Saturdays

Rays beam through the broken blind, waking us slowly, gently, from a long, deep sleep. I slide out – you spread out – stretch your limbs to my side, eyes closed, your lips curl into a blissful-sleep-smile. Tea. Berries. Toast. Papers. Books. Talking. Laughter. Radio. Slow. Lazy. Calm. Hazy. Warm. Light. Settled. Zen. But today,

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Tall Women

Recently I’ve heard a lot of tall women boasting about their height and putting down smaller women for being small. I think it’s a facade, because often tall women are self-conscious about their height. I consider myself to be a tall woman and sometimes feel less feminine because of it. So do my other ‘tall’

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Ode to Mango

Mango, my fruit, you’re summer on my tongue. I can’t dispute I’ve eaten you young: when raw on a Vietnamese green mango salad but also when ripe – a (mature) mango frisson. In India, when 19, I experienced malade when I was told I’d missed mango season. by Annie Ridout

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Emma (for Jane)

She traces her finger over dark polished narrowboats: maroon, forest green, mustard yellow, deep red. “My life,” she explains, (bright red lips, bright red nails) “is lived out on my boat, making art; making food.” Then she leads us through to her Garden of Dreams – chairs are comically small; empty frames; engraved wood and

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The Floating Supper Club

Last night my wonderful friend Jane Howard took me on the most magical (double) date ever. We went to eat delicious dinner on Emma Freemantle’s narrowboat, moored in Lisson Grove… It felt like we were in the countryside. Such a beautiful evening. I wrote a poem about it, which I’ll post separately… This was the

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