chasing ghosts.

by kimberley veart

Woody Allen and I share a malady, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

We both are sufferers of the condition of 'nostalgia' and long for our spiritual homes in our idealised, rose hued visions of past decades. He wishes for the twenties, the 'golden age', when apparently walking in the rain in Paris was common practice.

I long for the sixties. For the time when Mary Quant dresses were in, the Beatles and their bowl cuts reigned and Edie Sedgewick was still Andy Warhol's muse.

somebody that i used to know.

by kimberley veart

We used to fit so well, it was all so comfortable.

We wore each other out, I suppose. Mended and patched until we matched.

You were like the trusty sweater I could reach for when the days turned cold. I knew (well, I thought) you would always protect me and brighten me up as the world grew grey. 

millenium babies.

by charlotte guest

If we work off averages, I have just entered the second quarter of my life.

This makes me an elder to the millennium babies. As such, I expect reasonable levels of respect from these children, expressed in the form of manners.

Now this is no militant imposition of stuffy rules of address or behavioural procedures, it's simply a matter of being polite and acknowledging that because I have a bigger digit, I am therefore better.