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Written at the beginning of the pandemic back in March (there are definitely no daffodils in the garden right now, on the last day of November!). But the feeling still holds, eight months later. ‘We are all enmeshed, there are no boundaries. To protect what we love, our love must be boundless, expanding; as open […]

When I was a kid we did a lot of loitering. Banished from the house till dark we’d hang around the flats or the stream or the park, knee-deep in frogspawn, idling up a tree, kicking a ball till nighttime crept around us or we were chased off by the parkie. And there was plenty of intent in our loitering: flirting, showing off, escaping. Being a witch or pterodactyl or George Best weaving through the trees. Crushing roses and leaves between our hands and smearing our necks to make our own pubescent perfume. Staring at the moon, luminous, the grass frosted by its glow. Most of the time we had no idea what we were doing, we just wanted to be out there, part of what was happening, be one of one of the gangs. There was no conscious intention but just to be.