of here.

Ok, ok, I’m going.
Don’t you dare think you’ve won.

She pointed a threatening finger at the smug creature.

I’m going to get you one of these days. Just you wait and see.
I’ll see you

She jabbed her finger in his direction again

Later.

Etta Madden reluctantly broke the knowing string that connected the two creatures, jumped down from the work surface and crammed a marmite covered slice into her mouth. The fox too was in a hurry that day, departing as soon as the war was put on hold. Both creatures minds switched from being absorbed with each other into being overtaken with their days tasks and so both were in a careless rush to reach their destination.

Harry handed her a bag and scarf and hurried her out the door, mumbling things she wasn’t really taking in.

When you get back we need to sort out the water bill, and Agnes wants to go for a drink tonight at The Flowing Well, and I borrowed the spade out of the boot of your car so I can do the vegetable patch today, and dear God Etta look in your car mirror before getting out, you have mascara everywhere, you look like you’re on cocaine.

Yeah, yeah.

She clamboured into her car. Her vision blacking out at the sudden movement of sitting down and her head banging in response to the car door slamming.

God, I really should not be driving in this state.

Have you listened to a single word I’ve said?

Yeah, yeah, pub, bill, shovel, cocaine. Light my cigarette would you?

I don’t think smoking whilst driving is really going to help your road safety this morning.

I’ll be fine.

Ok, if you’re sure.

Harry leaned in through the window and lit her tobacco stick. He slapped the top of the car, causing Etta to scrunch up her face once more as she wished he really wouldn’t make such unnecessary loud noises, and left her with the departing words:

You’re good to go.

She pulled out, after putting the car into the wrong gear three times in a row, and drove off down the tricky country lanes. Her windscreen was instantly flooded with freckles of gold as autumnal leaves descended onto the troublesome country lanes in flurried, hurried waves. She took each corner far too fast and she proved speed bumps to be completely redundant.

One last thing, driving in the countryside is bloody difficult, give me a dual-carriageway any day.

But Etta Madden liked to think driving like a madman was her speciality, so she didn’t slow her speed, even when for a second her distracted attention became wholesome as she watched the peculiar motion of black birds swirling and transforming in an ominous cloud through the indecisive sky. And that’s all it takes. Just one second. One minute little second; to change the way you live your life forever.

She leant on her open car door, inspecting what she had committed, letting out a huff of air like a steam engine that has finished its screeching halt and is dispelling its last gust of air as the chase it had been embarking on reaches its end.

Bloody Fantastic.

Chocolate Button Fights

He was a vegetarian (oh I’m sorry let me make that a pescetarian) and she didn’t like vegetables, so her friends could always see that it wasn’t going to work out. Not that they told her that though. It’s not your place to have an opinion in these matters. But it had finally got to the time for her to reluctantly sample some spinach, she was bored of laying the blame for it all on his rock and roll image, the bells were deafening in their ringing for him to make his mind up, whether it was meant to be, for he was the only one in that relationship with the power to write their ending . The master of balls, it was time for him to be coronated. He had to man up. Or make it a “MAN OVERBOARD!” type situation.

He patted her head. He wrote them off. Relieved, he was set free, to go join the rest of those slippery creatures inhabiting the sea.

And with a startled “Oh, I’m sorry, my mistake, I thought we were in love?”
She found herself unwillingly departing, on the journey to the broken hearted.

But let’s skip a station or two. It’s no fun to listen to them go on and on. On and on about how much it hurts, how they would do anything, be anything, anyone, as long as it made them their someone.
Come on baby we can make it work, what do you say?
Because we all know what it feels like, and we all know that no one else ever hurts as much as we do over it, because no one truly truly understands, although we give friends small smiles and hand squeezes to show that their relating nonsense is helping.

So we fast forward to the time when there is someone who always holds her, someone who does everything in their failing, imperfect, mortal power to make her feel bolder. That someone she had been so sure had been him for so long back then, but now realises that was just her imagination’s whim.

They read books on the beach and paddle in the sea, and he pretends to push her in and she gets angry but she smiles anyway, it’s infuriating and a little nauseating. And for supper they eat out of newspapers, watching the sun giving them some alone time at last, and the only other voice is the wind, but they don’t listen to him, he’s just a load of hot air.

In the dark they feel safe and so talk through life plans and lives past, every grievance that has gathered at their head stones; and somehow he manages to take the chip off her shoulder “I promise to always hold her” he’ll say on that best day of their life, reminiscent of the words he whispered now when she had emptied her bucket of baggage onto the sand. And whilst she had shared he had wondered how any of that had ever come to be, because he’d do anything for her, build her a castle and make her queen of his bed, the ruling voice of reason in his head.

