#its so goodge...

[iababa]

[birdsofparadise747]

Irenosen OKOJIE -- Walk with Sleep

The bomb shelters resembled museums waiting for the flurry of movement. At each one—Camden Town, Belsize Park, Goodge Street, Chancery Lane, Stockwell, Clapham North—there was no exit for underground jumpers. 

Brick ventilation shafts on the roofs of tunnels waited for them. At Clapham South, shelter doors whispered. ‘The big lift was still in use. Haji and October rode it several times, watching expectantly as the door creaked open. They slid down the spiral staircase that burrowed into the tunnel. At the bottom, the walls bore directions for a canteen, shelter and medical areas. The empty control room was dusty with bits of wood in corners. ‘They stroked the old board missing its emergency alarms. The bunks rolled out one after another, empty of bodies. It was like a forgotten town, ready for them to invent their own subterranean language. October discovered a broken safe storing abandoned government files, filled with documents on World War IT. She pored over them. ‘They wandered the rooms, running their hands over items.

Haji told her about his constant battle to feel at home in his own body while he'd been alive. He had never been diagnosed, never sought the advice of medical professionals but he'd always known something wasn't quite right. The random attacks of disconnection he experienced made him feel awkward around people. At social gatherings he found himself holding his breath, watching and waiting for the body parts he couldn't feel to appear at the opposite end of the room, his leg parting through the crowd towards him to claim ownership, his arm bruised from all the times it had attempted to lift Nuri off the ground after it was too late. Once at a gallery launch, he'd been so panicked that he had spilled his glass of white wine on the pristine white tablecloth, leaving a baffled group of people to rush into the toilet. There, he had felt his face in the mirror frantically, convinced it was made up from the parts of others. Haji had curled into a ball on the cubicle floor, wanting to flush his head down the toilet.

Sitting up on an empty bunk listening to him, October began to whimper softly.

“You've been here a long time haven't you? Years,” she said, wiping her tears, trying to steady her rising shoulders and the panic in her voice.

He nodded gravely. “It’s a funny place this world, there’s no artifice. Somehow, I feel more of a sense of myself here without all the noise.”

“But don't you feel lonely?” October asked, searching his face.

He laughed, running a finger over the space on his shirt a button had come off. “I felt lonelier out there, surrounded by all those people chasing ideas of happiness that weren't even theirs.” The silence that followed felt thick, melancholic.

October was grateful Betty had dozed off. “I remembered something earlier,” she said, stumbling over her words a little. “When I bought Betty, the lady at the shop who served me said, ‘I still do that sometimes.’ What do you think she meant?” 

Haji did not answer but smiled patiently instead, watching her hands morph into small traps.

Before 

On the morning of her audition October counted thirty women in the cold, narrow audition hallway, imagining wax figures of everybody melting on a conveyor belt that stopped each time a figure flattened. She sat wringing her hands nervously, every now and again looking at the white audition room door at the far end of the hallway. It swung open each time an actress walked out, creaking loudly in satisfaction. At the opposite end, the water machine chugged, dampening the sounds of heels clicking in the various rooms. Large headshots of famous, successful actors and actresses lined the walls. October watched each one take a bite from the same never-ending piece of cake before passing it on. Sated, the actors’ bodies then leaned forward, threatening to leave their frames to wander the long hallway mockingly.

She'd gone to twenty-five different auditions in the last month and hadn't gotten one central role; only features as an extra in Eastenders, Holby City and Coronation Street. She was planning to try her luck with theatre instead to see how that panned out. She'd visited The Tricycle Theatre a few times, starring at their posters, drinking at the bar and waiting for the actors to emerge from their heady nights of performance.

She took a deep breath and the conveyor belt now surrounded her, the wax figures had disappeared but the actresses in various states of undress held items October recognised; a pair of torn period-stained tights, a pale parasite that had begun to grow tiny legs on her bedroom window sill at nights, her mother’s gold ring she'd had to sell to help pay rent months back. She blinked the image away and the women were all back in their seats again, restless, adjusting their costumes, checking their reflections for silences in small make-up mirrors.

She took another deep breath, aware of every leg uncrossing, every panicked whisper, every body leaning towards an invisible, darkening line. She ran her lines over in her head to keep her calm.

When the heavyset woman with a severe bun and a clipboard called her name, October stood up steadily, sensing the eyes of the other actresses on her but not the faintest of smirks on some of their faces.

The audition room was a plain, underwhelming experience; white walls, a wooden floor, an open skylight. The producer and director of the drama—both men—and a surly-looking, chestnut haired, grey-eyed woman sat behind a table. They got brief pleasantries out of the way before indicating she should start.

October gave her interpretation of the scene she'd been sent; a pirate battling on the seas, his tormented love, a reckoning on an unnamed Caribbean island. Her audition lasted ten minutes. She searched their faces expectantly after her last line. They thanked her for coming, smiling politely, their expressions unreadable. Then the director stood and ushered her to one side. His lanky frame momentarily blocked her view of the others.

“You were very good,” he offered flatly. “Erm... This is awkward. The part wasn’t written for a black woman.”

October pulled her arm back, the small embers of anger flickering. “It didn’t say so in the casting call. I don’t understand, some of it is set on a Caribbean island. Why couldn’t I play a pirate’s wife? You're the director. Doesn’t your decision stand?” Her voice rose then. Behind the table, the producer and the woman, shifting awkwardly, looked everywhere but at her.

“I’m sorry, my hands are tied. I’m only telling you because I feel it’s cruel not to. You really are very good and very attractive. Good luck,” he said, face flushed, already turning his back.

She passed through Deptford market feeling angry and frustrated. From the Sense charity shop doorway, she spotted a Betty Boop T-shirt on a rack. It was the last one of the lot, rumpled a little from all the hands that had decided to pass on it. Stepping into the shop, she felt herself already reaching for it and the bitter wind whipping her items from the audition conveyor belt all around her.

*

Haji jumped after the thing inside him wouldn't stop growing. For years he fed it with samosas, curries, koshary, gin. At sixteen he stepped back from the mirror when his mouth looked unrecognisable, cruel, superimposed.

School meant trying to sit still in lessons pretending he didn't feel disconnected from his limbs. He took to carrying a wind-up man in his pocket which hed place on the playground floor during breaks, starring at it in deep concentration, trying to find the centre of its movement as though it would reveal something. Girls would giggle at the edges, finger their pleated grey skirts and say, “Are you okay Haji? You're acting funny.”

“Go away,” he'd retort, barely glancing their way, listening for more important things such as a second heartbeat he was sure was winging its way to his lean, rangy frame.

“Why don't you disappear? You're a weirdo,” the girls would snap, narrowing their eyes, reducing him to a tiny flint as they stomped off before breaking into fits of laughter again, coddled by the headiness of youth.

On Wednesday 26 February his life came crashing down, a broken mauve eggshell on the black and white kitchen floor. The photo of the boy he once was with a laughing woman rested on the counter top, the wooden frame still greasy from an incident during which he couldn't feel his arm; he’d been shelling prawns when that horrible, murky feeling came. He grabbed the photograph as though it was a lifeline.

It irked him that he had no memory of the photo, only that they were happy. He picked up his egg shell with trembling fingers, dumping the fragments in the detachable head of the blue bin, a purgatory for all the wind-up men that had accompanied him over the years. He brushed his teeth, downed a glass of orange juice. He didn’t close the fridge door, shut the windows or check the plugs were turned off. The chipped purple door of flat 49b slammed shut.

Outside, the air was cold on his skin. The sky snatched facial expressions, swirling them grey. Haji observed the scenes around him; a man paying a bike messenger outside a tall, soulless office block, laughter between two charity fundraisers shaking their orange buckets at the traffic lights, a shop shutter door opening, its slow, mechanical sound reverberating in his ears.

At Bank station the platform was hot. People avoided each other’s gazes. Their voices were locusts scratching his throat. The time was 11am. The clock had hands on its face, which made him laugh and wonder what it would be like to have fingers and limbs sprouting out of his face. ‘he station was one cavernous passage, churning out passengers bearing faded bruises from 5am till 1am daily.

The feeling of sadness persisted, holding his body hostage. For ages he had felt nothing, had been numb. He had simply functioned. Now he thought about the tube train and how it ran through tunnels, heartbeats, chests, through guts that grew comets and tongues twinned the flame. ‘The tube transported worlds intersecting. Oily spillage slipped through its programmed doors. The underground brought deliverance. The rumbling train approaching presented an exit. The sound of shutter doors trapped in his ears and the train wheels screeching seemed to be in collusion. To Haji, the driver was an angel in disguise who could change at any moment in his neat, private carriage.

