Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me as I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I could not enter... for the way was barred to me. Then, like all dreamers, I was possessed all of a sudden with supernatural powers... and passed like a spirit through the barrier before me. The drive wound away in front of me, twisting and turning as it had always done. But as I advanced, I was aware that a change had come upon it. Nature had come into her own again, and little by little had encroached upon the drive... On and on wound the poor thread that had once been our drive... and finally there was Manderley.
I love Tori Amos’ music just embodies her. I’m listening to Midwinter Graces which I got for Christmas (I realise this probably wasn’t my smartest move as I end up feeling festive at inappropriate times of the year) and it’s absolutely beautiful.
It’s alternative, quirky, a little mysterious, with a touch of weird, and just downright beautiful. All the things I love about Tori.
I adore her voice, that unique, different quality she brings to her music - from strange lyrics or ideas, to the way she pronounces words.
“Sometimes when you throw a shovelful of dirt in a girl’s face and that girl botches up your essay on Martin Luther, it means you’re in love. Which is a lesson Jenny Hartmann learned from Emma Müller. But Jenny was a teacher too. She taught us about the catharsis of pizza ballet, the joy of sparkly jeggings, and the truth that love conquers all — even freak bus accidents and airplane crashes.”
I’m scared that eventually the day will come where we won’t speak at all. I’ll just be another person in your friends list, the daughter of the guy you used to date years ago, who you don’t speak to either.
All you’ve ever wanted was to be involved somehow in the theatre, and now you’re getting there. You’re doing all these amazing courses, getting all these amazing qualifications that I don’t understand, and have fabulous theatrical friends who are more than I’ll ever be. And in a completely selfish way, I hope you don’t quite get everything you want, because then I’ll lose your friendship completely.
I know I was young when I told you that when you and Dad split up it was like going through my parents separating again - that you filled the role of a step-dad, but because you were younger than my father, you also took on the role of an older brother to me, but I meant it. I still mean it now at the age of 21.
For some reason I have always admired you, adored you, looked up to you, worshipped the ground you walked on since I was six years old. You were a God to me then. I should be able to cut myself off from that now, especially as I’m lucky if I see you more than once a year, and am surprised when I get a ‘like’ or a comment on Facebook because it means you’ve remembered me, but I can’t.
I know you and Dad haven’t been together for over a decade now, I know you’ll probably never be able to be together again, that it just wouldn’t work. That’s fine. I’m not sure I’d even want that anymore. But you’ve no idea how much I miss the relationship we used to have then.
I don’t think you realise that when you walk into a room you change the air. When you came over to the last family BBQ we had, you were center of attention - people were asking me all day who you were, and commenting on how much they liked you. You’ve always had that effect. You still do with me; I’m still a bit in awe of you like I was when I was six. Missing you, feeling sometimes like I mean less to you still makes me cry. You’re probably the only man that has the ability to do that to me.
If I was someone else I might beg you to stay in my life because you were always such an important part of it, but I won’t. Either go now, and don’t come back, or stay…properly. Don’t leave me hanging in the middle.
I adored Meryl’s Oscar speech, and I think so did everyone else who was there.
She ticked all of the boxes really - the opening of her speech was ridiculously funny, she very movingly thanked her husband first, and then went on to thank her colleages, but most of all her friends who meant the most to her. It wasn’t too long, she didn’t have to be cut off, and she can’t be criticised again for stumbling over her words or swearing!
I even had a small tear, though I don’t think Sandra Bullock was complete dry-eyed by the looks of her!
I am sick of airbrushed women. From where I’m sat, I can see the ‘Fabulous’ supplement from The Sun, and the ‘Style’ supplement from The Sunday Times. Both cover fashion, food and famous faces – although their ideas about what constitutes ‘good’ examples of these things are understandably…
Sometimes I wonder if I’m just the “gay friend” - that some people are only friends with me because my sexuality fascinates and amuses them.
It would be interesting to see if I could go a week without hearing a gay joke.
I don’t mind people being light hearted about my sexuality - I’m gay and I couldn’t care less. My Dad’s gay too and he used to say if there was a straight pill he’d take it, no question. I wouldn’t. I like who I am. I just don’t want to be defined by it.
What do these people see when they look at me? Do they see a person who is nice, friendly, interesting? (okay I’m not but you know what I mean) a person who has likes, dislikes, interests, feelings, ideas, hobbies?