Am I supposed to write in here daily?

Two days since my London-Paris-London trip and already the memories are all but lingering on the edge of today and the dawn of a Greek summer.

I've had one song on loop in my mind all day: 'Hit Me With Your Best Shot'. More than once I've wondered, whose shot? but then I forget again and continue my indoor singing which consists of the five words in the title... I don't know the rest of the lyrics.
Alas, it is one of those sad times when I am crushless. Mega-alas, this is not unusual. I'm as pretty/ nice/ smart/ fucked up as the next person so most people are surprised to hear that I am chronically single. The simple truth is that I don't often meet guys with whom I click. Or girls for that matter. Oh well.

I took a picture of myself with a polaroid camera and wished I had a friend to mess about with. That reminded me of my unemployedom and now I'm feeling all incompetent and stuff. I shouldn't. I mean, I have been writing a book and all that jazz. Somehow, things only seem to matter when somebody else gives you credit. Gods of the agents, make them publish my book.

On the plus side I saw a psychic the other day and she said lots of good little things about me. She told me some things I already knew, like how I have so many angels protecting me that I glow (I bet I just lost one for feeling smug). My Mommy has said that to me a couple of times. I don't believe in God but I'm spiritual fo' shiz.

Paris is a dirty city full of skanks. I loved it. Not for those reasons. Pixie and I made it into Our Paris, complete with cheese, baguettes, four-poster beds, designer dresses, cocktails and espressos. For the city of love... well let's just say that there aren't a lot of good-looking genes in Paris. I had two encounters with men. One brushed up against my derriere three times, accidentally I'm sure, and the other was a green-eyed god who was attending a funeral at the time.
No wonder my mother despairs of me.

I was away for a week. In Brick Lane on Friday I wore 5 layers (a corset, a t-shirt, a vest, a cardigan and a jacket) and froze my toes off on every cigarette break. On Saturday, dirty, hungover and broke, I flew home. As soon as I landed in Athens I shed my clothes like petals. I got rid of my duvet. I flipped my winter wardrobe into a suitcase and flung out my summer one. Oh summer, how I have missed you! I can already smell the salt, the sweat... you can smell the heat in Greece. You can feel heat, not as a temperature, but as a something tangible, hot hands suffocating you, paralysing you.

Pixie and I are in talks to go study French in Paris at the end of the year. Bring it on, I say. Then I'll be off to Australia for a few months. I'll see my friend who just got knocked up, save some cash and then meet Pixie again, only in South America this time. I'm positive that we won't be able to resist New York on the way back. Ah New York... one say we shall meet and it shall be sweet.

Huh and I thought the poet in me was dormant.