Haji’s right arm went dead first. He leapt in front of the train just as his left arm was about to, making the woman in the cream Mac jacket standing behind him gasp for breath. Everything and everyone shrunk, reduced to deflated things orbiting in the distance, the past. He landed inside the void, the thud of his fall splitting the driver’s head, leaving miscellaneous anxieties there to torment him for months.

*

She stood punching the tunnel walls with its thick black cables, frustrated her fists weren't scraped raw. It was after 2am and the trains had stopped running. Mice scurried along the tracks in quick bursts. The glow of light from the platform made parallel worlds split. She stopped punching, fists by her side. She glanced at the walls, silently cursing. Haji wondered why she didn’t pick up the crooked smiles that had slipped from passengers and were circling her feet. It was one of the beauties in this afterlife. The dark lay behind her, waiting to swallow. Haji ambled over, the soles of his shoes gone. The tracks had eaten them.

On closer inspection, the dark-skinned black woman with locks hanging down to her shoulders had a newbie’s air about her with high cheekbones and a stubborn, full mouth. She wore a blue Betty Boop T-shirt. She turned to face him. Betty moved too.

Betty sat in the blue, hand on jaw and frowned. “Let’s see if this schmuck will be of any use,” she said.

“Shut up, Betty!” The woman ordered. “Can you let me think?”

“Hey, you okay? I’m Haji.” He stretched his hand out awkwardly, as though he’d borrowed someone else’s arm and was adjusting. He always did that in close proximity of an attractive woman.

She ploughed her fingers through her locks, shoving them back. “Can you help me? We're lost. We've been trying to get out of the underground for days and just end up going from one station to the next. We can't seem to leave and it’s driving me crazy. I’m October, this is my T-shirt Betty,” she said.

“Um yeah, I know Betty Boop,” he answered.

October leaned forward and whispered, “Listen, Betty’s in between jobs right now. You know, with the whole economic climate thing? She’s a little sensitive.”

“Okay.” Haji shot a cautious glance at her T-shirt.

Betty was playing cat’s cradle with the smiles; she paused momentarily to flutter her lashes at him. “I’ve been down here for a long time,” Haji continued. “There are limitations to what I can do.”

“But you can help us get out of here, right?” October asked.

“No, you jumped. There is no way out for jumpers into the real world.”

“No, no, no, no, no! I’m lost. I keep trying to tell you people this but nobody, down here s seems to understand. I have a meeting to go to.”

“’m sorry, but you jumped, or you wouldn't be here.”

“Look,” she said urgently, “I didn’t have a reason to kill myself. I have no need to be here. Is there a way out of this place or not?”

Haji grimaced, his mouth thinned into a flat line. “Yeah, there is. It’s an opening near the old bomb shelter. It will take us a while to get there, even then there’s no guarantee we can get through.”

October rubbed her head roughly, as if it was a scratch card with numbers underneath. “Can't you get us there any quicker? You must know all the shortcuts,” she asked.

“Look,” Haji said, his impatience rising to the surface. “I’ll take you the way I know, okay?”

“Fine.” October started marching ahead.

“Loser,” Betty chimed.

“Where did you get the T-shirt?” he asked, rubbing his jaw.

“You mean Betty? Sense charity shop in Deptford. It was the last one on the rack,” she answered nonchalantly.

Haji felt beads of sweat popping on his neck. His brown eyes moistened at the memory of his mother taking him T-shirt shopping, how opposite. their tastes were. His latte-coloured skin looked pallid in the light.

“Also Betty asked me to,” October remarked, running her tongue over her lip. “She said, ‘Honey, can you get me out of here? The sound of that register is driving me insane’.”

Haji laughed and Betty yawned. October stopped, turning to face him. “So why did you kill yourself>”

*

‘The city carried you like its infant child then bled you. It put the night in you, snacking on all the injured silhouettes you acquired. The city taught you how to build fortresses of sound you could never dismantle. It kept you falling till hitting the ground became the necessary act of an unnamed religion.

In the old life, when he talked to himself in his empty flat, he imagined his internal conversations were collected like shiny coins slotted in machines. When the loneliness got overwhelming, he'd sit in cafes just to listen, curling his hands into balls. He'd watch people come and go, wanting to fill their bags with things that had galloped inside him, grazing his organs to leave their mark. After his shadow had abandoned him, running off with the dawn, he started loitering in those cafes, sometimes unable to feel his left side, convinced that Nuri had lured it away from the city.

Years ago, that bleak afternoon, Mama took to the sitting room with a headache. She switched off the freezer so the ice fell in soft, melting chunks and unplugged a blender filled with tomatoes, chilies, onion and coriander. Were it not for the rain, they would have been outside in the garden, firing sticks at tin cans sitting like targets waiting to grow legs.

He and Nuri, aged twelve and thirteen were bored, play-fighting with two squash rackets through the house. They fought on the maroon carpeted stairs before Nuri dashed into the bathroom. He ran after her, waving the racket, playfully twisting his face into a menacing expression. He pushed the door open. Nuri slipped and smashed her head against the sink. It happened so quickly he barely caught his breath. The room stood still. Nuri didn’t get up, her racket free from her grasp. He couldn't recall dropping his racket, although he must have done it. A feeling like pins and needles took over his arms. He wasn't be able to move them. Her head was bleeding, the blood running into the stillness. He stumbled against the silver towel rack, noticing his old Action Man figurine on the window sill, Nuri’s blue roller-skates in the tub, wheels coated in mud and his father’s big white pants slung over the shower railing, waiting to fall like some deflated parachute. How he'd made it downstairs escaped him but he’d always be haunted by the slow horror that crept into his mother’s gaunt face and coming back up to be with Nuri; her not moving, talking or breathing. He was hypnotised by the small Action Man beside her, blood running into its eyes, his mother screaming and him not being able to remember whether he'd moved the Action Man.

After they buried Nuri, his parents started arguing in Arabic constantly. For months his mother’s face always twisted into an expression he couldn't get away from. Nuri’s death had been an accident but his mother never recovered, abandoning them and moving back to Egypt. He was left with a father who chewed pine nuts relentlessly, barely spoke to him and looked at him as if he were nothing. So he stored his guilt in limbs that increasingly felt alien to him. Sometimes he'd sit in Nuri’s room, punching the body that had let him down, holding her roller-skates, crying, trying to forget. But the memory of he and Nuri carrying atlases and hopping over low fences remained, as if they were holding worlds and crossing them simultaneously.

*

He told October about Nuri while watching the light dance in her hair. She tucked her arm through his as though it belonged there. “I’m sorry. You're never the same after a loss like that. Have you run into your sister since?”

He shook his head, drew her closer. “For a while, I kept expecting her to show and she'd be the same you know? The same age and have that recklessness about her I remember, coming at me at full speed in those blue roller-skates. It never happened and I can't go to her.

“Why not?”

“I told you, I’m trapped here.”

They paused for a bit, looking up at the blackened ceilings as if a constellation of stars would crash through that they could give individual names and identities. Betty sat up sucking her thumb and blinking at them.

In a carriage, October folded her legs like a Buddha, her lips pursed. Haji wanted to taste and trace her most recent memories; he felt a yearning to be close to her. He missed the taste of Guinness, missed the sky at night. He missed watching mindless TV while the roots within him begged to be uprooted and eating kebabs late at night with girls who could be slotted into neat categories.

October levitated, floating towards him.

“Show-off,” Betty muttered.

He wanted to tell October he didn't ever want her to leave. She was the one person that made him long for company since he'd been dead. He wrestled with the thought, as if somebody had dropped it inside him while he wasn't looking. He didn't know what to do with it.

October began to spin, whipping through the carriage.

“Stop it!” Betty whined. “You're making me dizzy.”

October continued, gathering speed, light.

“I’m going to be sick!” Betty yelled.

October stopped, tugging down the T-shirt that fad shot up, exposing her belly button. “I have my appointment in a few days.”

“You still think that’s happening?” Haji asked sarcastically.

October’s face fell and Betty struggled for breath in the blue.

On the Central line they stood on top of trains and pretended to be airplanes taking off runways. The Northern line brought leaps off the heads of passengers. Inside a District line carriage Haji lay his head on a woman's chest listening to her heartbeat because he sometimes got nostalgic. He smiled when she touched that exact spot and the hairs on her arms stood like soldiers to attention.

