Hampstead Heath

Heath, Heath, I need you Heath!

On a message board on mummy bloggers once, lots of mummies said they draft their posts before they post them.

Me and stiggers, we never do this, we just write. It's wierd, it's very strange. In my journo days, my masters days, I wrote so many drafts a veritable typhoon would scatter my paper everywhere. My flat's messy because I don't tidy up, not because I edit edit edit.

My vague plan of blogging 'my weekend' though, needs planning, not only because it's turned out to be bigger than I imagined, but also because blogs work backwards and well, it just make more sense reading it forwards. Things can go back to normal afterwards.

When I get to the Heath, the light is fading. Maybe I'll just bullet point 'chapters', not that I'll forget what I did but it may stop me getting carried away with all the angry feelings.

I sit on a bench at a table, light a fag and cast my mind way way back to Saturday morning.

1. The gift subscription
2. Bazza's Boot Camp
3. Putney

My hands are freezing, my lighter won't reignite my cigarette. "Message from the dark side there is" It's the Foca saying he 's sent me another email. I snap the phone shut. GO TO HELL and then it begins to rain. Pitter patter pitter patter. AAARGH.

I can't go home. I can't go home. Kalender Cafe on Swains Lane. I'll take my stuff and write there.

Steve phones: "I'm on the heath, where are you?"
"I'm on the heath too, about to go to Swains Lane."
"I'm on the Hampstead side. Where's Swains Lane?"

I tell him, I tell him he can take his time. I've known Steve for so long. I need someone who knows me to be with me tonight. I look up to the sky and say thank you.