the new year

the air is cold without being bitter. the nights close earlier than usual. the holly persists with it's growth and the moon has apparently put in a request for it's own time zone. the new year is here even if the date does not say so. i say so, though. welcome all- welcome to the new year.

this is year four.

i've been working on this particular blog for around two fiscal years now, so the categories that the posts fall in only imitate the span of years, rather than truly chronicling a genuine 12 month period. hence, my new year has now begun.

"the caravan girl" has had her refresh for the calendar change, and the writing will continue in this lovely gorgeous new font. we have progressed from one "georgia" onto "lora". it's more of an open and expressive typography choice, but one i'm glad to make. jesus. am i too pretentious? what font am i using? who gives a shit! 

anyway, settle in folks as we're going for a longer read today. grab your lukewarm and forgotten cups of tea from hours passed and reheat! pop those kernels! fluff those pillows! get comfortable and BEGIN. turn your cellular device onto do not disturb! this must be done right.

♠  ♣  ♥  ♦

i thought the clock was broken when i saw that it said twenty to five. typically i'm a steady sleeper- i don't party much, i'm not big on being incapacitated. my makeup is smudged around the cheeks, blotchy in places, and my hair has lost it's earlier ringlets in favour of a matted wavy mess. i scrape a toothbrush along my pearly whites and pick the cack out from the corner of my eyes while the half-gnawed paint flakes and falls from my fingernails into the sink. i spit, rinse, wash face. upon turning around to dry, i find that the sorry effort of a towel (essentially a kitchen cloth in material) is scrunched up on top of the rail rather than being tucked neatly down either side. no matter. i unfold and dry.

the bathroom is cluttered; no floral bath mats are anywhere to be found, and a single moisturising cream lays defeated with lack of use atop a low shelving unit. the garden is visible from the window, but not accessible for the house. shame. i breathe in the cool air and the damp smell reminds me of my dearest readers old bathroom. i think of that house and my past life and wonder if the book i posted to him last month ever made it through the mail. i think of the last time i saw him and how final it seemed, and the quiet subtext of old lovers parting ways for the last time as strangers who just know each other very well- a calming and easing thought. unlike the new bruise acquired on my shin which has yellowed slightly around the corners. eugh.

i check the time again- 4:45am. the lock on the door gets stuck and i quietly heckle the little shit piece of metal to "fucking open" before resorting to a brief segment of daydreaming wherein i imagine myself a policewoman kicking the door down to find a dead body on the other side of the bathroom entrance, instead of a shared house of uni boys. while i'm considering my authoritarian potential, the lock jimmys undone and i am freed. 

have you ever had five large glasses of wine, turned off all the lights, and tried to walk up the stairs of a home you have only sparsely frequented? i wouldn't recommend it!

when i finally make it to bed i, being the silly fool that i often am, promptly whack my head on the ceiling (it's slanted, you mustn't laugh) and fall to a deep and recovering sleep in a stolen crimson knitted jumper. 

when the morning came there was no indication of it; the skylight secured a lie-in lasting until twelve noon, at which point breakfast of a pain au chocolat and a cup of tea were acquired.

while digesting the patisserie and awaiting a temperature change of the tea, images and other media slowly filter through my phone from rosie & sorcha of last night's escapades. a cheeky kiss for them both, many an anecdote shared, laugh after laugh. the girls get along swimmingly, and we've all agreed that the friendship must continue. i flick through each picture and feel a steady warmth knowing that i am indeed loved and cared for, as they are. with a crap attention span and lack of willpower, my focus is diverted swfitly to tiktok where i consider for the millionth time the dead internet theory. this lasts around thirty seconds, until the choice is made to move from one chair to another just to have something to do.

the leather sofa of the living room makes a creaky sound when provoked, and i find that i fit perfectly between the two arm rests when lying horizontally. in this position, i take a minute to scan my surroundings as a soup is prepared in my honour. on the wall to my left, a poster of King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard (or whatever theyre called). on the wall to my right, King Krule. upon the dining room table lies a gingham checked table cloth with stains of unknown origin.

my mug has become cool enough to drink from, and a little sugar has accumulated and crystallised on the rim. i let myself become a small child again and take to licking it off with extreme delight, as the smell of homemade tomato soup tenderly weaves itself through my airways. i am told that it contains roasted peppers, onions, and garlic alongside the titular ingredient, with vegetable stock and an amalgamation of herby seasonings i shall not list for fear of your boredom while reading (and i cant bloody remember). the taste, however, was unparalleled. paired with a buttered baguette, i consumed less than half of my portion before calling it a day (beautiful, yet filling) and abdicated my crown as head of the dinner table in favour of a perch upon the creaking leather once again, 

joined swiftly by said soup maker.

with a light kiss upon my forehead, he threatens that the stolen scarlet sweater is actually not meant for me to commandeer, and i argue that it suits me better, at which point he regrettably  concedes in his efforts to dis-sway my love for the six quid steal. i lean into him and his hands find my hair, softly tucking strands behind an ear which he whispers deadly pretty things into. a conservatory. a wood-burner. a library (with a ladder that slides along the shelves to reach the top, of course. like in beauty and the beast). his arms have a strength behind them, and i find myself stilled by their safety. 

we spend the rest of the afternoon in and out of each other's arms, discussing anything and everything. i prod him for extra information on his life and opinions and feelings, and we speak only in rhyme for a short while. he shows me new music. i breathe him in. in the light, his eyes are green. in my arms, his eyes are closed. we share similar goals, values, morals. we have small things in common which we take excitement from. we discuss book recommendations and i find myself thinking about how lovely it would be to just sit together and read. a comforting notion.

the evening came quickly and he had to travel back home, as did i. i got a bus after a decent food shop and made a toad in the hole. i finished watching the office again and started fleabag again and made another cup of tea.

i'm home in an empty house, now. nick drake is on shuffle and a candle is burning. i reread everything i've just written and realise it's a glorified diary entry, which isn't my usual standard of writing upon this here blog. and then i remember what i just watched, and think on Pam's closing line: 

"there's alot of beauty in ordinary things, isn't that kind of the point?"

welcome to the new year everybody. 

sincerely, the caravan girl.