5 years of birthdays

33
The year I ran a marathon, went to Hydra, got my first 'proper' book deal. My dad took me out to lunch on my birthday and told the waitress my book was being published. We drank champagne.
The last birthday I would spend with my first serious boyfriend. I wonder now how much I realised it at the time. I spent every birthday with him from 22 to 33. Things fell apart very quickly after this one.

34
Alone, drinking wine in an art gallery in Hastings while I waited for my then-boyfriend to finish a meeting with a French lady curator. We got fish and chips on the way home. My first book came out the next day. I was hungover and anxious, and felt I couldn't complain.

35
A weekday and nobody to spend it with. I went to work. I was supposed to go out to dinner with my mum, but a mix-up meant we met for a very quick drink and I was on the train back to Brighton by 7pm. Alone, drinking wine and smoking in the garden. Had a little cry.

36
On holiday in Spain with my nan. Sea swimming. Much gin. Tying myself in knots over a boyfriend who turned out to be the worst one I ever had. Things soon got worse, then better.

37
Paris. Patti Smith. A garden full of pals. The last birthday I would spend with Lily. Things were pretty good, soon to get much better.

38
Tomorrow.

Nearly a year

It's my birthday on Sunday. I will be 38 years old.

'Do you remember what I said to you, this time last year? I knew it was going to be your year,' a wise friend said to me this morning. 'And it has been!'

It's been a BIG year, at least. A lot has happened. It's all happened quickly.

I've had a lot of adventures. I've been to some new countries. (Finland and Russia, since I last posted here!)

I've cleared out a lot of stuff. I've given up smoking. I've cut off all my hair. I feel Kon-Mari-ed to the absolute core.

Last year I had a birthday party and invited an interesting new friend. A month later we decided on a whim to go on holiday together. We've lived in the same house for six months now.

In my writing life, I've taken some risks that have paid off. I feel like I've made progress and got better at some of the things I do. I've started trying out some new ideas.

It's only been possible because I laid the groundwork first. When I turned 36, I realised that if I was not at rock-bottom, then at the very least things had to change. A month after my birthday, I called a therapist and when she asked how she could help me, I cried so hard I couldn't speak. I've been seeing her every week for nearly two years now, and I know that I wouldn't have the relationship I have or be doing the writing I am doing now if I hadn't made that call.

This time last year, when I turned 37, I spent the day before my birthday in Paris. I felt so much happier in myself but I also felt in flux, ready for things to change.

I know as well as anyone that life can change in a minute, for better or worse. Whatever happens, I feel for the first time like I'll be OK.

I am a solid fucking grown-up woman. It feels great.

Things I learned in Japan.

• Girls in Tokyo are wearing a lot of very wide-legged jeans and I am into it.
• Cherry blossom season in Japan is much more magical than anything you have ever seen.
• J-pop 4 ever (esp. Nucleus).
• Pizza man. OMG.
• I really like taking my shoes off and sleeping on the floor, wherever I am.
• Buy a jacket.
• Tap is my all-time Terrace House favourite.
• Breakfast cake.
• Get up early in Kyoto to see geishas.
• Why *not* just wear dungarees very day?
• I now genuinely miss having a lavatory that talks to me, plays music and has a heated seat.
• Harajuku is for real everything you would hope and dream.
• It's not as hard as you might think to communicate/get around/not be permanently confused, and you should definitely go. Definitely.
• Go and see Japanese wrestling.
• It's fun to pretend to be a rapper when hanging out in Roppongi.
• Pretty much everyone you see will be awesome and you will kind of want to be them.
• The deer in Nara Park are, as they say, everything.
• Plum wine highballs.
• MOS Burger.
• Read 'Strange Weather In Tokyo' with a pretty cover, ostentatiously, in hipster coffee shops all over Japan. Not even necessarily Tokyo.
• Vegan ramen is good when you find it.
• I would like to move to Japan.

How is Susie doing?

If I love you, I will show that love by sending you books, book recommendations and links to articles you never asked for.

Often these will be from the deepest depths of the 'Ask Polly' archive. I recently sent this one to a woman dear to my heart who I thought needed it in her life, then was so inspired I decided to post it on Twitter... and promptly received messages from three people who thought I had broken up with my boyfriend. I appreciated the concern but was mildly embarrassed at the fuss I had caused. I have not broken up with my boyfriend. Incidentally, I still think that article is useful for most women, regardless of the details.

