Then:  We've lived together a year, my friend, my brother, we walk arm in arm and people think we're a couple, but we're not, we're just close.

- Can I sleep in here with you?

I don't remember the last time I had to sleep next to someone, for fear of not visiting the land of nod. And we lie, both fully clothed, as far away as we can get from each other, whilst just remaining on the large double bed. Staring at the ceiling, I can still hear the ruckus, although heads stopped getting broken since the fuzz turned up some while ago. At first, I would watch the 3am fights from my darkened window; now, I roll over and wish for unbroken sleep, cursing the noise that starts up when the police arrive on the scene. Yet still we stare into the darkness. I don't know if he's awake, but he sure isn't snoring. And then, there they are, there they go again, the mice running in and out of the open door, their feet pattering on the floor. I've seen them, tiny, although here, in this dark, they sound absolutely huge. 

We move out the next day.

Now: I get bored and all my blonde hair turns dark pink, red, purplish, along with my nails, my walls, my carpet, my bathroom. And I don't even like it - bring on the peroxide. My friends of years gone past, something that's helped keep me sane, this 'social networking' escapes me. Time is not on my side and as my new role involves talking to people, sweet people, I find I am less sociable at home, although the visuals of photography still pile on top of me and I need to get posting, editing, as my designer starts work on my website. My damn legs. I'm sleepy and whenever that happens, my legs don't work so good. Time saved by the double decker, I trundle along and trip right near the station, steadiness on my side, my footing secure, yet I imagine, I visualise how different it could have been in that moment - face first into the muddy puddle! And 'muddy' is the first word that hits my mind when I see it, yet there is no soil right here next to Finsbury Park.  This is dirt, grime, dust, pollution, that turns this water an opaque brown.  Distracted by my workload, I can still take a moment. Simply because I love this time of year. Childhood memories of the fair coming to town, and it being such an event, it's known as 'the feast.' Families gathering round plates of cold foods, crusty pastry and smooth jelly encasing my pork making it a pie, piccalilli like I never tasted since, rich yellow, chunks of crunchy vegetables, all homemade, strips of fresh cabbage making coleslaw, nothing resembling that mush from the supermarket that tastes kinda fizzy when past it's sell by date. And the piece de resistance was always stuffed chine. I don't even really know what it is anymore, although I haven't eaten meat for 12 years or so, I'm recalling gammony thick salty pig, carefully cut into so we can push and shove chopped parsley into each slit, before boiling in a pot and slicing these pink and green stripes onto our plate.  Memories of family.  And it's here that I find this comfort.  Within the nights getting darker.  Within the air getting colder.  As windows look welcoming with glowing orange/yellow light.  As the aroma of home cooked food reaches my nostrils.