Sometimes that will annoy him, and he’ll want to cut her loose. And sometimes she’ll want to make him jealous, so that he can see just how great she is again. But it’s all just chocolate button fights, like who has the right to read the arts section first each Sunday “BUT YOU READ IT FIRST LAST WEEK” “THAT’S BECAUSE I ACTUALLY GET OUT OF BED AND GO BUY THE BLIMMING THING”
None of it means a damn thing.
Empty but strangely entertaining, it’s just a soap opera daily drama for the ears.
And after everything they will still be having scrambled egg mornings together in seventy years.

x

Some Golden Oldies

Oh No

I tripped and fell into boiling water
when I got locked on your face,
with stumbling words and dirty cheeks
I unwillingly joined the race.
My courage has deserted,
along with the wit,
run off like the plate and spoon
so i feel and sound like shit.

Shit and wank and fuck and crap
uneloquent uneasy ungraceful,
bumbling lumpy awkward desperate
this is sickeningly unbearable.
laughing too much, too loud, too hard
or you to notice me,

but half doesn't really want you to

feeling obese, obscene and green.
Changed utterly into this

who is she and her and them?

when i look at you

are you in turn looking at that supposed friend?

And I wish I never saw your face,

or that I was the girl you wish you knew,

because I could have been beautiful,

until I fell for you.

x

POW

POW!

Now,

what did you do that for?

Another, on mass, unprovoked war.

I don't have a problem with you,

do you with me?

How can you,

I don't believe we've met,

here lets shake hands,

slap on the back,

see you and me,

we can be alright.

So, what are you doing that for?

Here, hands up,

to your self-afflicted supreme power I give up.

Honestly, I don't know, boys and their toys ey?

POW!

Now,

If you really, really want me,

come and get me!

Like 1066 stylee,

see the fear in my eyes,

the child's, the grandparent's, the blissful bride,

see if you could do it then

when

you had to witness life evaporate,

POW!

Now,

CONCENTRATE

kill me with your hands,

be a man.

Bullets just distance

so no compulsion for penance,

fly higher than the kids kites

so you can get sleep at night,

we're mere ants up there,

easier to not care

about the bodies and souls

you've just teared.

NO.

COME HERE.

Near.

No bomb.

No Pow.

How many could you kill now?

x

And You... (finally)

About a million years ago now I came up with the idea for this little book called 'And You' where I was going to leave little notes everywhere, all starting with the phrase 'and you' because I found it fascinating how people who would one day end up spending their lives together are presnetly living completely separate lives, unaware of the other's existence... which lead me to think about how you might have walked right past them in the street, that if they met now then it might now work out because they're not who they are going to be yet... lalalalla

I have finally left one somewhere! Having typed up lots already, this is a very minor achievement, as I've had plenty of opportunities to leave more, but have been to lazy to make sure I have both one of the slips of paper on me and some form of camera. But nevertheless here we are, this one I left in La Tacheles (a wicked art gallery/place for people to graffiti in Berlin), here are the photos:






And this is the first finished page of the book:

It probably would have made more sense to do the first page first as this might not make any sense to any of you, but now I've started I'll do some more asap and hopefully you'll be able to follow my train of thought better

thats all for now x

Now Wash Your Hands...

(inspired by the sign I saw on the back of the loo door in the covered market that said "now wash your hands" I just found it slightly amusing that we still needed to be told what to do. mixed with some of the eyes i've witnessed led to this...)

Now wash your hands...
Of him.
Because if the eyes show the strength of the soul
He's dying
When was it you started lying?
Did any of it
mean anything?
Nothing.
Fuck, it was me.
I. I wasn't enough.
And what up bruv?
Doesn't need to be said
We all know what's going on in his head.
An accidental arrogance accumulates
As he lies
Every day and every night
In that memorial bed.
Because we're not talking about just anyone
We're talking about us
We took the height of love
And raised the bar the fuck right up.
But honestly love,
You need to wash your hands,
Wash away the stench of your shared stale skin
So the overanalysation stops
And the burning can begin.
Because right now every chapter
That truly mattered
Is you.
All you.
His brain is suffering under depression
The skull acting as a compression
Causing an oppression
of the pointless conversations
That swim around him on the outside,
But he can't hide
He's slapped and slap bang in the middle
Far removed in social situations,
Everything in this life a mere obligation.
So give him back to us,
His life around you we can't trust.
Gotta stop giving in to your boredom
borderline lust.
Can't help the hope inspired by each and every one of your glance,
His brain is working overtime
Turning you into an untouchable mirage
So reason won't listen
So you better wash your hands.
He's not going to realise
Until you sanitise
That you are just friends
He needs those irritants of time and space
To recompose the components of your face
For your actions to be militant
Cutting him off with a harsh vigilance.
And though his eyes are blank
They speak more than a million words ever could
Because this is an emotion that existed before vocalisation,
Time, and even the whole of creation
What sparked our existence.
We get that you care, and that's why you're hesitant
But he'll come back to you some day,
But right now, can't you see
You really shouldn't stay.