In my opinion, the best books to give to friends having a hard time, depending on their sensibility and situation, are:

• Heartburn by Nora Ephron
• Your Voice In My Head by Emma Forrest
• The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion
• The Rules Do Not Apply by Ariel Levy
• I'll Give You The Sun by Jandy Nelson
• Riders by Jilly Cooper

You may already know about Nick Cave's Red Hand Files. If you do, aren't they beautiful, wonderful and life-affirming?

If you don't, here's a tip because I love you. Following his 'in conversation' events, Nick Cave has started a letter (I don't want to call this a 'newsletter' or an email, because it feels like a truly intimate, personal letter). You can send Nick Cave any question you want to, and you can sign up to receive all of the answers.

My question has not been answered yet, but - again - every response has inspired me, even if it is not a question I would have thought to ask myself.

This week's felt apt and, duly, I forwarded it on to a loved one. This time last year I was in Korea, on possibly the strangest trip of my life so far. This time last year, in a tragic and senseless accident, the world lost one of its best people, and is a far poorer place for it.

This song is in my head today. Written by Rowland S. Howard when he was a teenager and sung here by a baby Nick Cave, I think I would like it played at my funeral. Which, these days, I honestly hope is a long way away. We are so fucking lucky to be here.

Things that have annoyed me today

Because that's the sort of mood I'm in.

I've been trying and failing to finish writing anything for the past few days. I'm gearing up to doing a big edit on A Thing, which will see me not leaving my house or partaking in any kind of social interaction for the next fortnight (but then I am going to Japan!). I started writing a list of 'The men you meet when you are in hell', which amused me briefly but then was too depressing to finish.

I have a lot of feelings and ideas I want to communicate (as usual), but all I'm good for is a listicle. Here is one. I'm into being petty at the moment.

• The man in my office who asked me this morning WHEN'S INTERNATIONAL MEN'S DAY (answer: 19th November and also why are you so fragile that you're threatened by a day celebrating anybody other than you; see also: WHY IS THERE NO STRAIGHT PRIDE)
• The inappropriate brands trying to use IWD to sell me stuff. Apparently I'm pretty angry about International Women's Day all round, which is a shame
• The fact that I spent an hour this week carefully composing a polite reply to a sort-of ex who wanted to meet out of the blue for a drink - it was only after I sent it that it occurred to me I should have replied 'fuck off'
• The woman I barely know, who said 'you really don't like having your photo taken, do you?' to me in a patronising voice, as if that meant I must be really insecure, when actually I don't give a shit - it was only afterwards that it occurred to me to be angry about this. I still am. See above: fuck off
• I saw some great dungarees today but they were £150. I actually thought briefly about buying them (I'd wear them loads! I never buy new clothes! I am 37 and today I'm literally wearing a dress I bought when I was 29! From Peacocks!). Then I decided to spend the money on a microphone for a New Thing I am planning. I felt pleased about this decision. So it's not all rage.

In other news: I watched 'Train to Busan' last night and it's the best film I have seen in ages. It's definitely the best zombie film I've ever seen. I cried a lot, jumped out of my seat and felt like I had lived through a profound experience by the end. If you haven't watched it, do.

Also currently selling a lot of stuff on Depop. Watching Parks and Rec. Made some great vegan pancakes. Actually kind of excited about getting down to some serious work over the next little while.

A jolly Valentine's Day scene.

ECW, an unconventionally semi-attractive woman in her late 30s. Wearing red lipstick, leopard faux-fur coat, yellow Adidas Gazelles that were a charity shop steal.

Sainsbury’s, a Thursday afternoon.

ECW walks up to the till with a pot of hummus, a bottle of Cava and a bunch of £2.50 purple tulips.

She has just been out for half a bottle of wine with her girlfriends on her lunch break. She is in a hurry.

WELL-MEANING MAN AT TILL: Flowers! Champagne! What are you celebrating?

ECW: Well, it is Valentine’s day.

MAN: But who are these things for? Shouldn’t someone be buying flowers for you?

ECW: I don’t like to be too heteronormative about these things. Purple is my boyfriend’s favourite colour. He likes flowers.

MAN: Oh, I’m sorry! I hope he has bought flowers for you!

ECW: Um, I’m fine. Thank you.

ECW walks back to her office, holding flowers.

WELL-MEANING WORK COLLEAGUE: Oh dear! Have you bought flowers for yourself? Is that what it’s come to? I’m sorry!

ECW: DON’T YOU LIKE FLOWERS AND DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND HOW HETERONORMATIVE CULTURE DOES US ALL A TERRIBLE DISSERVICE?

COLLEAGUE: I’m sorry, what?

ECW: They’re for my boyfriend. He likes flowers. Purple is his favourite colour. I would like him to know that I appreciate him.

