I have always felt a burning need to write. To have my words etched onto the computer screen, staring back at me, saying nothing and everything all in one moment. Could be deleted like it never existed. I have nothing interesting to write about. I am not Kerouac, with a fascinating life story – typing out all my memoirs onto a scroll. I am no Dan Brown – spinning bloody best-sellers all over the place, practically sweating great ideas for novels. No, I am pretty useless in this respect although I, of course, am aware that being too self-deprecating at this point in time is doing nothing for my public image. What-ho a writer who doesn’t think she can write, go and buy the book as you’ll love it! It’s true that many people have this ambition: write a novel, see the TV show of the book and the film of the TV show of the book and watch the royalties come flocking into your bank account. Or, perhaps, live life as a mysterious and twisted recluse, die young, live forever; cult. Whatever. The purpose of writing isn’t to write, it’s to read you idiot!

- Pippa

Give me truth

I am heartbroken.
It wasn't love, this I know.
But it was a feeling, deep and intense, beyond expectation.
Though not to a superlative degree,
it may or may not be a feeling I've had before.
I never thought I'd cry or write odes to your oddly-coloured hair.
But I have.
And now I'm done.

- Trish

When the sky is dark over the sea,

& we are still living in Brighton-town,

I can see both of us sitting, drinking tea and swapping badges of honour,

On the vibrant street-side cafe, table-cart full of cake,

Dusty old converse and the water falling down onto our shiny silver mugs,

& the rainy umbrellas by our sides,

We are the theoretical friends,

I am so stuck in that one night...

We hum through the laines sometimes,

Being followed around in life by the tangible mirage of each other;

The happily theoretical friends.


- Pippa