Wednesday, 20 August 2014

I Had a One-Night Stand, and It's Made Me Very Sad

“And can I get you anything else?” he asked, making me stop talking to the rest of the table long enough to look up and acknowledge him for the first time.

Oh, I thought, forgetting the rest of my sentence.

He was my favourite kind of waiter: hipster top-knot and piercings, cheeky, and engaged enough with himself to pass the time by actually being good at his job, because obviously this was just rent money before he got signed/sold his manuscript/got on the plane. 

That guy.

“Yes, actually,” I said, sitting up straighter and holding his gaze, rearranging my parts into their most seductive, flirtatious version. “You can take our photograph, if you don’t mind. And bring a generous portion of mayonnaise. But mainly the photograph.”

“As madam requests,” he replied, tongue firmly in cheek. He winked at me.

He fiddled with my iPhone and we smiled and posed and he assured us he’d taken several snaps so that we could choose the best, and then he was gone and somebody else took over looking after our table. Idly flicking through my phone before the food arrived, though, there were two extra shots before the group images: selfies of himself, tongue stuck out and all, when we weren’t paying attention. It was dumb and cute and made me laugh out loud.

I’m a sucker for a playful attitude.

Wednesday, 23 July 2014

Before we move on

Superlatively Rude
‘I want to remember how good this feels,’ I said to myself out loud, wading into the sea with my arms splashing clear blue water up the skies, laughing, finding myself in the most exquisite of states: contentedness. ‘This. This is the feeling I’ve been chasing.’

I let out a silent prayer of thanks, turning my face up to the low summer sun that was beginning its evening hiding practice behind the terracotta houses of the coast.

I was in Sicily, drunk on a little too much sun and a whole lotta love. My housemates, the ones I live with in London, had flown out to pass my final days in Italy with me, and together we’d taken Palermo by storm. From 4 a.m. piazza drinking and flirting with the locals, to trips to Europe’s largest theatre to see beautiful ballet and glimpse a piece of history; from backstreet markets and seaside seafood restaurants to prosecco by the bottle and pasta by the greedy forkful, I was suddenly sharing a slice of the country that made me with two of the people who’d made me. Two parts of what has mostly been kept very separate indeed – my “London Life” and my “Italy life” -- were colliding in a magnificent, beautiful way, and in many senses that’s what my two months away has done for me. It has brought together parts of a puzzle to make them a whole picture. My personal history met my current reality; the Laura who wears a backpack and no watch has met with the Laura who keeps a strict schedule and worries about bedtime and If This Is The Right Career Move and What It All Means. 

Monday, 30 June 2014

The Letter

‘Here,’ mama said, after she’d unpacked her bags in the Sardinian villa we were to share, as a family, for the next eight days. ‘Your Auntie Shirley sent this with me.’

Dear Auntie Shirley, the envelope read on the back. Today is August 25th 2012, and so this is a letter from the past, to my future self. I didn’t know where I’d live, or where mum and dad would live, so I’m sending this to myself at your address. I hope that’s okay! Love you!

I stared at the letter in my hands. I didn’t open it for a week.

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