My body is aching and I’m puff pft!
My, our first week as virgin travellers. Someone is whistling Pennies from heaven on the street below. The woman across the road prepares dinner every night and she and her children sit in full vista through the enormous window. Bold and I’m here like. Every night I’ve wished she’d asked us for dinner so I can sit at her massive marble bench top boldly too.
My stomach muscles hurt from getting lost beside the barges in Camden. Stinking and oily. Madness and seething. Catch a bus to save ourselves. Shouldn’t have done that.
I’ve sworn and had a little weep now and again because of that, fucked if I know moment in time.
I’ve asked everyone for directions.
I’ve asked to keep my tickets from Brighton to put in my journal with a beautiful response from the rail man, “aw, that’s special, yeah”.
Every language has filled my ears and every smell has choked my sinuses but the piss and tar at Warwick Castle made me gag as much as a theme park can.
I didn’t make it to Charleston and I’m sad about that but I’ve lived it so vividly in my head up until now it really doesn’t matter.
There’s sensation and sensation if you know what I mean.
From a child I looked in Art books but to see Bathers by Paul Cezzane and the Turners and the Seurat and and
You can’t know how that might affect a 51 yr old woman from Mayfield East.
I’ve more to do and I continue to be nervous and scared because of what I don’t know of me in the world but I must stay with it.
Paris tomorrow. Rue de Paul Albert with bags on wheels and legs on bodies and mother courage.

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