x

Just The Way You Look Tonight

"The way you look tonight"
... and other such romances
tumble out of his mouth
into your heart,
And as you drain that tumbler
of courage thats a tad too sharp
Your eyes read his
"You. You are mine tonight."
Tonight being the operative of the unscribed sentence
Because come that morning wrinkled nose
and squint of the eye
You realise
with a shrug off of his actions
You are still not his mine.
Again.
Again.
And again.
You fall for that block in your path,
The aura that stops you
from acting like you know you really, really ought to
and you can see it in the friends hesitant smiles
that none of you are acting wise,
neither participants
nor spectators.
But there he is again
On your doorstep
of your rationality
ringing your bell
of your insanity
And you always answer
To that smile
To that line
"The way you look tonight"
Because he's loving you in the old romance
That you've been taught to seek
By our dear Mr Disney
Oh, dear Mr Walt,
With you I have to lay the fault
It was just plain unkind
To condition our young minds
To expect such impossibilities
To evoke us into showing each other the lights of our cities
And other such romances
Like
"The way you look tonight"
We've got it all wrong,
You're all messed up,
Shook up,
In a blender of emotions
but there is nothing healthy about this smoothie
Just another smooth talker
Just another look in his eye
Just another line
"The way you look tonight"
Just another time that he blurs the line between life and fantasy
Just another romance.
But it all means nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Because you are
not
his
someone.
You are just anyone
In his arms.
A mannequin of pure physicality
You are being deluded and confused
Changing this whole ordeal
of an ideal
into HEADLINE news.
Because to you it is.
This infactuation you just can't quit.
But you're barely a fragment in his head
Just a hot water bottle of a body in his bed.
So it doesn't matter what look is in his eye tonight
They'll be vacant again under that harsh morning light.
Oh love,
It was,
It is,
And always will be,
Just the way
You look
Tonight.

x

What becomes of the broken heaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarted...

Take one sleepless night.
One random babbled and scribbled stream of consciousness.
One sharpie pen.
And one trip round Norwich.

The result?

A little book entitled: A Hopeless Little Love Story

These are the images in the book...














And if you're really nice, I might just make you a book...






x

You might want some colgate with that...

I am actually going to sort my life out and put into action a plan thats been brewing for far too long...

A plan that goes a little something like this:

Basically, I find it weird to think about how you could have encountered people who you later become close with, but just don't realise that you've technically met/seen each other before. Like, you could've walked past them in the street, sat on the same seat on the bus... etc. This thought led to me thinking about how the person you are going to marry/spend your life with (if you happen to be so lucky) is quite happily living their life without you in it, dating someone else, perhaps thinking that they have found the one... when they haven't. Because that one is you. And how your paths could have crossed but you just never realised...

This is where my plan comes in. I'm going to make a load of little notes that all start with 'And you...'

e.g. 'And you might have stuck your gum right next to mine'

...I am then going to leave these all over the place for people to find, take photos and make a little scrap book called 'And You'.

This was inspired by Rob Ryan's book of paper cuttings called 'This is for you' an absolutely beautiful book.

I am very aware that this is sickeningly cutesy and sweet and eurgh, but just go brush your teeth afterwards yeah?

Avoiding writing, reading, unpacking, tidying...

...So yes, this is what I did instead. A very productive couple of hours i think.

Pillow Stories

The Oyster and The Asparagus

Just another bedtime story x

Because lets face it, all anyone really wants is to be spooned.

Maybe I should lay off the Jean Pierre Jeunet movies...

So, I was thinking, how lovely is it when you find someone's old notebook, or a random piece of paper someone's scribbled on, or even just an old shopping list belonging to a stranger... I like it, it's interesting. So I thought, hey, why don't I try and makes someone's day a little less ordinary by leaving bits of my writing all over the place... like hidden inbetween dvds or inside books or just on a cafe table... so thats what I'm going to do.

Maybe thats not normal, maybe I've watched Amelie too many times, but whats the harm right?