• Bottle Happiness

    “I’m bored.”

    “Wanna go for a walk?”

    “No, I mean I’m bored with life.”

    “Ah, that feeling. Well how about we take up running? We could both use the exercise.”


    “Okay, then maybe you need a perspective adjustment. How about meditating with me? It’ll change your life.”

    “I don’t fucking want to meditate, it’s boring. I don’t want to run, or go for a walk, I want to jump out of a fucking plane, piss on an electric fence.”

    I know that feeling. It surfaces regularly about three days before my period and usually lasts 48 hours. I make lots of lists and plans to thoroughly change my life because the hormone induced existential crisis has told me complete overhaul is the only way deal with this overwhelming feeling of unease and incompleteness. Setting fire to the house is the only way to deal with the mess and clutter. I drink more than I plan to, I wonder whether all the effort of life is really worth is since I’m this far through and feel like a failure. And then the cramp starts, shortly followed by the bleeding and my mood inexplicably shifts back to grateful for my beautiful life.

    There are two versions of me. The J before meditation, before acceptance, where my life was ruled by chemicals and mood swings, trauma and triggers. I find it hard to identify with that person, I find it hard to empathise with her. She was wrapped up in all kinds of shame and seeking and while I don’t remember pain, I remember vaguely feeling desperate but not knowing what for.

    Today’s version knows how to be present, grateful, and happy with my life no matter the shit going on in it. I’ve gotten pretty good at being honest with myself and the rest of the world, and I think that was the stepping stone to this blessed kind of existence I have going on. So when the person I love has that existential crisis feeling I want to bottle what I’ve got and share it. But how, when all I have are a bunch of abstract ideas and life experiences that danced in the dark and birthed a whole new person, am I supposed to recreate the process and share it?

  • May 25th – Podcasts and Purpose

    Breakdown. Relapse. Spiritual awakening. Healthcare professional. Healer. Witch. Treatment. Realignment. Energy healing. Medicine. Magic. Manifestation. Metaphysical. Spiritual. Holistic. 

    As a healthcare professional I’ve lived my life by the medical model, physically and mentally, and I’ve kept my spiritual life in a box on the shelf to take down when a stretch of annual leave is long enough to have a rummage through. And I don’t mean the emerging medical understanding either; I’m talking about the traditional, Western medical model, the one created by straight white men in suits a few hundred years back, the one that perpetuated the myth that herbology, energy healing and manifestation was witchcraft and punishable by death, and later placebo and punishable by mockery. But medicine is changing. 

    It’s painfully slow. So slow that I can’t see the awakening on the wards, in the hospital units, in clinical consultations or even really in the guidelines that dictate so much of daily practice. It might be mentioned in passing in the staff room, nurses station or doctors office when someone muses on a piece they read or a non NICE approved treatment a patient has asked about, but only briefly, and not so much that anyone really goes out of their way to implement it. But in the research, the non pharmaceutical company funded research, the literature that is flooding the airwaves in podcast and video formats shows that medicine and psychology is waking up. Slowly over the last few decades research has, whether intentionally or accidentally, given quantifiable evidence to the efficacy of practices of healing that have been used for hundreds of thousands of years. That evidence has opened eyes to the possibility that things science, more specifically medicine, has dismissed as new age bullshit, placebo, and religious claptrap. These have more of an evidence base and therefore more of a place in healthcare. 

    Open eyes lead to increased curiosity, and the research just keeps growing. People have started to question everything, knowledge and understanding self perpetuate, and suddenly we have this information available at our fingertips. Hardcore and evidence based research has more colour, spiritual and metaphysical texts aren’t hidden in dusty corners, alternative musings and recipes for new ways to live are published and available to the general public in multiple formats. 

    I’m off the floor, the ward, the unit. I took a leap of faith, or a leap of desperation into the unknown and ran, and it’s true that I have no fucking idea where I’m going. But “If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will take you there.” My road at the moment seems to be a nice open field. There is leafy trees and dappled sunlight, with a library down a rabbit hole and where time has stopped. Finally I have time to breathe. It wasn’t until now I realised that time to breath is what I have been missing.

    After each relapse I ‘healed’ in the traditional physical and mental sense. My symptoms were reduced, functioning increased, my medications optimised and my life resumed. While I was recovering I meditated. I intentionally ate well, something that goes down the swanny when I’m working because hey NHS worker I had the time and the space in my everyday life to focus on my thoughts and my intentions. I practised the skills I learned so many years ago in Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. I was mindful and I recovered. Healing, true healing, doesn’t stop at functioning. That really is a whole other story. Healed by the medical model sense isn’t truly, spiritually, emotionally, psychologically and socially healed, it’s just enough to fit into the social norms of the century.

