Today I HATE

• My current involuntary mood swings.

• Living with a single parent, and for being such a burden on my mother who works seven days a week to keep me alive.
• The bank shutting at four instead of five, so now I have no money.
• Suffering from at least ten (out of the twenty-six) side-effects of my current medication.
• The element of loneliness that follows me around.
• Divulging information about an irritating rash to the doctor.
• Feeling my body ache through and through, as if I’m ageing twenty times too fast.
• Eating. It is becoming such a chore. I wish eating was never invented.

But I LOVE

• Beth Gibbons’ Show.

• The photograph of Brighton Boy hanging from a post-it note on my spring yellow wall.
• The prospect of going to meet a very kind man named Doug, who is renting a studio out for B. Boy and I to visit (plus a model, wahey.)
• Sitting on the floor in pet shops, poking my hands through wire and stroking red-eyed bunnies. (Can we have one, mummy? No.)
• The thought of Saturday evenings.
• Bed.
• Him.

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Click to comment on visua.foto, or click here to view a series of the shots taken on the same day.

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brighton boy with celebrity (zee list)

Q: What do you get if you cross Liberty X, Mariah Carey, and a zee list celebrity such as Jonathon from The Salon?

A: An incredibly bizarre, expensive, at times entertaining but severely crippling night out at G-A-Y.

This morning I welcomed London to Sunday, officially. Standing on the millennium bridge with my array of exhausted comrades I screamed “Good morning London!” There were so few people on the streets and at times we were in sole possession of the bridge. Littering the streets with our badly vocalised kareoke songs, we royally froze our arses off whilst waiting for various tube stations to open (oh, what, the tube opens at eight on a Sunday? Christ. It’s only five.) A smartly dressed Spanish couple lay enchanted on the floor, looking misshapen whilst their suits brushed up against the dirty wall. It was only when I realised that they were still drinking (man produces bottle of red wine) and a tramp ironically gave them the once over before declaring to them, Tramps!, that they seemed just as scummy as us. London has a way of appearing so alive, yet so desolate within the time frame of an hour or so.

If you ever have the opportunity to see Mariah Carey, don’t bother (I normally wouldn’t, but this was a dire situation). If you also ever have the opportunity to go to G-A-Y on a Saturday night, really don’t bother. My bank account suffers dearly as ticket prices leapt (I tell you, these ticket prices were alive!) from £10 to £14, costing me a whopping £28 (as I am the one who seemingly pays for .. lots of things in this relationship.) After queueing for an hour and measuring our progress by how far we could get from the bizarre four-at-a-time public urinal in the middle of the street, finally we made it to the doors. I really do abhor pre-club entry banal chitchat with bouncers. Blahblahblah, in yer face, is what I wanted to scream. But obviously I didn’t, because that just wouldn’t be ladylike, would it?

If I thought my feet had ever been in pain before, I was obviously wrong. The afternoon before I somehow (illegitimately) ended up attending the antiwar protest, surrounded by absolutely thousands of peace lovin’ people (at least 800,000 we were told upon entry). It was a tremendous once in a life time opportunity and whilst I’m pleased that I did go, I also found myself with an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia that intensely scared me. There were so many people, so much noise (from the public speaker and the crowd) that my head started to reel and I thought I may just pass out. Luckily this didn’t occur. My favourite part was when Mr. Public Speaker mentioned something about Blair coming out of Bush’s arse. Frightening mental images ensued, trust me.

This morning, surrounded by an innumerable amount of rather intimidating rude boys (dubbed by themselves as the “dirty ravers”), I watched my clubbing pals involunatrily dropping off to sleep. As the early morning sun filtered through the dirty windows of our train carriage, I couldn’t quite think of a better place to be, with better people, at a better time in my life. Huzzah for spontaneous nights out!

As for these Americans, oh dear lord! What is wrong with you? Perhaps these American soldiers could pull their heads out of their arses and stop kill people on their own side. Congratulations, America!

Psst! See Mariah dance like a genetically modified chipmunk with a brainless muscleman dancer! Yeeeehar!

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I’m sick of looking into people’s eyes and seeing nothing. And when I saw this woman it looked like she at least had a glimmer of hope, despite all the craziness I keep seeing on the news. There was such a diverse crowd composed of kids, adults, dogs and all types. I was merely a spectator, but it was a good event to observe, no doubt.

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I haven’t felt sexy in so long. My body feels small, frail and unappealing, and I hate it when that happens. Tonight I switched the lights, unscrewing the bright white auras of electricity and slipping in a red bulb. My room glows with sex now, oozing hotness. After beginning the red light sessions, I added a blue and green bulb to my collection. The dim neons definitely put me in the mood for that kinda lurve.

I’ve been painstakingly sorting through the best of my photos in order to compose some kind of portfolio that I can cart along with me to university interviews. The process is so testing — to have some self-belief in your work, and to actually believe that it is good, is appearing difficult. I’m tempted to hand the arduous task over to someone else and let them decide, select and pay for the portfolio creation. Most of my stuff is digital (or film turned digital) and at almost £2 a print, that’s a hefty price to pay when you’ve got thirty or so photos to splash out for. Remember – I am only a student.

Catherine and I have secured a holiday for ourselves shortly after we receive our a level results. A media resit of mine was marked and stamped with an A grade, pushing that disgusting D I underachieved last year to a pleasing B. That leaves me with an A (photography), and three Bs. Despite everyone else’s lack of congratulations, I am pleased in myself to have achieved educational bliss even through the many ups and downs I have seemingly warded off so far. Huzzah for me!

I have nothing to say about this current war. That is, apart from the protests making good opportunities to take photos. Which is all I really care about, to be honest.

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Busy bee, lost for words.

Yesterday the city seemed beautifully decadent. Sitting in Soho square with the sun on our faces, sharing text messages with Miss P. The Tate Modern is usually the last place I want to be at any point in time, but Brighton Boy had never been before. We careened through the streets, winding our way through tunnels in mid-afternoon, pausing for minutes to capture moments with a firebreather. The newest installation (featured above) is hugely terrifying. The scale of the work is so big that at times I feared I would be swallowed up by it. Its smooth redness resembles a large uterus, or the inside of a giant whale. I was truly mesmerised. A quick curry in Brick Lane in the late evening quickly calmed my nerves (despite plentiful asians gazing in a fascinated way through my stretched earlobe.)

After we’d come home my legs were aching from walking so much. It’s becoming a regular occurence that we walk home from the station on a Sunday night, our day for visiting the city. Perhaps I’m falling in love with it, or perhaps I always was in love.

8 Women is a tremendously funny, cute, camp and glitzy murder mystery that I recommend to anyone. I never could guess who the murderer was. Simply charming. I fear Brighton Boy may have had enough of my poofy taste in films, after I made him devour a good two hours of The Hours. I thought I might cry when Ed Harris attempted to describe how to capture a moment. I couldn’t sympathise any more.

I guess you never appreciate something when it’s so close to you. Although my nearest beach is perhaps one of the dirtiest in Britain, it still has its moments of captivity. This afternoon we wandered the dirty sands, took a jaunt along contaminated crust-infested beaches and made friends with our cameras all over again. Tonight he decorates my wall with pictures of my naked arse, and I sit on his lap whilst we look through memories of the day gone passed.

Serene is the word of the day, I think.

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