There is no Walk of Shame, Only Poetry in Motion

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Tuesday 18th November 2014

Laura and I have decided to get a house in town together. I said this was only OK under the condition that she didn’t contract anymore STDs.

Wednesday 19th November 2014

My grandmother has decided to stage an intervention. She came over while mother was at work, I still don’t know if Mother had anything to do with the whole thing. She brought what appeared to be an interview outfit for me and said I needed to learn to be a lady.


Her agenda was the following.

  • I should not be writing about anything personal. She tutted when I asked if that included sexual encounters.

  • Not dating literary hobos or rudderless musicians (I see where mother gets her open mind), I asked could I sleep with them instead. She tutted.

  • Meeting the grandson of her best friend, who is apparently a mathematical genius. I told her this meant he simply had a Star Wars fetish. She tutted again.

  • How not to get lipstick on my mouth, this involved sucking my finger. I said I could think of better things to suck. She left the room.

  • When she returned from what I assume was a small bout of deep breathing in the hall, she made me try on the interview outfit. It was a giant pair of purple paisley print slacks that came up past my boobs and an orange blouse. When she saw me in the outfit, she said I needed a belt, that it was an improvement on the hotpants, but that it was certainly not a recipe for love. She then tutted some more.

  • She then revealed that she had arranged a date for me on Saturday. I am to meet banker boy, by Clery’s clock. She said that’s where she met granddad. I pointed out that she spent 50% of her marriage throwing cups at a wall and the other 50% crying. She left.

I have decided that banker boy will fall in unrequited love with me. Which will also count as one of the five complicated relationships I need to simultaneously stage in order to become my optimum poetic self.

Thursday 20th November

I walked around town today giving my cv to bars. I feel like pulling pints is an excellent way to find more complicated romantic liaisons. I wore a low-cut shirt and winked a lot. I also wrote on the top of my cv that I could be their Coyote Ugly.

I am confident that the right bar will find me.

Friday 21st November

Granny called me to go over talking points for the date tomorrow. She said I could not be trusted with words. I’m not sure she realises that I’m a poet.

On the date I am allowed to discuss: any poetry that deals with love and is not written by me, baking, that I make excellent gravy, that I can sew, songs I like that are not about dying or love, and childhood memories that are happy. She told me that I should mostly ask him questions and smile because I have excellent teeth. Apparently excellent teeth are a recipe for love.

I should not bring up: being a general whore, my career, my writing, the cat, my mother, my drinking problem, any kind of gravy related innuendo, feminism, my biological clock or smurfs. I’m not sure why, but she was quite adamant about the smurfs.

Saturday 22nd November

I set fire to the purple monster trousers. I back-combed my hair and put on so much lipstick that my lips did not look like they belonged to my face. I am wearing the hot pants.

Banker boy is going to be ravaged.

Sunday 23rd November

Banker boy was beautiful. He does not work in a bank at all. He has five guitars and an earring. He is as tall as houses, and he has a tattoo of Regina Spektor on his left elbow. He had me at: my place or yours? That was yesterday.

There are worse things than being prostituted out by your granny.

It’s 5pm on Sunday, I just left his house and I’m on the bus home. People are looking at me like I should be ashamed of myself. This is no walk of shame. This is a poetic victory.

Monday 24th November

Granny called to see how the date went. I told her. We must be honest in this life if we are to create true art. She cried and told me I would never get married and have babies. I told her my children would be my poems. She hung up.

She rang back half an hour later to say that she would respect my decision more if I wasn’t awful at writing. She said she’s spoken to mother and that they both agree that the best I can hope for is to have babies with a man who makes enough money to pay for any medication I might need when I go off the rails.

I found banker boy on Facebook and added him. Now I wait.