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Frieze week in London, with exciting meals cooked for Chelsea Manning and Vivianne Westwood. Proud moments with tears in the kitchen and moody chefs with their edges. I bought a new knife sharper which sticks to the bench for safety during use. I’m now sat on the bottom step of the stairs onlooking St. James’ Park. On my break. Another evening hosting nouveau-art-folk and their fur coats hung off the back of chairs.

I take my head out of this book. Clear blue skies.

#writing #allisa murphy mcfarlen #thoughts #2018 #london #st james park

Back and forth I go swinging off the low branches, softly falling on the forests floor. Today I reach for the branch slightly higher then my last. One that will bring a new point of view revealing a new angle of my current surroundings. His face never looked that way before. Did her voice always sound like that? How long have you had those shoes? “I’ve been wearing them all year.” I don’t jump straight for the next highest branch, it’s simply too unsteady by the looks of it. I don’t think it could carry my weight. So I’ll stay here for a while. Hugging to the trunk of the tea, planning my exit route. It’s easier to climb up a tree, then to climb down.

Cows in shades of brown lining the green grass. Heads down, chewing slow. Wagging tails, happy and easy. In the train I’m worrying. Deep breaths, head lost in the passing clouds. Sucking on a butterscotch candy, craving the warmth of a cup of tea and the soothing voice of a lover. Gotta keep your confidence up. Hum a helpful mantra for a bit and put trust in. Glasgow, a city so green, pleasures spread, new ones to sow.

#allisa murphy mcfarlen #writing #london #glasgow

Sitting here at my desk full moon in strawberry.

I wear my long orange dress to impress you who is missing in action. But, your name is in the mouth of others, asking me where you are.

I respond with enthusiasm, saying we spoke earlier but nothing since then. Knowing that I wouldn’t hear from you until much later.

#writing #writer #allisa murphy mcfarlen

Blue carpets, well looked after. They probably get a cleaning every few days or so. A deliciously dive-able sea of blue cascading the floors to the tippy toe shores of the kitchen. Clean and operating at a calm level of busy. Its lunch time and people are hungry even in the summers relentless heat.

Finished.

Fritto misto - zucchini flowers, polenta, peppers, rainbow chard, lemon and others wrapped in blankets of crispy thin layered batter. A feast for the eyes and the stomach. I planned for a light lunch and this was certainly not that. Not the kind of heaviness you’d expect from an evening of fried goodness from your local pub or greasy spoon. Civilised food. Waitresses in dresses, and men in button downs. Parading the lanes of tables dressed in pastel.

Chocolate nemesis is next, and my nemesis I will meet. I’ve been trying to make this dessert on my own and it’s proved to be such. I wonder if mine will compare to their version at all? Oh fuck, first bite. Not at all. This is already infinitely better. I have to figure out how they did this. Only I’m too shy to go up and ask them myself. So I’ll stay in my chair positioned towards the kitchen, and honour each bite.

The real star of the show came first. Focaccia. Light. Salty and the perfect pillow for olive oil.

If heaven is a place, this is Londons.