    I had a revelational thought whilst painting the bathroom tiles this morning. It is baffling in its simplicity, and equally irritating when I count up how many times I’ve been told, read or heard this obvious phrase. But whilst painting the bathroom tiles I was listening to Dr Rangan Chatergee’s podcast Feel Better Live More. I went through a few episodes, there are a lot of tiles, but two stuck with me. Dr Joe Dispenza on unlocking the power of your mind with positive thought, which to me is the physiological understanding of the spiritual practice of manifestation, and an old one with Jay Shetty about peace and purpose. Listening to these I kept coming back to the same question just begging me to answer it: If I were stronger and fully ‘healed’ would I be able to comfortably go back to the work that I’ve run away from? 

    Dr Dispenza talks about changing the inside to change the outside life, but he also said that you can’t do that healing work while you’re constantly in fight or flight. That hit hard because in my work I was always in fight or flight. Day to day life and death rested on my ability to be alert and oriented to every risk, every threat, and to respond quickly. The Covid-19 pandemic amped up the threat, the danger, the pain and the suffering to levels I didn’t think possible. The threat was constant and the cortisol infusion clamp was fully open. Off the floor I responded in the same mode to bereaved or berating family members, critically toxic upper management, my own judgements and perfectionism, and on my days off, my mobile phone. All the while I felt restricted, bound by what I saw as arbitrary rules and narrow minded guidelines that hampered my ability to assist true healing in an institution where the sole purpose was supposed to be only healing and that crushed my spirit. I am not alone. Far freaking from it, but this is not that story story. The trials and tribulations of healthcare professionals and their rapidly increasing frequency and severity of burnout and mental illness is a topic for another post or perhaps another writer.

    Did you see that? I said ‘their’ and not ‘our’. Healing.

    Here’s where I know I’m going somewhere great on this spiritual journey. Even when I am stronger and wiser and fully able to face the storms and stressors that life throws without it impacting my inner world, I do not want to go back to that place, or that role, or anything that even smells like it.

    You cannot stay well, heal, flourish, or thrive in an environment which doesn’t align with your values. 

    I’ve been so focused on proving to the world that I can do my job. I can be respected and successful as well as or better than someone who doesn’t have my mental illness, that I haven’t stopped once in the last ten years to think about whether it is truly what I value. I haven’t for a moment stopped to appreciate all the wonderful things I’ve been given by having this insight into mental illness, by having a hardwire to empathy, and a spiritual connection, probably borne out of psychosis and depression but that is strong and aware of life and energy. I’ve been living and breathing the medical model in my personal and professional life and now I’m waking the fuck up.

    In the Podcast Jay Shetty gives a neat little activity to see what your values are. There’s another version in some of the Acceptance and Commitment Therapy I read a few years back but to be honest I skipped the activities so that’s probably why it took years to get here but it’s just popped into my mind so I’m going to try and find it. Fearne Cotton’s Happy Place latest has an interview where Amanda de Cadenet asks herself four questions to understand what she wants in life and find her direction. So I did those and I’ve got a nail on my values- I won’t bore you but simply put I value authenticity, trust in something greater than myself, love AKA my relationship with my Husband, personal growth, and happiness above all else.

    My life three months ago was so far from this. I was lying about my priorities to get through the day at work never mind succeed. I sacrificed my own happiness and personal growth for what I believed I needed to be to keep the approval of my family, friends, colleagues, old colleagues, old school friends I never talk to anymore, the person I used to be and the person I thought I was going to be. I chose goals based on the person I thought I was one day going to be, based on who I thought I should be, based on a mishmash of the expectations I believed everyone else had for me… That, is fucked. I fought against my gut, my instinct, against the tides and the way the world was pushing me. I pushed back a God. The only thing I was actually attuned to was love, and I was receiving far more than I was giving because I had so little emotional energy to spare for this beautiful man I’m married to.


    The Universe is asking me to trust it. I’ve jumped. I’ve done the hard bit and now I have to build some wings. I want to be able to see the path because I’m so used to knowing exactly where I want to go, and while I think I’ve got a vague blurry idea or which direction I’m going, I still can’t see a road. But I don’t think I have to. My gut says I don’t. Right now all I have to do is put one foot in front of the other, live right in this moment, be here now. I just need to appreciate and be grateful for this space to breath, and trust that the Universe has my back. The rest will come to me.