COLLEAGUE: Haha, you should have said they were for your girlfriend. That would have taught a lesson to that bigoted arsehole in the shop.

ECW: Yep. OK. FFS.

Courting and Sparking Joy

It’s way beyond the point of ‘happy new year’ but we’re into the second month of 2019 and I have not written anything in this little online diary. Which is sporadic and self-indulgent, but also a thing that I would like to keep going.

It is a source of minor regret to me that I deleted my old blogs, from back when blogging was first a thing. When I interned at The Face (RIP), I was once asked in an editorial meeting whether I knew anyone who had a ‘weblog’. I went home that night and promptly started one.

‘Lights Out In A Provincial Town’ (circa 2002 to 2003?) chronicled my life as a single gal, aimless writer and comedically useless office temp. I spent most of my time at work in various companies – wearing a grey velvet trouser suit I’d bought in Kensington Market, always with a deliberately lurid 70s shirt underneath – making copies of my fanzine and using the franking machine to submit my unfinished novel to agents.

I posted in my blog daily, as I went out every single night and had a lot of feelings to write about. I chronicled my crushes, nights out and comedowns in great, loving detail. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to be Carrie Bradshaw or Sylvia Plath, the tone veering wildly accordingly, but I was fascinated by myself and the people around me. (Still am.)

I described my outfits in painstaking detail. A night out at Popstarz could fill a novella, an afternoon in Bar Vinyl at least a short story. I remember writing a long account of the time I was on the tube with a hangover and thought I saw my ex-boyfriend in the next carriage. Shyamalan- level plot twist: it turned out not to be him.

My friends and crushes all had pseudonyms. My flatmate was Alabama (she had blonde hair and we used to watch True Romance a lot). My paramours were variously Django (jazz guitarist), Spiderboy (skinny), Friedrich Bhaer (older academic), 50s Diner Waiter (worked in Ed’s Diner, I met him on Friendster). I can’t remember the others. There were SO many. Like, so many.

Neil, Russell and Jo all had blogs, too. We would read each other’s, daily, in between going charity shopping and clubbing together in order to amass more stories. We didn’t even call it content then, yet.

In 2004, when I was 22, I met my first serious boyfriend. We bonded over PJ Harvey and French films. We met in a guitar shop, which would have made a great story, but I wouldn’t write about it for a long time. By that time, I had joined a band (haha), and adopted a look that would probably be best described as ‘Margot Ledbetter on meth’. I dressed exclusively in 60s vintage, favouring bell sleeves and chiffon. I wore high heels every day (an alien concept to me now). My eyeliner stretched out into my temples and my hair was as tall as a small dog.

I felt like such a cool grown-up. Within a year I had moved to Brighton and finished my first ‘proper’ novel, the one that would get me an agent. As such, I deleted my blog, which was mostly about shagging unsuitable men and taking a lot of drugs.

It felt like a good time to start anew. So I started a new blog, entitled ‘Shocking Blues and Mean Reds’, which was mostly about music and my boyfriend and my fledgling attempts at Being A Novelist.

It wasn’t, in all honesty, terribly interesting. It didn’t last long. I abandoned blogging entirely, got serious about writing, got a real job in publishing where I didn’t come in hungover and spend the whole day stalking boys in bands on MySpace. I kind of forgot about it.

I started this one up years later, when I was getting close to turning 30 and feeling nostalgic for all that ‘fun’ writing I used to do. Reading those old entries back now makes me cringe a bit, but I’m quite glad they exist.

I am a hoarder who goes through spells of being slightly over-zealous in throwing the past away. I still sort of regret getting rid of my old Nirvana T-shirts and Sonic Youth cassette tapes. I kind of wish I still had all my VHS videos. Do I really, though? Are they even as great as I remember?

I’ve been purging recently. My boyfriend has moved into my house and I felt overwhelmed with stuff and things. I gave away nearly half of my books and most of my clothes. I finally got rid of some of those old Margot dresses, which haven’t fitted me for years but which held so many memories (and the residual scent of industrial-strength hairspray and a thousand cigarettes). I told myself the memories still existed; I didn’t need the objects.

On a quiet day by myself, I lit the fire and burned some old letters and photographs, applying the same logic. It felt pretty good, actually. I really don’t think I, or the world, need to hang onto a whole ream of pictures of my ex and I the first time we went to Paris together.

This week it was Chinese New Year. In advance, according to traditional advice, I cut an inch or two off the bottom of my hair. I did it myself, over the bin. Apparently it’s about getting rid of the old and making space for the growth of the new. I think I like it.