Part I: An unashamedly smug love letter to London

When I moved to London 20 months ago I hated it. I always said I’d never move here, which of course meant just nothing at all. I could see that some bits of London were good, but generally it was dirty, crowded and people were rude, unhealthy and unhappy.

But now. But now. Something clicked about six weeks ago. I no longer walk around feeling self-conscious and trying to keep up with London. I amble down the street and I know how to get around. Where I used to hate that people bumped into each other on the tube and didn’t apologise, now I understand that we’re all just trying to get where we’re going with minimum fuss and we’re all part of the same tribe. It is, in fact, a mark of being on the same side, that we don’t feel we have to apologise to one another. And that’s when you know you’ve been had. You’ve been Londonised. And it’s kind of a warm fuzzy feeling. Tourists are perpetually in my way, but I stop and give them directions. Last week, I witnessed three spontaneous acts of joy or kindness within two minutes on my commute home (Piccadilly Circus to Ealing Common, most days, if any Londoners are wondering). You see what you look for. I work my 45 hour week, I party with my friends, I go on dates, I pay my taxes and I own this city! At least that’s how it feels lately. I am triumphant! I am…happy. I know, it’s weird.

So here’s why.

Sexiest song of the year, every year, since 2001

A recent nostalgic playlist heard at a pool hall in Clerkenwell on Friday inspired this post. I have, since 2001, had a sexy song of the year. Invariably, they have been favourite songs because they have conjured a fantasy about whichever boyman I happen to be digging on at the time. And self indulgently, I find it fascinating to track how my sexuality evolved as I grew up. Some are triumphant love songs, some were teenage emo angst, some are simply lust songs, some are pure sleaze, some are high-speed passion, and some are intellectual connection. Here is my 2014 song - just the audio, because the video ruins it - effing hipster boys...

 2014 Wraith - Peace 

And here are my sexy songs of the year (also with links), for every year since 2001. Feel free to lampoon, comment, or suggest your own...

2001 Simple - India Arie
2002 Calico - Alien Ant Farm
2003 Justboy - Biffy Clyro
2004 Speedballin' - Outkast
2005 Teardrop - Massive Attack
2006 Addiction - Kanye West
2007 Shameless - Ani Difranco
2008 Even After All - Finley Quaye
2009 I Want You - Erykah Badu
2010 Trick Pony - Charlotte Gainsbourg
2011 Sail - Awolnation
2012 Stripper - Soho Dolls (thank you Gossip Girl)
2013 What's my name? - Rihanna

Ne'er say Never

He held her in his Celtic gaze

And there, he made his choice

Ne’er to shackle her bold, wild ways

And ne’er to quiet her voice

Four days and nights she did not speak

Her tongue was curs’d, she thought

Nor tears, nor smiles, nor food, nor sleep

Could cease her breath ne’er caught

The moon quite full, their nights, but two

His arms about her wrapp’d

And now moon new, two nights, too few

Yet purpos’d cupid’s trap.

The Woman Problem

What do women want? 
Women want men to stop researching what 'women' want and to improvise - to tailor a unique way of loving based upon her individual idiosyncrasies and to stop thinking that women can be figured out as a group or that 'the woman' is an archetype that can be defined. Men who choose to take the 'research and problem solve' approach with their woman automatically place her in the role of being a problem (at worst) or a puzzle (at best). A bit of flexibility and dynamism goes a LONG way. The best lovers, partners and teammates understand that woman is like music - not to be figured out, but to be enjoyed, celebrated and tapped into as an emotional resource. Sometimes she is composed classical, sometimes steamy salsa, sometimes heavy metal. Whatever she is today - just dance, improvise and be thankful for the music :)

Fan art ;)

On Calstock

Objects reflected in that mirror of a river may appear closer than they really are. That dark valley intensifies charismatic light and those who live here - whether full time or not - have no choice but to be transfixed by every new shiny beacon that floats by. The promise of salvation taunts your fingertips when you're living by the tides and in the tribe. And that promise is like a spark is to oxygen when you are feeling dead inside, but like ash to a tongue when you are feeling shiny. The grey of London is a relief after the extremes of the valley. It's allowing me space to be creative again.

Falling in Love Weekly

I seem to be falling in love weekly lately. Indeed, I'm getting rather good at it. Last night, I met a softly spoken, adorably polite yet super-sharp Kenyan CFO in a nice linen suit on the train at Exeter. We bumped into each other at the luggage rack and then serendipitously, our seat reservations had us sharing a table. His Sony Vaio brushed flirtatiously against my Mac. I avoided eye contact and pretended to read Vanity Fair. Then he wished me "bon appetit" as I inhaled my Morrison's Best ploughmans sandwhich, to which I saucily replied “merci” with a grin and let him imagine that I can string a sentence together in French. Which I can’t.

Was I visiting family he wanted to know? Yes, actually (boymen are so dreamy when they’re right about things) and was he visiting Britain on business? Of course he was. Clever me. Clearly we’re both psychic and therefore obviously soulmates, so I let him use my internet tethering and shared my grapes. He gave me a carton of apple juice, a dairy milk and some walkers and we fell in love a little bit. He ate his BLT and got mayo all over his face, which I found just fascinating because of the contrast against his very dark skin. He subtly mentioned his big beachfront house in Kenya and I told my voodoo child story about my musician parents meeting in New Orleans.

He explained how he’s going to change the world through sound financial practise and I explained why working in weddings is just like being a psychologist. We reassured each other that these points were completely unpretentious universal truths, and the fact that the rest of the world just hadn’t cottoned on to them yet only strengthened our bond.

He taught me how to pronounce his surname and watched me fiddle with my hair, and I pretended not to notice him stealing a sort-of-sneaky glance at my chest. He expressed disapproval towards black men who objectify light skinned/mixed race women and I expressed a desire to make a difference in the world. We laughed, we debated, we spoke of giraffes and canoeing, time differences and cowboys, tribal behaviours, the state of the Euro, the healing power of song, Germany, and cultural identity. We agreed that Steve Irwin was a very silly man, that hats are brilliant and that France has the best Jazz and then just before Reading he asked to take me back to Kenya to be his wife. Tempted, so I told him to find me on facebook. Marriage proposal response 2012 style. Last time I received a proposal from a stranger I gave the guy my email address. Odd how fast email has become passé. True Story.