They pressed their faces on the windows to make masks of glass that would fade instantly. They held onto coattails and skirts, laughed when the people tried to get through ticket machines with them in tow and the machines read Seek Assistance. All the noise was a black and frothing sea they swam in. They removed the company names and logos from adverts. They napped on escalators and Betty moaned throughout. Haji showed October how to steal shoelaces from passengers and make model parachutes using them. Along the way they passed other ghosts he had helped, who would nod sombrely. Sometimes Haji introduced her to them, like Manny, the pimp, who had a penchant for wearing jumpsuits. A metallic jumpsuit had clung to him when he’d been shoved onto the tracks by a vengeful prostitute at King’s Cross station. He'd been dressed for adventure, a couple of LSD pills inside him, but all that waited were black train tracks. There was Laurie Lee, the blonde American who ran around in her dirty wedding dress. She'd died on her wedding day having caught her groom fucking her best friend in the church toilet an hour before they were to say I do. Carried along by despair, shaky and disorientated, she'd slipped to her end at St Paul’s station. And Bruiser, the thirteen-year-old boy who'd always wondered what it would be like to fly. One day at Oxford Circus station he'd thought he could. He’d flown to his death. Every time they bumped into him he asked, “Have you seen my rabbit?”

They all had stories to tell.

Four days of discovery passed for October. They swung off fat cables on the walls along the way, relishing how agile their bodies were. They sought refuge underneath the trains, catching sparks with keen tongues. They pilfered abandoned purses from platforms, pretending the items were theirs. They travelled neon silhouettes on fate’s blueprint. The tunnels kept unfurling and breathing as the dark, fat veins of the city.

After

It was early morning, footsteps above echoed around the room. October flew at him. “Liar!” she yelled, pummelling his shoulders. “There is no way out of here. I’ve followed you to every one of these stupid shelters and you've led me on some wild chase for nothing. You said—”

“I wanted to get to know you, to spend time with you so I told you what you needed to hear. I don’t feel bad about it, it’s hard down here sometimes,” he replied, wiping his hands on creased brown trousers, a result of their night spent in the shelter.

Betty stood, looking back and forth between them. Haji turned his back, stalking off towards the direction of the main station.

“That’s right, walk away, don’t finish what you started,” October spat, following.

Haji paused, his face contorted as though some internal battle was happening. “You're meant to be here, that’s why you are.”

“What?” October replied. “That’s not true.” She shook her head, eyes watering.

“Get rid of that T-shirt,” he demanded.

“No!” Betty yelled. “Don't listen to him. He’s a liar.” Her huge eyes were saucers of rage. October pulled the T-shirt against her body protectively.

Haji pointed his finger at her. “Stop doing that! ’m not going to pretend anymore.”

Betty covered her ears. “Don't trust him. Can't you see what he’s doing?”

“The night you died, you didn't get that part, did you?” Haji asked.

The sound of a siren began to flood her head. One of the last sounds she'd heard that night. “I told you, I was celebrating, I got cast in this new show due to start filming in Manchester and it is a big part...” Her words petered off.

“And this appointment you've been singing about non-stop?” Haji said.

“A meeting with the directors. I need to find a way out, they'll be wondering what happened. They scouted me for it you know! That night on the platform, it was Betty who told me to jump. I had been drinking and I listened to her.”

He grabbed her shoulders, shaking them. “Stop it! You jumped, Betty’s not real. Stop pretending she is.”

October crumpled to the floor. “You're jealous of Betty! You're just another person telling lies about her.” She began to cry, tasting the cut on her lips from her leap all over again, remembering reaching for a light she thought she could mould in those seconds, a snapshot in the memory of passengers on the platform.

He held her while she sobbed against him, contemplating an afterlife of skylines in tunnels, the sound of trains and the desire to slip into the spaces between them. She thought of time spent haunting carriages, people who leave and take their nomadic tendencies along with them. She screamed.

By 6am Clapham Junction station was a hive of activity. On platform 1 lay a crumpled T-shirt on the floor beside a clear, plastic half-filled bin. It twitched. A man in a grey suit with a flapping purple tie bent over it, stretching his hand. The cartoon figure of Betty Boop looked up at him, still in the blue.

Meanwhile, sporting only her bra and trousers, October ran beside Haji on the tracks towards the sound of an oncoming train, towards the spot on the platform she fell from to re-enact her death, because she had to, because Betty whispered she hadn't gotten it right.

As the days rolled on, Haji and October chased past injuries, eluding them under faint cracks of light. A slow releasing static sparked in their brains, new internal weather that made them delirious on some instances, despondent on others. Haji was her audience. Sometimes he held the outlines of items from his sister’s death guiltily while October performed hers; the squash racket, his mute Action Man, one roller-skate wheel caked in mud spinning, blotting small versions of death. On those occasions, when October's fall coincided with him curling and uncurling on the tracks, they'd crawl into each other afterwards, remembering what it was like to be human. And Betty’s mouth would hang open in the blue, misshapen from this routine.

Each time.

[inatelescopelens]

london 21st december

Our last day in London was also the last day of our holiday, at least, the last day that counted. It was a little cooler today, though still not so bad as what we became accustomed to early in the month. Perhaps foolishly we took this as a sign to head out without coats again today, returning first to Monmouth Coffee Company for drinks and an almond croissant. It was a difficult morning for reasons I have left behind there on the streets of the Seven Dials-we walked to the National Gallery for opening at ten, once again with pre-booked tickets. Whilst these places are free to enter as they ever were, showing up without a timed entry is not advisable. The lines for the bag searches alone are long enough.

The National Gallery is one of the places well beyond a single visit’s ability to consume adequately, every room is so stacked with works of the old masters and modern greats. It was at least quite peaceful during our visit since we were some of the first to enter, though by the time we left it was beginning to fill up and sink into the sort of sensory chaos we have encountered everywhere in London. I was a bit too lethargic, a bit too worn down and unrestored, to make the most of the collection, but I took note of a few old favourites-A Man seated reading at a Table in a Lofty Room, The Execution of Lady Jane Grey. In a place so saturated with great works of art, maybe it is telling which ones manage to capture your attention above the rest. I have always liked the darker pictures, the fantastical ones. 

After making our way around most of the free entry gallery, we exited and came to the sensible conclusion that we were going to need those jackets of ours after all. It was a bit of a detour back to Covent Garden, though one worth making given we ended up walking very far through chilly forest and parkland this afternoon. We were going to Highgate Cemetery, a suggestion made by Mum early in the planning days-it was up in the north, near Hampstead, and not so much frequented in the winter as a tourist destination. We fuelled up on falafel boxes from a local place and took the Northern line from Goodge St up to Archyway. These places were all unfamiliar to me in a way London had not been thus far, and it added to the sense of entering the fictional, haunted atmosphere that cemeteries usually possess. 

I’m sorry, I ran out of the words to tell this story. I remember Highgate Cemetery—the grave of Karl Marx, the foxes, the moss and vines which grew all across the weathered stone and crept up the bodies of the bare trees—I remember. I can recall Hampstead Heath and the cold wind and the muddy road leading into the winter fair we didn’t take, and the walk down the hill to the train in the growing dark. There was dinner at a restaurant where they took mum’s dieteries so seriously they provided her with a carefully crossed-out menu, and one particular dish of grilled mackerel with chipotle romesco sauce which was one of the most delicious things I had ever tasted. I can remember others things and I can’t say them here.

As this journal went on and time passed, my style became more constructed, less literal—I found myself going back to edit out lines too lurid or lyrical to immortalise in publication, as though the whole thing wasn’t its own kind of indulgent artifice. I was not writing what did happen but how it happened. What sounds and sights and plates of food and people revealed themselves to us, in a certain telescope lens which magnifies all things that the language of myth can construe, and the approximate order of their appearance based on the order of the photos in my phone camera roll. Regrets and weighty moments will be preserved without help, in the storerooms with all the other pictures; this is the art gallery, and now I have to end my curation here, avoid cluttering the walls with too much stuff before no one knows what to look at and ends up leaving with nothing.

Cezanne said: “Techniques are merely the means of making the public feel what we ourselves feel, and making us acceptable.”

I’ll see you soon.

[onejamtart]

OJT EATS | Hot Stone

Hot Stone is a steak place that prides itself on its wagyu beef and let’s you cook it yourself on (not surprisingly) a very hot piece of stone. It’s a little out of the way in Angel and they did have another restaurant near Goodge Street but they have since turned that into a different restaurant called Rai - a place that we’ll need to try! Back to this meal though, we’d bought a special offer voucher for a 6 course meal for about £40!

