Somehow on Friday night I wrote a short piece for The Observer. It’s about the newfilm Sex and The City and it's in the newspaper today. http://lifeandhealth.guardian.co.uk/women/story/0,,2279368,00.html
Today The Journalist and I sat on the park ten yards from our front door. Lining it’s square perimeter are seventy or so old wise and giant beech trees. We lay in the sunny side of the dappled shadows to the sound of leather on wood as the cricket team in allwhites played their Sunday game.
Last night I joked on stage “I used to be angry, now I’m a rebel with a mortgage, and a nice deli round the corner – with great humus”. The humus was here and the bread and the salad and the sun and the cricket and The Journalist and the newspapers and me. I should be reading the scripts for the Royal Court. But not today. Not today.
I should be proof reading my book but I just can’t do it. I’ve got scott from the original Star Trek in my head. He’s in the engine room shouting “cap’en she won’t make it, therrrrr’s no enuff powurrr in the enguns, she canneee take ih!”. But instead of replying “Scott Warp speed nine” the captain kirk in my head has his feet up on the deck he's calling through the intercom “Hey Scotty chill, why don’t you just pass on by the deck and we’ll kick back to some Burt Bacharach – got some great coffee off spock – he’s a coffee expert you know.”
About the anger. I am no less angry than I was before, I am just more defined about where my anger should be directed - so too with love