  • May 15th- Total Lunar Eclipse in Scorpio

    Tonight is a full moon. My cat spent two hours loosing his nut- growling at his sister, running away, clawing at us when we tried to hold him. This is the softest most gentle cat 99% of the time but get him stressed or put out a full moon and he’s a vicious little fucker. In the end we both came upstairs- bowl of cat treats laced with catnip for him and a laptop and a glass of wine for me.

    Tonight’s full moon scared the shit out of me when I dug into it a little. I’m so green when it comes to this stuff and without google I’d be lost. But here’s what I’ve figured so far about this Full Moon.

    Full Moon’s are the time for letting shit go. They’re the spiritual menstrual period in the month. The intentions have been set way back when the moon was new. That’s the ovulation stage. Can you tell I have fertility on my mind? Plans and actions were put in motion, growth and change and pushing forward- that’s waxing and luteal phase. But by the time the full moon comes along it’s time to let go of the handles. You can’t do anything now to help things along. Your egg is floating its merry way through the tubes and you just have to hope that all your manifesting and prayers will be answered but the time for doing has passed. Celebrate what was great. And the best bit- take everything that isn’t serving you and let it go. Write it on a slip of paper and fucking burn it under the moonlight. So New Moon’s are my fav but Full Moons have what my obsessive little Scorpio brain needs- the power to say thanks very much now off you fuck.

    Tonight we have a big bright shiny Full Moon, and then a Total Lunar Eclipse. Read that without thinking of the Jaffa Cake advert I dare you. Eclipses have some crazy power. This is how I see it- during the Full Moon you decide what isn’t serving you and use the natural energies of the cosmos right now to let it go. During a Lunar Eclipse the Universe gets a little sick of you not noticing the things you just gotta stop and does it for you. That thing getting in the way of you growing and changing, you’re too hesitant or you’ve been putting it off because it’s just so wildly out of your comfort zone- ohh the Lunar Eclipse is gonna try pulling at those strings.

    Then you add in the zodiacs- this is where it all goes over my head and a little complicated but something to do with the Moon being in Scorpio (we all know Scorpio is just a big ball of dark and twisty impulsive angry energy at the best of times- but it means it with love). Then there’s something to do with Mars being in Pisces which is the little emotional fishy so it’s blocking that direct fiery energy Mars usually gives us and sending these crazy emotional overhauling urges our way. It’s being said that this will screw with Scorpio’s and Taurus most, but the other fixed signs aren’t going to get away scot free either. I’m a Scorpio married to the most Aquarius Aquarius I’ve ever met and if you know anything about how that’s supposed to go down you’ll understand why I made the rules “No overthinking. No important conversations. No big decisions. And just imagine I’m on my period every time you talk to me (I am anyway, I mean why not just add a whole bunch of plummeting hormones into the mix).”

  • May 14th- When Mental Illness looks a lot like a Spiritual Awakening Part 2

    The problem with trying to embrace the spiritual side of mental illness in the western world, is that I couldn’t function the way I was supposed to, the way everyone and everything around me told me I should. Mental illness is to the ‘rest of the world’ symptoms and problems to be fixed and I couldn’t look at it like that and embrace anything but the knowledge that I was wrong and broken and needed to stop it. Depression had to be medicated, because I needed to get up and go to work, smile like I meant it and stop feeling my feelings. Hypomania had to be crushed, hard, with drugs and judgement- ignore how wonderful it feels, ignore the insights into new points of view and unfathomable creativity. And mania, well that little devil was to be smothered as quickly and brutally as possible.

    Then just last year an episode happened that I didn’t stomp on. Triggered by trauma and death and emotions stronger than I knew how to deal with in everyone around me on a day to day basis for months on end (I mean I really picked a kicker of a career for someone with my mind) and then a personal grief sudden and stronger than I’d ever experienced, my body creaked but my mind cracked. Hallucinations began, voices, images, flashbacks. I stopped working. I left the stress and death and other people’s energy behind. I painted late into the night, till the sun rose. I took long long walks in the snow with no direction. I wrote garbage, philosophical reveries, poetry. I embraced it. I didn’t kick at myself for being ‘ill’ I recognised it for exactly what it was- my mind healing in the best way it knew how.