Given we got the meal for such a bargain, we couldn’t resist starting with ordering some sake and oysters off the a la carte menu. These were super fresh and flavoured with a bit of soy. Very yummy and a good start to the meal.

The first official course of the 6 was crispy rice with tartare of the day.  This was a very different fried rice to what we are used to.  It was crispy on the inside and sticky, chewy and soft on the inside.  The tartare on top was nice and refreshing so all in all, a nice little bite!

Then was the sashimi box with aged soy.  The aged soy wasn’t bad but not exactly mind blowing.  The sashimi itself though was delicious!  A really nice selection including salmon, tuna and scallop amongst others.

The next course was the maki roll, in our case a wagyu roll.  This was alright but it always feels a bit of a waste having wagyu cooked like this and in a maki roll. I’m not complaining as it was very tasty but nothing too special.

Then it was onto the chef’s special sashimi.  The one above was seared salmon with truffle.  We are big fans of salmon sashimi and this has a nice little sear to it that just heated it up and made it extra tender.  Add some truffle to that and you have a winner of a dish.

The other sashimi that we were able to try was the fatty tuna.  As always with fatty tuna, this basically melted in our mouths.  It was so good; just really good tuna.

Then it was time to get onto the main course and our olive fed Yorkshire wagyu.  While a far cry from the A5 Japanese stuff, this was still pretty good with fairly impressive marbling. 

As promised by the name of this place, the beef came with a piece of super heated volcanic rock for us to cook our beef on.  It is quite fun to be able to cook your own beef on a stone like this but it does mean there is no-one else to blame if the beef isn’t cooked quite right.  Luckily, we got the hang of it pretty quickly and it all turned out pretty darn tasty!

Lastly we had the home made dessert which I had to admit looked a lot like a Little Moon ice cream mochi.  It was very tasty though so no complaints.

All in all, it was a good amount of food for what we paid!  A couple of the things like the oysters we had to pay extra for but even still, it came out to be a pretty good value and very tasty meal.  Hot Stone do seem to do quite a few offers so even though this one is gone, it’s worth keeping an eye out for their next vouchers / offers!

Hot Stone, 9 Chapel Market, Angel, London, N1 9EZ

Cheers, JL

[outofcontexturi]

thurs 10th nov 2022 journal

today was a good day. yesterday was also a good day. mind has been sound. done alot of deep breathing these past couple of days. the benefits of utilising your highs i guess. I went to Mortimer House with Andre yesterday. that place is fucking beautiful. it’s the sort of place i want to be a part of if soho house wont accept me just yet ; but forreal it’s a great start for the lifestyle i want to live. so yeah that was good. really pushed myself on the treadmill yesterday. we did 30 mins. bearing in mind that i havent been to a gym in over two years i think im doing a great fucking job! Also bumped into Arseniy and Charlie in Goodge St and we had a conversation about third year and the fuckeries that take place and the life of a graduating actor. it was quite the convo i needed actually. i think im on the right path. I’d like to think i am. I think many things are a mindset thing for me. If i can’t get my mind behind it I cannot invest in it because mentally i didnt check in. I’ve been consciously doing alot of this work for 3 months now. I feel like a different person and im seeing small results. maybe they’re the results im meant to be seeing now and maybe i should wait and see how good things can get. its 21:33pm and i wanna eat. I might be seeing Alexandra tomorrow. i miss that sexy bitch ugh. I wanna see Geillo too. i can’t believe tomorrow is friday. my body is in pain from yesterday’s session. I took a towel from the place because fuck capitalism and they dont need that shit sorry. petty crimes are okay in my book. anyways karma is a cunt because i lost my fucking cocoa butter cream ( i think i left it at the place). i dont know if i have a lot of energy or if im just tired or if im hungry but i dont feel like having the same food again. i need to get back into my cooking bag cause yeah man i’ve been slacking just wasting money on outside food instead of cooking like the rest of these ppl. Ella is also a cunt for not putting me on a rota this weekend like i didnt fucking message her to put me on the shifts. i need to do some press ups. i need to bulk in three weeks. kinda. idk. i took the train with Camilla today. never done that before. she told me she had to get up at 6:30 in the morning to prep breakfast for her mum (she’s currently going thru chemo) and i honestly felt that. like i know the feeling of putting someone you love before yourself during the early hours of the morning and then acting like things are okay when deep down you want to break but you dont want to break infront of people. i get that. i need to feel sexy again. and truth be told i just want some head from a bad bitch. some head from a bead bitch this week would be GREAT. its 21:53pm. no food in my stomach STILL. i have grapes beside me though but they aren’t cold which sucks but its okay i guess. its better than nothing. im gonna listen to some music and call it a night me thinks. read a few pages of Revolutionary Suicide and then get ready for bed. currently listening to Foreword by Tyler the Creator. i did think about leaving drama school yesterday. like i really entertained the idea that maybe drama school isn’t for me and im still at a crossroads. i really hope that whatever decision i make is the most favourable for me in the long run. time to be somebody. i am somebody. i dont wanna be someone else. i wanna be me. that is all. sign out time: 22:00pm. 

[what2watch2night]

LAST NIGHT IN SOHO...Where Nothing Is As It Seems

LAST NIGHT IN SOHO, the 2021 British thriller-horror flick by Edgar Wright, is as slick as they come and it leads viewers ever so smoothly deep down into a neon-lit trippy rabbit hole. 

We follow Eloise, an out-of-town introvert naive girl played by Thomasin McKenzie. She is moving to a vibrant London neighborhood near Soho to study at a prestigious fashion school. But nothing is as it seems, and our girl "Ellie” has some serious “abilities” (and/or mental issues) on top of some family drama that makes it difficult for her to navigate the "MEAN GIRL plot" at the school. But her life is turned upside down after she gets what is seemingly the deal of a lifetime and moves into a super roomie room in the middle of London. The thing is, the old landlady (Diana Rigg's last performance) is kinda creepy and the place is decrepit and old, well it is in Goodge Street so guess you get -wayyyyy less than - what you pay for... Everything is like back in the 60s which is perfect since Ellie is obsessed with that decade!

So what should happen happens and at night the girl is transported back in time where she meets, observes, or maybe becomes another young aspiring artist played by Anya Taylor-Joy named Sandie. She is a it-girl type pretty tall and slender bombshell blonde who, with the help of a shady dude played by Matt Smith, wants to become a big-time singer in Sixties' Soho no matter how... From there it all goes downhill and Ellie's beautiful nostalgic dreams turned into terrorizing nightmares where she is trying to figure out if ‘is this real life is this just fantasy’ or maybe something else!

This hence leads to room for all kinds of glorious and freaky shenanigans...plus some unfortunate missteps or plot holes! But the film is so captivating and engaging at all times that one won’t have too much time to dwell on the laters or might be willing to sweep them under… the floor! That being said Edgar Wright and Krysty Wilson-Cairns wrote a hell of a story that is only elevated to heaven - or more like hell in this case! - thanks to a spectacular show masterly shot (by Chung Chung-hoon who better get that Oscar) and filled with some mind-bending practical and technical effects. 

This is all perfectly illustrated in the “highlight of the film” or its piece of resistance (which probs happens a bit too early on for that or that is sadly maybe not topped later on; but how could they top it!) A great party scene where we are introduced to Taylor-Joy's Sandy and Soho's bygone underground world. This scene will undoubtedly go down as one of the best ever made thanks to its technical prowess (one will be seriously blown away by reading about the behind-the-scenes and how they actually did a Texas switch!) and its dizzying intoxicating sight and sound combo. 

And sound LAST NIGHT IN SOHO provides! After all, what did we expect from the guy who brought us BABY DRIVER and its music shepherded direction style. The soundtrack is filled to the brim with nostalgic vibing bangers and we even get to witness Taylor-Joy hidden vocal talents perfectly fitted for the mood. It is hard to fathom this movie with another actress as this is 100% a case of casting match made in heaven with Anya who,  fresh from the glory of Queen Gambit proves - to those who did not believe the hype way back from THE WITCH -  that she is the real deal and one of the most interesting performers of her generation (along with her fellow Brit, Florence Pugh --- Side note: that would have been an awesome pairing - and doubly amusing considering Anya was originally considered for the role of Eloise) But one thing for sure Anya Taylor-Joy is mesmerizing as ever as Sandie and having someone like Pugh playing Eloise might have also brought something a tad different (decisiveness?purpose?) to the role as Thomasin's take or interpretation of the character might be lacking some momentum. Yet her vacillation is why Ellie is so unsettling to watch. 

