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Enid Blyton, but with cider and marijuana

  Wed 27th April 2016

Wilma was up at the Magistrates' Court for shoplifting. I said I'd go with her. On Monday I had had to go down the court office to find the time of her appearance, as she'd lost the relevant letter.

She was anxious and tearful about it, although I wondered whether there was an element of a performance of distress in order to further the nihilistic future at which she aims: either death, or, preferably, to be looked after, to revert to a state of childhood with the State as a replacement kindly parent; both erasing her self, her agency.

The court building has recessed lights sunk into a ceiling that is half carpet tiles, half pebbledash paint. The Duty Solicitor was excellent and weaved a persuasive exculpatory story from a five-minute interview with her before she went in.

She received a conditional discharge for twelve months, with imaginary but enforceable "costs" of £145. We went to the pub and I got her a bottle of wine and her choice of a disgusting looking dinner of "ribs" glutinous, fleshy and shiny, Wetherspoons' artificial chips; the peas were the only thing that survived in something like a natural state from such a Fordist food production line.

I left her at 3ish and went home. I found out last night that she'd then gone and stole a bottle of wine, one of sherry, and some chicken before the shops shut.

Wendy texts. "Hiya petal, looking forward to our country walk. I'm thinking Enid Blyton only with cider and marijuana."

"Me too. If I be George, even though she was a girl -- the line's quite fine in 2016 -- will you be Fanny?"

We met up at the railway station, sandwiches in Tupperware, the clanking of our bottled refreshments.

We had sun and hail within ten minutes in Arnside. We were a bit off our trollies by this time. "It's psychedelic weather isn't it? It's like the beginnings of a dystopian novel," she said, and then went on to improvise its first few sentences.

We saw a huge tree with a massive root system. She told me about a poem sequence she'd started writing and abandoned, and now wants to take up again, about Morecambe Bay. One of its poems is based on a true story of a wedding party which sank beneath the sands -- bride, groom, guests, horse and carriage and all, all still there.

The hail came down for about ten minutes. "Right, I've had enough of this now," she said. I turned to look at her. Her gorgeous dishevelled dark brown hair was dotted with hailstones that looked like those little crystallised sugar cubes which are sprinkled over bun tin cakes. I thought first, a thought, then immediately afterwards, how cliched its expression was even in my head. The thought being, I've never seen you looking so beautiful. And then third, my shadow-self tapping me on the shoulder and saying "but you mean it!"

I told her the un-italicised bit and she looked at me and smiled. Everything was happening in instants; a joy sufficient to obliterate my sense of the lack of physical closeness between us.

"I do love you a little bit," I said, when we were back on the train, thawing.


I find aspiring to death a lot more dignified than aspiring to be looked after.

I thought you didn’t believe in love? It would seem the lone wolf has found his she-wolf.

Ha! Anti-spam approval code is HRC. Our next president!

Fri 29th April 2016 @ 12:57
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

My gut instinct, without the checks and controls, and overloooking my incredulity at myself in saying it, is to shout it out “I love you Wendy and I want everyone to know I do.”

That text I sent her, which I then had to dismiss – “I love you Wendy. I love you in every sense of that word.” It’s actually true. I think about her all the time. I love her as a friend and I always will, but I want to love her as a lover. She’s clever, fearless, articulate, witty, kind, a good pisstaker. She’s also effortlessly sexy and I have long, narrative sexual fantasies about her. She dresses so well, I just can’t help but rake my eyes over her when we meet. Yes, I am genuinely appreciative of the way that she dresses, but there is also pure lust in my look. She is so beautiful, and I desperately want so much to stroke and kiss her and feel all of her next to me. I am smitten, yes.

Then the rational side kicks in and I realise it’s all one-sided though. She likes my company but she hasn’t anything remotely like the same intensity of feeling towards me as I have towards her. Always the same, this accursed asymmetry of feeling. It’s no good loving someone who doesn’t love you. I value our friendship immensely, but it is ragingly frustrating that I can’t show her any of the limitless amount of love and affection I have for her. I am as stupid as Trina, imagining that I can coax something out of her that at present she doesn’t feel.

Fri 29th April 2016 @ 23:12
Comment from: [Member]

Do you know, it’s actually worse when you do say it, or see it in print. Once admitted to oneself, it can’t be retracted. I’ve just given myself a burden.

Sat 30th April 2016 @ 01:18
Comment from: Kono [Visitor]

Did you ever think that if you finally did bed Wendy that it’d be a colossal letdown? I’m just wondering, i’ve had a few of those where i chased and chased and begged and pleaded and cajoled and when it finally happened i sat back and thought, hmmm that wasn’t what i’d thought it be, it’s just a thought, maybe sometimes it’s better to be friends or have your affection unrequited… of course that’s a load of fucking bollocks now innit? lol

and i do appreciate the kind words on the Suburban Surrealist post, i’m aware that the subject matter and style isn’t for everyone (i like to think it’s for those who have lived a bit and have impeccable taste) and though like you i don’t do it for awards or adulation or to turn it into some sort of career it’s still alright to have some people actually enjoy it, much as i enjoy reading this space, i don’t actually read many blogs because most or boring and predictable but this one is quite deviant and fun, which is what i like… keep up the good work sir.

Wed 4th May 2016 @ 14:02
Comment from: [Member]

I’d like to try it with her though :) Wanking does get very formulaic after a while. The orgasms can be pretty good but it’s more interesting and unpredicatable with someone else. If she were as inventive and fearless in sex as she is socially and with words, it would be pretty good. And I do fancy her very much, so there wouldn’t be any “difficulties".

I had this absolutely incredible orgasm when I was in bed with Kim once when she started wanking, and so I did too. It was almost indescribably intense, and I definitely had this strange blurring of how I felt about her and how I fancied her and everything else about her, all in that lovely orgasm.

And thanks – I’ll take “deviant and fun” :)

Fri 6th May 2016 @ 01:07

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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person

M / 57 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.

There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
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Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
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