    Eventually, the depression hit but even that was gentler. Not gentle enough to avoid being slowly shuffled into the psych ward, and there was tears and anguish and guilt and fear but nothing compared to the times I tried to fight against nature. Let it be, and then let it go. I meditated every day- crouched against a wall in the smoking area so I was visible enough to avoid being disturbed for ‘checks’ I let my mind be itself. We’ve officially run out of antidepressants I can take without psychosis kicking in so I weathered it without the chemical boost. I downloaded audiobooks- The Compassionate Mind, The Body Keeps the Score, Shrinks, and an Acceptance and Commitment Therapy workbook. I slept. I talked to other patients. And one morning I woke up and I was okay again. There was no long drawn out recovery, no dealing with the medication fog for months after, I was just okay. It wasn’t the end of the world to let my mind do its thing, safely, cautiously, but without intervening.

    The problem comes back though. Came back. Because life happens and you can’t go back into the same environment that broke you in the first place and expect that it won’t just happen again. That truly is the definition of crazy- just go ahead and do the same things as before and expect a different outcome. I healed and I recharged and I rested and then I jumped right back into the toxic pit of despair and just over a year later I found myself sat staring at this path I knew was coming up ahead and wondering how many times I’d walk it before I found out how to change the pattern.

    So instead I turned left, off the path, walked across the fucking grass and I found myself here. Not really sure where I am. Definitely off the map. But I’m sat in the grass and I’m looking at open skies and green trees. And to take a hint from Lewis Carroll: If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will get you there.

  • May 12th- When Mental Illness looks a lot like a Spiritual Awakening Part1

    I’ve lived with Bipolar Disorder since my early teens. The first GP I ever saw for my mental health at 15 years old told me I wasn’t ill, I was a Scorpio. I was intrigued, baffled, confused, and then angry, because everyone else was angry. The next doctor sent me for counselling and eventually I was diagnosed and medicated. I should have given more weight to that first doctors words.

    I had my first psychotic manic episode during my first year at university. The others had been warm ups. Though at home I hadn’t been particularly sheltered or had too many breaks put on my ability to fly off the psychological handles, when I left home and lived out of a room smaller than my kitchen is now I had more freedom to embrace every passion project and flight of manic fancy I had.

    I saw the cosmos. I named it, I analysed it. I figured out how to connect to it by finding the things and places that allowed energy to congregate so I could absorb it. I climbed hills and to the highest points of castles in the middle of the night, I swam in the ocean in February (in the Northern Hemisphere), I liked high places, open places, anywhere with water, moving water was best. I found an attraction to the colour pink which I decided was another way to connect to this cosmic energy. I collected it like a magpie. I saw the strands that connect every energy holding being on earth. I felt like the centre of the universe, I was connected to everything so I was everything. As my mania grew so did the energy I hoarded inside myself. The energy grew too much, anxiety and quickly terror kicked in. I went in search of a high place on a hill I loved during sunrise but found myself locked in a public toilet stall too afraid to leave. I could no longer control the flow in or out. Awake for days at a time but not galivanting across the city in search of feeling, I hugged the small spaces and dark places. I hid from the energy because I couldn’t control it, didn’t know how, didn’t know I could.. Then came the medication, the only answer I knew existed- the mental straight jacket. The days in bed, the self loathing and the depression. The conviction that everything I’d experienced was ‘mania’, ‘psychosis’, mental illness and only that. A pathology to be prevented. It was almost a year before I came round from that episode and the drugs that crushed it.

    Years later- nearly ten years later it happened again. It started with anxiety, depression, medication, which sent me into a psychotic mixed episode, which sent me to the psych ward. After a few days on the ward the mixed episode turned into a flighty manic one. By that time I was seeing colours, hearing voices, seeing visions of people standing by my bed. I had all the energy of the world and I could feel everything. I wasn’t afraid of anything but the constant assertion by family and medical staff that I was ill and I needed to stop feeling like this. And then I was given a gift. On the same ward was a woman who knew the secrets of the universe for what they were and late into the night we’d sit on the plastic armchairs in the dayroom irritating the nurses who had to keep checking on us rather than holing up in the nurses office. She told me about aura, the colours I’d been amazed by, she taught me how to look for them around specific people, and she told me to embrace it. When a vision scared me, she taught me I could ask it to go away, simply ask it and it would leave. Eventually the medication kicked in, the heaviness fell on me and the energy left. Another year relearning how to be under a medicated mental fog, but this time the conviction that what I’d experienced was purely pathological wasn’t quite as strong.