Nevertheless, this is McKenzie's best, and, plausibly, her “always-disturbed-way-of-being” persona and weirdly unique intonation/pitch, that are, to say the least, very specific, might seem over-the-top for LNIS'S heroine but guess it hammered the point that she is the very obvious black swan. In addition, she is also meant to be a weirdo in and out, but at least she is not alone as the only main character of color, Michael Ajao's John, is likewise unmistakably “different” and...well a simpleton like Eloise. And this brought us to LAST NIGHT IN SOHO “problematic” aspect (or one of the "problems"): it was probably not intended but the way this character behaves and its treatment is sometimes quite unfortunate. 

But again the pair are like a couple of Dopey, so no real beef here although it will VERY easily irritate some as they might find themselves yelling at them/the screen: “why you gotta be so naive!” Eloise is essentially akin to a wide-eyed old-school Disney princess (a 6-years-old in the body of a 16-year-old!) or some variant of the horror genre “manic-pixie-dream-girl-ingenue it-girl"...Wheew! However, with all the different looks and subtle behavioral/mood changes she goes through throughout the movie, Thomasin seriously displays some versatility as she certainly transforms herself; also thanks to the clothing she's wearing. Like everything in this movie, the wardrobe is outstanding, with all those dresses and coats! And they did a truly outstanding job as indeed those clothes are not wearing the girls, the protagonists are wearing the sh$t outta them!

Moral Of The Story: 9/10

LAST NIGHT IN SOHO....Death Becomes Her And Beautiful Nightmares? Maybe, maybe not and more, for it is safe to say that it is one of the best films of 2021 and no doubt one of the most visually alluring films ever made. It is a must-see for so many reasons and, despite things clearly needing to be more plainly explained (like how Eloise “abilities” work for one,) its murder mystery story, twist (cuz yes there is a twist!) and, well, mysteries will stay with you for a long long time.

And so will the psychedelic visual or the wonderful soundtrack (that too many of us are obsessing over!) And, lastly, its witchy vibes with nods to the like of THE CRAFT or evidently SUSPIRIA and the Giallo-ness of it all sprinkled all over, because, what less did you expect! There is also something wicked about LAST NIGHT IN SOHO and this can be seen through its many possible influences, references, or callbacks, bringing to mind other surreal movies. Thus all those easter eggs make this film an even more entertaining and bewitching one to watch. So if you haven’t done so, watch it tonight…. or watch it again!

[theydoctor]

OKOK SO:

As far as music goes, I really recommend...

Al Stewart. His songs are so so beautiful, lyrically and musically, and the topics he writes about are extremely original. Want a song about the French revolution? He's got it. Want a song about being trapped in a sunken submarine? Al's written it! The French prophet, Nostradamus? Yep.

Songs to start with:

Year of the Cat

Apple Cider Re-Constitution

Fields of France

Merlin's Time

Amsterdam

Next one, because I can't shut up once I start:

Donovan. His songs are basically the definition of Good Vibes. His early 60s stuff is very folky, before shifting into jazzy and psychedelic folk in the later 60s, glam rock, cosmic rock, and i-dont-even-know-how-to-label-it-but-its-very-relaxing rock in the 70s. He's still releasing music today! His songs are mostly about nature, peace, meditation, and usually tell some sort of story. Many of Donovan's songs are really poetic and have an Alice in Wonderland vibe and storybook feeling, and are a wonderful way to relax and lift your mood.

Songs to start with:

Sunshine Superman

Hurdy Gurdy Man

Sunny Goodge Street

In an Old Fashioned Picture Book

Life Goes On

Ok I'm finally done 😅

I hope you have a great day, and find some of these to your liking!

Sunny, I love you, this is brilliant!!

I fought with the shitty wifi here for about two hours to finally be able to listen to the songs, so now I have a playlist called ‘Sunny’s recs’ and I’m listening to it and loving it so so much! The songs are really really good, thank you!!

[neapolitanadonna]

cottagecore has taken over my life. can i request a scenario where human au England is living in this little cottage in the flower fields and he sees this strange girl in the fields all the time? He just kinda watches her and admires her and stuff and cute soft cottage core things ack I'll leave the creativity to you THANK YOU!!!

Oh you KNOW my cottagecore ass had fun with this one. I genuinely felt soft writing this so I hope everyone feels soft too. I love getting the opportunity to make imperialists look soft, its by far my favorite hobby of this quarantine. 

Also this is a bit long, so remember to click keep reading!!

Arthur was a hardworking man in the government who, despite practically signing his life away to it, hated the government. His London flat, aggressive cabbies, black coffee at 5 in the morning, three piece suit everyday life was something that got him far in life, it was a shame that most days, he couldn’t care less about it. 

After his grandmother passed, she left him her small brick cottage in Painswick. At first he thought of selling it, not that he needed the extra money, it would just be a shame to leave empty real estate. He didn’t think he would ever spend his days in the little place, but in a time where he tried to manifest nothing but peace, the universe brought him to the cottage. 

He spends his weekends there. It isn’t big government buildings and the bustling streets of London, but to him, it’s perfect. If he wasn’t tethered to the responsibilities of being an adult, he would pack up everything he had and move to the cottage. He considered it often, he had nothing left in London for him, anyway. He lived alone in London and in Painswick, but Painswick felt less lonely. 

His grandmother's cottage was relatively secluded, far enough from the little village to be truly alone, but close enough if he needed to walk to get anything. However, oddly enough, even if there were no other residences near him, one particular creature always showed up in his backyard. 

He wasn’t a fan of judging a woman by her physical traits, but he remembers the first time he laid eyes on her perfectly. It was cinematic, and if it was a film, he would watch it again and again. She wore a baby blue dress with a flower print that fell just above her knees. Her hair was pulled back into braids with two little bows the same color as her dress. He couldn’t quite see the color of her eyes from his window, but they held some sort of power in them even from afar. As she gently walked through the flower fields, she tucked the wildflowers she picked into the weaves of her braids, filling them with Bluebells, Columbine, Daisies, and Cornflowers. She didn’t trip over plants or roots that peeked through the dirt. She seemed to thank the earth each time she picked a flower. As he watched her card through the flowers, spin in the field, then sit under the Crab apple tree up upon the hill, he figured he must’ve been hallucinating. It had been a long week of work, he had gone through so many rough emotions that it was possible she was an angel and he was on the verge of death. 

Until she showed up again. 

Her visits to his field were almost scheduled, but sporadic all at the same time. She would come, sometimes pick flowers, others leave them alone, but dance among them either way. She would sometimes bring little baskets of peaches and bread for herself, other times she came with nothing but herself. She once got close enough to a deer that it let her pet its head, the same thing happened another time with a rabbit. His grandmother used to tell him stories and lore about Painswick, how faeries disguised themselves as humans to lure them in. He couldn’t help but wonder if his grandmother wasn’t just telling old tales. There was no way this girl was human. 

She seemed devoid of any human flaw. She couldn’t have been any older than 20, but even though Arthur was 23, his position aged him five years. She always seemed so happy, so carefree, like nothing in the world could have made her upset. If anyone else came through his property to take his flowers, he would be sure to lecture them, but she was his only exception. 

It was a Saturday morning when Arthur woke up feeling less on edge than usual. He was so used to having a migraine that waking up without one felt like a giant weight off his shoulders. The light filtered through the old blinds just perfectly, hitting the old paintings of flowers on the wall. It occurred to him that he did more staring out his window into the fields than he did outside. Maybe today would be the perfect day for him to spend a day out there, no stress, no work, and definitely no migraine. 

The sun was still rising as he walked out into the fields. He never noticed it before, but bumble bees danced around every honeysuckle and corn flower. He supposed they would be hard to notice from far away. 

He set down his little blanket at the base of the crab apple tree. It made him feel a certain sense of anxiety knowing that this is where the ethereal girl usually spent her time, that he was sitting in her spot despite it being his property. He looked out on the fields, the sun rising behind them, and began to realize why the girl loved it here so much. 

He spent a good while like this, staring off into the fields, down at his cottage, the trees and wood that extended beyond the fields. He only stopped daydreaming when he heard humming. 

He recognized it as Donovan’s “Sunny Goodge Street” before he processed who the humming could have possibly come from. When his brain finally did process, yes, it had to be none other than the voice of the girl, he felt his heart leap into his throat. She must’ve been coming up from behind, and his best option was to sit absolutely still from the other side of the tree hoping she would walk the other way around and avoid him completely. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to her, but he couldn’t quite admit that he was afraid. She had all the odds of the universe on her side, she might’ve been mother nature herself, and who was he compared to that? Unfortunately, his desires came to a fault. Her humming stopped, and her footsteps got louder. A soft, faint giggle could be heard from behind the tree. 

