Please

If you have a spare tenner and a free evening before 15th December, do go to see Rhinoceros at the Royal Court. Please, you won't be disappointed.

Sight

It's through others that we see ourselves, our true selves, goodness, truth, banality, ordinariness. All our faults and gorgeousness reflected in the gaze of another. In knowing others we can know ourselves.

We lose ourselves in loneliness
In loneliness we lose ourselves
The truth of the self, ever present
A lie. It is only through others that
We see ourselves
We see ourselves through others.

Mrs Lyser [After Mrs Krikorian]

That first time, when I saw her
I was transfixed -
as six-year-olds are prone to be -
In the same way that on seeing
a doll that time in Beatties, unable to get out
a squeal, I kissed it, so Daddy could see.
She stood in assembly, to the left. Upright, her body
taut against the climbing frame wall, her silver
hair a soft halo. She was old -
I knew that, old, yet progressive...
sometimes she wore trousers,
trousers, in 1985!
Once, I bought some awful made-in-Korea ornament
with my holiday money, and presented it to her,
sticking out my chest and standing up straight,
the way I thought one was supposed to
on these occasions.
And she took my soft child's body into
her arms and hugged me. The embrace
of a mother, as yet unfelt since.
And I knew, that first time, I knew,
I was transfixed. Over the shepherd's pie
that night announcing:
'I can't take my eyes off her.'
'I just can't take my eyes off her.'

First day at school

Today I went to the office. "Good for you," you're probably thinking, more than a hint of sarcasm in your tone. Let me clarify: today I went to the office for the first time in four months! That's sixteen weeks people! I've been gainfully self-employed for that time, discovering the art of freelance, getting up when I like and playing facebook scrabble without fear of dismissal. But all good things come to an end, and I find myself on a short contract with an old colleague at her new office. It felt odd, but strangely comforting... the busy tube journey, a signal failure at Kings Cross, a soy latte in a paper cup, a desk and a squeaky chair, girly-office-chat... I liked it. The time passed quickly and I was still the same person. Believe me, that was a relief.

Library-bound

Working at home has its distinct advantages - getting up late, lounging around in my pyjamas 'til noon and the undeniable luxury of being able to make 'important' 'phone calls whilst clutching a cup of tea and reclining on the sofa. Unfortunately, this state hasn't been all that conducive to actually getting much real work done. So, in an attempt to be organised and efficient, Jules + laptop + heavy bag full of paper have made the University library their home of late. All good, all good. It's toasty warm, fairly quiet and I seem to take on motivation by osmosis from all the hard-working language students, burying their sweet unwashed heads into fusty books. My desk of choice is on the fourth floor, the window is floor to ceiling and overlooks crunchy orange and yellow trees. All good, all good.

- untitled -

Sometimes, when you call
and your voice is gently
desperate, and I see your eyes,
dull grey and empty.

Sometimes, if we sit
and don't talk - not in silence,
just a sea of thoughts - and
I feel your mind drift slowly away.

Sometimes when I'm sad,
and you intonate your hands to
say you're with me...

And especially today,
especially today.

Before

He used to love her, he knew that, but over time his love eroded with each misdemeanor until all that remained was a hazy recollection of affection and comfort. Like finding a childhood toy in the attic and on turning it over, seeing that it has been eaten by mice, no stuffing, no flesh remaining.

The light at 4pm, in winter

On the concrete blankness of the riverbank, they walk or wheel like dust floats in a shaft of sunlight. Crisp enough for coats, the air eats fingers and toes through merciless merino wool and polyester. A man in a yellow waterproof jacket swigs brandy from a hip flask, unseen by mothers with overprotected children. A mine artist, absolving reality with silver lycra fights off an increasing shiver, and the light... the light at 4pm in winter makes all ok with the world.w

Sloaney Maloney

The Kings Road is one of those institutions. It conjures up feelings of glamour and slightly-pretentious fun ... the roaring success of a new play at the Royal Court, a good steak eaten slowly at a pavement table at Oriel, a naughty trip to The General Trading Company. Yes, there are a good deal of the Chelsea twin-set brigade there on an average afternon, but there's normality too, a coffee in Pret and a t-shirt purchase at Zara. That's the Chelsea I know and love.

Today I just-so-happened to have some errands to do, a couple of gifts, a birthday and an American-esque baby-shower, so I put in my ipod and got the tube to Sloane Square. Within half an hour, I had amassed a not-insubstantial mass of gaily-wrapped packages dangling precariously from each arm. Not unusual, I thought. It's a road with shops on and people go there to, er..., shop. Yet as I wandered through a few stores en route to Waitrose for some eggs, I began to notice, well, sense, that something strange was happening when I walked in the door of these emporiums. Shop assistants said hello. I was addressed as 'Madam'. People asked if I was looking for 'anything in particular'. If I'd had a free wrist, it would have been drenched in Chanel at the perfume counter in Peter Jones. To top it all, a very camp ginger guy in the White Company asked me to feel a cushion, 'Go on,' he enthused, 'they're soft as cashmere!' I declined and left, my packages cutting into my forearm with each indignant step. Money shouldn't buy favour, but it seems that in Chelsea at 4pm in Winter, it's exactly what it does.

Au Revoir Parapluie

He dances as freely and gently as reeds stirring in the early-morning breeze. His frame supple, his skeleton, it seems, is without edges. There’s no shape these legs and arms cannot mirror, cannot claim for their own. I sit entranced for an undefined amount of time. However long it is isn’t enough. On leaving I remark to a friend that I could go right back in and watch the show again. Rarely am I transfixed so wholly, so intimately… grace and strength and beauty and delicacy and love and fear and ugliness combine to create a surreal exposition. Dance, magic, comedy, mine, drama, acrobatics… just gorgeous.

‘Au Revoir Parapluie’ with James Thiérrée is playing at Sadler’s Wells until 10 November.