  • April 19th- Notes on a Bipolar Relapse

    For the largest chunks of my life I have enough armour and resources, through skills learned and tools developed, to protect myself from the energies of the world that threaten to destabilise my core. I use them to their full. But I forget that they’re a finite resource and without me recognising the signs they deplete. I expect my resilience to be self perpetuating. I assume that by doing and doing well I will feed my reserves but even my own moderated version of success doesn’t automatically mean balance or wellness or health or spiritual wellbeing. I kick at myself for draining the well and I keep on pumping. I batten down the hatches. I push on and I pray without listening for the answers. No matter how many times I fall into this pattern each time I believe I have failed when I eventually run my mind and my body into the dirt. Broken, bleeding, spent, and all out of metaphors.

  • April 18th- Fallen off the Edge of the Map

    My mind knows the extremes; I’ve fallen off the edge of the map enough times to know there’s far worse things than monsters over the other side. The illusion of fast paced success and extraordinary happiness isn’t a shining star on the horizon, it is a looming threat and a promise of the dangers beyond.

    So I’m content to sail the peaceful seas, stick close to blue skies, explore the already plundered shores and take my pleasures in the everyday. There is so much beauty in each moment, each peaceful day where the sun rises and sets without fanfare, tears or applause and I’d be more than content to live in that space. But the universe has other plans.

    I haven’t yet figured out whether the world turns harsher like the changing of the seasons, or a choice I make butterfly effects and presses me onto a more treacherous path. Whether it truly is some energy or chemicals within or without me affecting the tone of my life from that point until the next. Whatever the reason, there are periods in my life where the skin is stripped from my flesh and I’m naked to the energies of the universe, positive and negative. Where the sunrise burns, the winds cut deep, I burrow into the earth for comfort and security but find only cold and damp. Or where every ray of light sets a glittering fire in my soul, each single tone sets of a musical harmony like none anyone has heard before and I’m climbing to the tops of mountains to preach the wonders of the universe.

  • The Chaplain

    He stood tall, broad and composed in the overly bright anteroom.  He told me he had been a soldier and that he knew trauma.  He told me he had seen pain and that he was okay with whatever lay behind the door.  Behind the door he wept like a small child, his huge frame shaking with the effort of not breaking down.  He fell into the chair and held his son’s hand and I sat in silence while he sobbed into the bedsheets which I’d laid down fresh to somehow soften the pain of this horror.

    Later the room fell silent but for the clicks, beeps and hum of machinery, and amongst the steady comforting breath of the ventilator I busied myself.  I rearranged lines, wires and probes, gently sponged away remnants of blood and moistened lips, and I built a picture in my mind of the man in the bed as his father told me about his life.  As he spoke he gripped his son’s hand, already pale and tinged with gray, the skin under his neck cool under my fingers as I lifted his head onto a fresh white pillow.  I noted the falling numbers on the screen above my head and the reflexive speeding of my own pulse and I discreetly turned the monitor alarms to silent before placing my hand on the man’s warm shoulder. 

    After a knock at the door an older man in black stepped into the room, a clean white collar at his neck and bible in hand.  Unexpected relief poured through me, similar to the way the presence of a doctor in blue scrubs calms the rising tide of panic when I’m battling to bring a life back from the edge. The chaplain, this medicine man for the soul would be my guide as I helped this soul find the edge and step across. 

    Quiet prayers echoed in the sterile room, but they warmed the silence between each slow mechanical breath and my heartbeat slowed gratefully to match the rhythm of the words.  I watched the chaplain move around the bed, watched him touch cold skin with warm fingers. I felt the peace in his face and the surety as he spoke, and my panic eased, stunned by the vastness of the moment.  I watched the man still clutching his son’s hand, his red-rimmed eyes shut tight and face wet with silent tears, but his own breaths deep and smooth, the prayers perhaps a momentary balm for the anguish. 

    The chaplain prayed, the man breathed, and I watched the monitor’s waves ebb away, each number falling steadily to zero until the mechanical rise and fall of the chest were the only imitations of life remaining.  I stood beside the man and squeezed the hand held fast onto his son’s, his eyes blinked open and I nodded in response to the question in his face.  He shut them tight again and I moved to the ventilator, pressed down on the switch and quickly acknowledged the quietly protesting alarm.  I watched the chest for movement which I knew wouldn’t come, and for a moment the room was plunged into a frozen silence before the chaplain’s prayers returned, familiar words now tugging at the muscles in my throat and the space between my eyes.  I pressed a switch on the monitor, again on another, and my eyes stung while I moved around the bed.  The man sobbed hard and fast, his pain un-soothed just beginning to take root, and I stepped out of the room just as my own tears landed.