“Hello?” Arthur’s heart leaped to his throat again. Such a sweet voice she had, too. In retrospect, he should've moved, stood up to greet her and introduce himself, but he was frozen. He spent all week talking and negotiating with big government hot shots, yet he couldn’t face a silly girl who spent her days in the flower fields. 

“Are you hiding from me?” She giggled again, and then she was next to him, standing above him. He couldn’t help but exhale deeply the moment he saw her. His cheeks were for sure red, such an embarrassing thing for a grown man, he thought. She wore the same blue dress she wore the day he first saw her, her hair let loose and gently curled around her shoulders, instead. 

“Are you the funny man who lives down in the cottage there?” She asked, taking an uninvited seat in front of him on his blanket. She smelled like honey, roses, and the morning. She was even more beautiful up close than she was from his bedroom window. 

“Lots of questions you have for me. I should be the one asking who you are. This is my property” Arthur replied. The moment he said it, he felt a pang of guilt. He had a hard time talking to somebody without being defensive anymore. The girl didn’t seem to care. 

“I’m really sorry.” She smiled, almost solemnly. “I’m __. There was this sweet old lady, Mrs. Kirkland, who lived here quite a bit ago. She was a regular at my nans flower shop in town, she used to invite me over quite a bit to have tea. Before she passed, she told me I could still visit the fields whenever I wanted. It never occurred to me that somebody else would be living here after she…” 

“Oh, don’t worry, __.”  Was all Arthur could muster up saying. The way her name spilled off his tongue sent a shot of adrenaline up his spine. __. So very fitting. 

He found it strange from the start that his grandmother left him her cottage, of all things. Maybe, somehow, this was her funny little way of playing matchmaker for him. The blush rose back to his cheeks. 

“I’m Mrs. Kirklands grandson, Arthur. I’m sorry for making accusations.” 

“It’s alright.” She smiled. “I’m sure if I saw some strange girl on my property I would be curious, too.” 

“How did you know I lived here?” Arthur asked, meeting her bright __ eyes. 

“It just feels less lonely when you’re here.” She smiled. “That, and I heard you drop your mug one morning. Your reaction wasn’t all that discreet.”

She giggled, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. 

“Oh, for fucks sake, you mean to tell me you saw that?” 

“I promise I’m not a stalker,” her smile seemingly permanent on her face. “Just observant, is all.” 

“I wasn’t accusing you of being one.” 

“Oh, but I can tell you’ve thought about it.” 

Arthur wanted to tell her he didn’t think any malice of her. He wanted to tell her that even if she was stalking him, it was the best intrusion of his privacy he’s ever had. He wanted to grab her little hand that rested upon her knee, but he knew he couldn’t. He’s never felt so intimidated by another person in his life. 

Arthur said nothing to her in response, and instead for a moment, __ studied him, then stood up. 

“Don’t leave.” He said, suddenly. It wasn’t even his intention, it came out of him on instinct. She looked back down on him and smiled, and shook her head. 

“I wasn’t planning on it, darling.” She giggled. “I’ll be right back.” 

Arthur watched her as she tumbled down the hill to the fields, the tall grasses and flowers welcoming her like she was a part of them. He finally had the opportunity to sigh, and run a hand through his hair. He couldn’t stop thinking about how his grandmother probably set this whole thing up for him, she was always a clever woman. 

__ came back a few minutes later with hands full of flowers. She sat back down in front of him, and carefully broke the stems of the flowers to make them shorter. He wanted to question her process, but instead just watched her. He finally made a noise when his breath hitched as she moved to push some of his hair out of his face. 

“You have the most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen.” __ marveled, her own eyes gentle as they looked into his. 

“I- Thank you.” Arthur held back a stammer. She brushed his hair from his face again, then gently placed a daisy behind his ear. 

“Perfect.” She giggled, pushing his hair away from the other side of his face to make room for another daisy. 

“You’re ridiculous, woman.” He shook his head, but couldn’t hold back a smile. “Who on god's earth are you?” 

She shook her head, and shrugged. 

“I’m just trying to enjoy the life I was given. No use in living unless you spend every day the way you want.” 

“Do you work?” 

“At my nans flower shop, yes. It’s not as much about money as it is enjoying my time with my nan.” She shook her head. “Besides basic bills and the likes, everything I need I make myself.” 

“Do you drive?” 

“A bike. I never felt the need for a car.” 

“Do you have a cellphone?” 

“Of course, I like to live naturally, that doesn’t mean I’m a barbarian.” 

“I was just wondering.” Arthur chuckled, making the bold move of pushing her hair out of her face. Her eyes fluttered shut and a small smile spread across her face. He grabbed a cornflower and tucked it behind her ear. He felt breath against his arm, there was something so intimate about her breathing. It had barely started to occur to him that this was the girl he’s admired from afar for months. 

“Perfect.” He teased, eliciting a giggle from her. His hand still touched against the softness of her cheek, lingering there, but she didn’t seem to mind. She gently reached for his hand, lowering it from her face, and instead threading her fingers in between his. The softness of her skin, the warmth of her smile, the sweet little chime in her voice, everything about her overwhelmed him. 

God, he wished he could thank his grandmother for this.

[holylulusworld]

911 for love (6) - Worshipping you

Summary: You are twenty-five, independent, smart and still a virgin. Annoyed by your friend's comments you want to get rid of the problem by calling a call-boy. Little did you know you will meet two things…love and handcuffs…

Pairing: Cop!Dean x Reader, Bobby Singer, Sam Winchester

Warnings: angst, self-doubts, shy reader, body issues, virgin reader, comforting, fluff, smut, protected sex, fingering, oral (female receiving), dirty talk, possessive Dean (a hint)

911 for love Masterlist

“Don’t you dare to cover yourself…” Dean is circling your bed, staring at your naked body as you try to cover your breasts. He’s licking his lips, clenching his fists as his cock bobs with every move he makes.

Writhing on the bed, lips parted you glance at his huge cock, asking yourself how Dean can be hard for you. Self-conscious you bite your lower lip as Dean crawls back onto the bed to grab your ankles.

“Spread your legs, feet flat on the mattress, Baby Girl. I want to see what’s going on down there.” Smirking Dean licks his lips as you reluctantly let your legs fall open.

Growls leave his lips before he lunges forward to bury his face between your thighs. He’s nuzzling you mound as he smirks up at you.

“Dean…I…God!” His tongue laps at your pussy, sliding through your dripping folds while he grabs your thighs to keep you open, exposed to his preying eyes.

“That’s it, Y/N. Such a pretty cunt. Smooth, all pink and wet for me. I think I must make you mine tonight. No one else is going to see this pussy.” Dean purrs against your sex and you want to tell him no one else wants to see it but his lips work your clit and then he slips two thick fingers into you and you lose it.

Hands fisting his hair you look at the man between your legs, taking what he wants to turn you into a wanton mess. Your pussy greedily let him add another finger to stretch you out.

“Dean…that’s…uh…”

“Does the big bad cop fuck you good with his thick fingers? Can’t wait to have this sweet cunt around my dick, make you scream my name. Damn, I lay claim to you.” His eyes focused on your chest heaving up and down Dean nips at your clit while his fingers work your heated flesh.

“Oh…fuck…” Your walls tighten and before you can stop it you squeeze Dean’s fingers, cursing his name or rather chant it.

“Damn right…mine…” Dean is kissing your clit, still stroking your walls to bring you through your high. “You look beautiful in the afterglow.”

Settling between your thighs Dean fumbles the condom open as you watch him unsure what to do. Shall you say something? Play with your breast like the girls in porn or make odd noises?

Hesitating you sit up to take the condom out of his hands and Dean watches you curiously as you gently stroke his cock. There’s a gasp leaving his lips and you smile up at him.

Dean had sex with many women, but he never felt more captivated by a girl than in this very moment as you roll the condom over his length, giggling slightly.

“You’re beautiful, Sweetheart. Let me show you how much I want you.” Shyly nodding you lie on the pillow, to let Dean take over.

Resting his weight onto his left arm he lies next to you, gently kneading your breast, rolling your nipples between his fingers.

Goosebumps erupt all over your skin and you blush when he captures one nipple with his teeth, suckling it to let the little nub pebble.

When he settles between your legs you can’t stop watching him teasing your clit with his tip, rubbing it along your slit. “Gonna go slow, Baby Girl. Just tell me if anything doesn’t feel good.”

