'I got bitches in the living room...'

I scribble into my notebook on the forgotten luxury of a Virgin train. The soporific warmth of the quiet coach, my own little corner to remove shoes and listen to music.

The joy of people watching. Of appreciating a glimpsed character, a shared journey and another strand in life’s neverending cardigan of loose ends.

I have, admittedly, been particularly unprolific on this blog, recently. There is so much I could have written about in the days that passed unblogged. Many riotous evenings of musical abandon, heady indulgences and literary/filmic explorations.

Nine days spent with my Effie, re-forging a distant relationship, remembering what love is, what adventure is, what sex is.

They’re all good, I remembered.

We threw a hastily arranged party at our house. We mostly didn’t really invite anyone (bad form on my part), but thankfully the word does get around Fenham.

It was a modern knees down affair complete with themed rooms. The house seemed to represent the multi-headed beast of our collective creative impulses.

Rory’s room, upstairs, playing host to an impromptu (but expected) live performance of some noisy drunk rock.

We had a Radio 4 room; Adam’s beautifully pretentious literary scene of comfy chairs and broadcasted discussions creating an aural backdrop to our mulled perry-fuelled chats.

A main party room of randomly selected I-music with hideously inappropriate music blaring between bouts of host DJing.

The rest of the house immaculately cleaned after a commendable team effort.

A good time was had by all, I suppose.

And now on the train, I feel relieved to be going home. A period of rest is definitely in order. Some time off. I’d forgotten how totally exhausting life can be, especially in the winter. Tiredly dragging myself around the bitterly cold streets in search of money and fun and music. Seeking shared experiences. Hoping that despite the struggle, there is still a sense of movement and of progress.