    O ALMIGHTY God, with whom do live the spirits of just men made perfect, after they are delivered from their earthly prisons: We humbly commend the soul of this thy servant, our dear brother, into thy hands, as into the hands of a faithful Creator, and most merciful Savior; most humbly beseeching thee that it may be precious in thy sight. Wash it, we pray thee, in the blood of that immaculate Lamb, that was slain to take away the sins of the world; that whatsoever defilements it may have contracted in the midst of this miserable and naughty world, through the lusts of the flesh or the wiles of Satan, being purged and done away, it may be presented pure and without spot before thee. And teach us who survive, in this and other like daily spectacles of mortality, to see how frail and uncertain our own condition is; and so to number our days, that we may seriously apply our hearts to that holy and heavenly wisdom, whilst we live here, which may in the end bring us to life everlasting, through the merits of Jesus Christ, thine only Son our Lord. Amen.

    CHURCH OF ENGLAND, EDWARD, & PICKERING, W. (1844). The Book of common prayer: printed by Whitchurch, March 1549 ; commonly called The First Book of Edward VI. London, William Pickering.
  • January 13th- Notes on Anxiety

    There’s an empty coldness in my stomach, hovering above my belly button pressing against my spine. It creeps up into my neck and my tongue and my temples and slides back down like a wave rolling back into the sea emptying the beach of its sand. Empty in the way a night of sleeplessness leaves you cold and shaking, the way too much caffeine without food hollows you out. Imagine the feeling you get ten minutes before coming up on your new favourite drug, five minutes before an anxiety attack and the half hour after. Then take the interview waiting room feeling, the doctor’s office before the bloods are taken, the A&E waiting room with a sick parent, and the jumping off a cliff edge into the sea at night feeling. Then take each of those miniature terrors, bundle them together, crush them, sieve them, mix the sludge with ice and feed it through a hard tube up my nose and into my stomach. The feeling means nothing, and yet it means everything. Nothing is okay. Nothing will ever feel okay again. But that’s okay, right?

  • May 21st- Notes on Mania

    “I can see clearly now the rain has gone!” Phones buzzing, wakened up, latelatelate, run! Like a headless chicken, choose teeth clean, oral hygiene over make up. Bus number one, texts and French girls. Calm down, greet town and coffee. Sugar, meet the clan, Gavin, Holly, Brayy and Dan!  And sugar, and coffee, and god damn it’s a paper cup not a bomb!  Another bus.  You DIDN’T get a System one? Mega rider, poker face, jedi mind tricks, follow pink to the race. Rain rain my umbrella has nothing on a mack, kack, from the tree. Shoes with holes, and pneumonia’s alright, feet meet mud, more crud. Find a tree, find a river, that was a path, you can leave now.  Delegation, portaloos, waterproof legs, kangaroos? Underage girls, mudwrestling, glad I’m not a boy, choose one girl shaped toy. Hide in a van, pin a Sarah to paper, hearts flower and candyfloss man  Warm up and dodgy dodgy dancing, yoga like moves, bruises and damp jeans and pink shiny balloons. Ready set go, shelter time, penguin huddle, snot bubble. Human radiator, bum crack, shiitake mushrooms and futter whack. Buy a flower, buy your love for a pound, gerbera, it’s pink flower like and round. Standing ovation, and nice bra, 31 minutes for how far? Can we leave, get food, have a bath, DUCKS! Massage calves, ticklish git, bus bus bus, granola, tombola? DUCKS! World buffet, working girl, 50% off Ann Summers, now she’s wearing half as much. Subway KFC Subway MaccyDs Subway Sushi Subway Spud!  Subway subway subway you tit! Hearts freaking out, conversations back to girls, unrelated, unconsciousness, no man is an island, and I’m sick to death of rhyme now. Kangaroo means fuck off? No no that’s not the right order, chronology dear. Bus home, ticket’s gone, heads in a spin, and seat is warm. Grans house, coffee coke and hugs, wet clothes are the devils spawn, snuggly and warm. Going to stay here, comfy and safe, GO HOME! *sniff*