Smiling you hold out your arms and Dean starts pushing into you. Stretching you he can feel your body tense and slides back out, carefully moving his hips to ease into you.

While his lips distract you with soft kisses and little nibbles Dean moans against you, trying to take it slow but it’s hard to now slide right into you to feel your tight heat squeezing him.

“You feel so good, Y/N. Fuck…that’s…” Sliding your fingers through his hair you wrap your legs around his waist, tilting your hips to let him bottom out with a loud grunt.

“Dean…” Whimpering you move your arms around his back, surrounding Dean with your soft body as he peppers kisses along your collarbone. “Feels so … oh…full…”

“Hmmm…” Keeping the first strokes slow and even Dean starts moving inside of you. He’s placing one large palm behind your head to bring you closer to his lips as his free hand grabs your right thigh. “Gonna go faster.” Dean pants against your lips.

Nodding you breathe against his lips. You want to say something instead you moan with every faster coming thrust of his cock. Impaling you on his shaft, his lips claiming yours Dean surrounds you, drowns you into the feeling of his skin against yours and the way he drives into you.

“Dean…”

Your hands move over his back, up to his shoulders as you try to match his movement. You’re a gasping mess, hands now moving down to his ass, squeezing it tightly to press him impossible deeper into you.

Groaning against your lips Dean moves faster, using more force to pound you harder and your hands fly to his hair, tugging it harshly as the burning in your abdomen gets stronger.

“Come..” Dean moans between wild thrusts and you nod, whimpering silently as you squeeze his dick tightly.

Losing himself in the feeling of your heat pulsing around him Dean slows down, giving you shallow thrusts to ride your high out.

There’s a violent twitch, and you look up at Dean the moment he comes. Hissing, eyes closed he shouts your name before he buries his face into your neck.

“That was…” Chuckling you squeeze Dean’s ass once again. “Awesome?” Dean pants and you giggle, nodding as he gives you his panties melting smirk.

“Yeah…”

“Damn, we need to do it again…” Dean mutters nipping along your neck, slightly rutting against you. “What? Now?”

“Baby Girl as much as I want to take you right now I can’t.” This time you smirk, patting his cheek. “I know, Dean. I was always good at biology, ya know. But we can do it later…”

“Count me in, dirty girl. Knew you aren’t that innocent.”

----

Propped onto his elbow Dean slides his fingers over your skin, teasing your nipples now and then, still this dirty smirk all over his face he admires the marks he left on your skin.

“Why is that guy killing those women?” Your question brings Dean out of his daydreams and his expression changes at the thought you would've ended like the other women.

“We don’t know, Y/N. All we know is all the girls called an escort service and died not hours later. We assume that his girlfriend or wife did the same, cheating on him.” Dean explains as you nod.

“Or his mom…Dean.” Turning around you look at Dean, sliding your fingers over his chest. “Most of those sick guys killed innocent people as their mommy wasn’t nice…”

“It’s not that easy. Many serial killers had a bad childhood. Got abused or worse. Sometimes a trauma caused their…” Dean tries to explain more but you press your finger to his lips.

“I get it, Dean. Still hurting other people doesn’t make you feel better.”

“I know. How about a shower, food and I talk to Sam to bring me clothes and stuff. I won’t leave you alone with Detective Asshole and Garth.” Dean is pecking your cheek before he grabs his pants to call his brother.

“Order pizza. I’m damn hungry, Winchester…” Giggling you watch Dean licking his lips, a grin all over his face. “I know I wore you out, dirty girl.”

----

“Why are you at Ms. Y/L/N apartment! I told you to stay away, boy. We could…” Watching you wrap your arms around Dean’s waist Bobby clears his throat, trying to ignore you are only wearing Dean’s shirt.

“I invited Dean to my apartment, Captain. He’s not here as a cop, Dean is here as my … boyfriend.” You exclaim and Dean smirks at Bobby, darting his tongue out to wet his lip.

“Bobby, I know that I’m out of her case, but you can’t tell me to stay away from my girlfriend during vacation. I will not interfere, promised, but the moment Cole opens his mouth and the wrong word comes out I might forget my manners.” Dean points at Cole leaving the apartment next to yours.

“I know, Detective Winchester. Garth told me what Cole said and he knows to never open his stupid mouth ever again.” Bobby rumbles looking at you, apologetic.

“Anything I need to know?” Dean husks watching his brother walking toward your apartment, three duffle bags in his hands.

“Nothing so far, Dean. We will keep on protecting Y/N till we get this guy. I promised no one will hurt her.” Bobby tries to calm you but Dean moves his arm around your shoulders, grinning.

“I’ll protect my girl, Captain. Cole and Garth can find the killer and I’ll take care of her needs…”

“Dude, your bags are heavy.” Sam pants, dropping the bags onto the floor. “Anything else you need?”

“I’ve got all I need, Sammy. My girl, my stuff and there's food on its way. If you excuse us now, Sammy, Bobby. I promised my girl to watch Caddyshack with her.”

----

Curled next to Dean you sleep peacefully as he slightly starts snoring.

Neither the two of you nor Cole and Garth can see the car stopping in front of your house as the man inside glances at Dean’s car.

“Soon…” The man chuckles before driving away. “She’s mine, Winchester…”

911 for love Tags

@bmrobichaud, @waywardrose13, @delicatefirespyplaid

SPN Forever Tags

@donnaintx, @screechingartisancashbailiff, @fallen-wolf22, @sister-winchesters99, @mogaruke, @the-is13, @helloitsmeamie203, @strayrosesbloom, @thewinchesterco, @hobby27, @kittycatlover18, @gh0stgurl, @marvelfansworld , @sandlee44, @hawaiianohana31, @unlikelysamwinchesteronahunt, @katpatrova17, @notyourtypicalrose , @heyitscam99, @flamencodiva, @echoesofpassion, @cocklesbelli, @voltage-my2dlove, @fandom-princess-forevermore @thenamelesschibi, @lauravic, @fandomsrourlives, @wittysunflower, @drakelover78, @lemondropirwin, @lonewolf471, @wronglanemendes, @spnhollis, @void-imaginations, @jay-and-dean, @shatteredabby, @juniorhuntersam, @helpmeluci​, @neii3n, @goodgodimaweirdperson​, @alltimesamantha​, @chonisberonica​, @supernaturalonice​ @stuckys-whore​, @shadowkat-83​, @officialmarvelwhore​, @wecantgiggleitsafandom​, @meganywinchester​, @shikshinkwon​, @miraclesoflove​, @yolobloggers​, @lu-sullivan​, @maniacproffesor​, @hollymac79​, @straycuties9​, @kayla-2000​, @ilovefanfic86​, @gracefultrenchcoat494​, @babygirls-fav​, @sadn0va​, @spnwoman​, @amiquette​, @linki-locks11​, @geekofmanyforms​, @eggingamazinglove​, @jessica-marsh09​, @spnficgirl​, @shut-themoonscone​, @thequeenreaders​, @countrygal17a​, @kteelou​, @soryuwifeyxx​, @kricketc28​, @heartislubbingdubbing​, @atomicfandombomb​, @defenderrosetyler​ , @shortwinchester​, @maybesomedaygayyyy​, @tmiships4life​, @deanmonandnegansbitch​, @exo-nova​, @the-chocolate-moose​, @jamesmoriarty-biotches​, @laxe-from-outer-space​, @sabascio​, @that-place-called-middle-earth​, @the-broken-angel-13​, @certaindeanwinchesterforcastiel​, @differentstudentrunaway-e70bf763​. @bunnybaby89​, @pandabiiissh​

Dean/Jensen Forever Tags     

@spnfamily-j2​, @supernatural-bellawinchester​, @butifulsoul125​, @lyinginthegingerlocks​, @deans-baby-momma​, @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester​, @20gayneen​, @janicho88​, @thefaithfulwriter​, @dreaminemz​, @negans-lucille-tblr​, @akshi8278​, @hhiggs​, @midnightsilver16830​, @mrspeacem1nusone​, @ria132love​, @caligraphee​, @the-witch-in-silence​, @multisuperfandom​, @deansgirl-1968​, @justanotherwinchester​, @jadesupernatural​, @squirrelnotsam​, @gaveherhearttotheliontattoo​, @roonyxx​, @jason-todd-squad​, @thevelvetseries​, @spnsuper17​, @adoptdontshoppets​, @woodworthti666​, @frederikkeborup​, @psychicforest​, @luciathewinchestergirl​,  @michellemxndes​

[a-safe-and-quiet-place]

Oozlum Bird

Myth & Description

The oozlum bird, also spelled ouzelum, is a legendary creature found in Australian and British folk tales and legends. Some versions have it that, when startled, the bird will take off and fly around in ever-decreasing circles until it manages to fly up itself, disappearing completely, which adds to its rarity. Other sources state that the bird flies backwards so that it can admire its own beautiful tail feathers, or because while it does not know where it is going, it likes to know where it has been.  

The Oxford English Dictionary describes it as "a mythical bird displaying ridiculous behaviour" and speculates that the word could have been suggested by the word ouzel, meaning a blackbird. The earliest citation recorded by the dictionary dates from 1858.  

A variant of the oozlum, possibly a mutation, is the weejy weejy bird, which has only one wing which causes it to fly in tighter, faster, smaller circles until it disappears up its own fundament. The oozlefinch is an American relative without feathers that flies backwards ("to keep dust, trivia, and other inconsequentia out of his eyes") at supersonic speeds, and preys on enemy bombers, which it rips from the sky. The oozlefinch has been adopted as the unofficial mascot of the United States Air Defense Artillery. 

The fabulous qualities of the oozlum bird is the subject of a poem by William T. Goodge. In the poem The Oozlum Bird, the bird is said to fly backwards and has the singular ability of being able to fly up in the air while letting the earth turn under it. The bird is said to be large enough to bear the weight of a man.

[sublimerhymes]

The Oozlum Bird by W.T. Goodge

It was on the Diamantina Where the alligators grow, And the natives’ allegations Ain’t particularly slow. He was old and he was ugly, He was dirty, he was low; He could lie like Ananias, And they called him “Ginger Joe.”

He was wood-and-water joey At the “Jackeroo’s Retreat,” Where the swagmen and the shearers And the bound’ry riders meet; And he’d pitch ’em lots of “fairies,” But the best I ever heard Was McPherson’s trip to Sydney On the famous Oozlum Bird!

“You can talk about yer racehorse And the pace as he can go, But it just amounts to crawlin’, Nothink else!” said Ginger Joe.

“And these cycle blokes with pacers, You can take my bloomin’ word, They’re a funeral procession To the blinded Oozlum Bird!

“Do yez know Marengo station? It’s away beyond the Peak, Over sixty miles from Birdsville As you go to Cooper’s Creek, Which the blacks call Kallokoopah, And they tell you that Lake Eyre Was one time an inland ocean. Well, the Oozlum Bird is there!

“Bet yer boots it ain’t no chicken, It’s as big and wide across As the bird what beats the steamships, What’s it called? The albatross! That’s the bird! And old King Mulga Used to tell the boys and me They were there when Central ‘Stralia Was a roarin’ inland sea!

“I was cook at old Marengo When McTavish had the run, And his missus died and left him With a boy—the only one. Jock McPherson was his nephew, Lately came from Scotland, too, Been sent out to get “experience” As a kind of Jackeroo!

“Well, this kid of old McTavish Was a daisy. Strike me blue! There was nothing, that was mischief, That the kiddy would n’t do! But he was a kindly kinchen And a reg’lar little brick, And we all felt mighty sorry When we heard that he was sick!

But, McTavish! Well, I reckon I am something on the swear, But I never heard sich language As McTavish uttered there; For he cursed the blessed country, And the cattle and the sheep, And the station-hands and shearers Till yer blinded flesh would creep

“It was something like a fever That the little bloke had got, And McTavish he remembered (When he’d cursed and swore a lot), That a chemist down in Sydney Had a special kind of stuff Which would cure the kiddy’s fever In a jiffy, right enough!

“So he sends me into Birdsville On the fastest horse we had, And I has to wire to Sydney For the medsin for the lad. They would send it by the railway, And by special pack from Bourke; It would take a week to do it And be mighty slippery work.

“Well, I gallops into Birdsville And I sends the wire all right; And I looks around the township, Meanin’ stopping for the night. I was waitin’ in the bar-room— This same bar-room—for a drink When a wire comes from McPherson, And from Sydney! Strike me pink!

“I had left him at Marengo On the morning of that day! He was talking to McTavish At the time I came away! And yet here’s a wire from Sydney! And it says: ‘Got here all right. Got the medsin. Am just leaving. Will be home again to-night!’

“Well, I thought I had the jim-jams, Yes, I did; for, spare me days! How in thunder had McPherson Got to Sydney, anyways? But he’d got there, that was certain, For the wire was plain and clear. I could never guess conundrums, So I had another beer.

“In the morning, bright and early, I was out and saddled up, And away to break the record Of old Carbine for the Cup. And I made that cuddy gallop As he’d never done before; And, so-help-me-bob, McPherson Was there waiting at the door!

“And the kid was right as ninepence, Sleepin’ peaceful in his bunk, And McTavish that delighted He’d made everybody drunk! And McPherson says: ‘Well, Ginger, You did pretty well, I heard; But you must admit you’re beaten, Joe—I rode the Oozlum Bird!’

“Said he’d often studied science Long before he’d came out here, And he’d struck a sort of notion, Which you’ll think is mighty queer— That the earth rolls round to eastward And that birds, by rising high, Might just stop and travel westward, While the earth was rolling by!

“So he saddled up the Oozlum, Rose some miles above the plain, Let the Earth turn underneath him Till he spotted the Domain! Then came down, and walked up George-street, Got the stuff and wired to me; Rose again and reached Marengo Just as easy as could be!

“ ‘But,’ says I, ‘if you went westward Just as simple as you say, How did you get back?’ He answered: ‘Oh, I came the other way!’ So in six-and-twenty hours, Take the yarn for what it’s worth, Jock McPherson and the Oozlum Had been all around the earth!

“It’s a curious bird, the Oozlum, And a bird that’s mighty wise, For it always flies tail-first to Keep the dust out of its eyes! And I heard that since McPherson Did that famous record ride, They won’t let a man get near ’em, Could n’t catch one if you tried!

“If you don’t believe the story, And some people don’t, yer know; Why the blinded map’ll prove it, Strike me fat!” said Ginger Joe. “Look along the Queensland border, On the South Australian side, There’s this township! christened Birdsville, ‘Cause of Jock McPherson’s ride!

[amf1950]

Smug Gardener in May

After the earlier warm weather late April and May have come in cold, setting many plants back. But Alliums are well ahead and looking fine among Geum, Aquilegia and Forget-me-nots. Euphorbia Mellifera is splendid; back to full size after last year’s pruning and full of honey-sweet blossom. Elsewhere the other Euphorbias are happily making their way in crowded borders (once more we seem to have no room for other plants to be squeezed in, but still manage)

The current star of the show is the Libertia which is an explosion of white flowers thrust out on long stems. In the greenhouse the plants that are too tender to put out as yet are causing bed blocking, meaning that the tomatoes cannot be put in their final stations and are gettng rather too big in their pots. Likewise Runner and climbing French Beans are waiting for warmer weather to be planted at the allotment.

Each year the problems are different, but each year there are so many rewards. We just hope that all will be good for the open gardens in three and a bit week’s time.

#Smug Gardener

#Flowers 

#Allium

#Libertia

#Geum

#Euphorbia Mellifera

After the early warm spell the weather has turned colder but many plants have still arrived early. The Alliums are opening and looking good with Geum, Aquilegia and Forget-me nots. Euphorbia Mellifera is regrown to its original size after pruning last year and is covered with honey-sweet flowers. Elsewhere other Euphorbias are looking goodg , scattered within the borders and the Libertia is an explosion of white flowers. Sadly many will be over before the open gardens in just over three week’s time. But many plants cannot be put out to harden off yet and so the greenhouse is still full of plants and so the tomatoes etc. cannot be planted in their final positions so are getting rather large in their pots. Runner beans and

[tonitoni77]

Updated record for aes essay

Citizen journalism has been showing its huge impact in China due to the expanding of cyber space with the help of advanced technologies. Jing Chai, Chang Liu and Fangzhou Jian became the well-known icons of citizen journalism. The rising of citizen journalism provokes people’s emotion and promotes motivation to take part in policy making. Since citizen journalism made huge impact and brought numerous positive outcomes to the society, it is expected to be the savior of free press. However, the complex relationship among the role of government, the mainstream journalism and citizen journalism challenges the expectation for the citizen journalism to be the savior of free press. This essay will first review and assess the contributions of citizen journalism to the society. Second, the essay will adopt the case of “nail house” in order to summarize citizen journalism’s characteristics and display interactions between government and mainstream journalism. Third, it will explain why the citizen journalism can only generate limited impacts on contributing democratic society and especially free press. It will also proof that citizen journalism cannot act the role of watchdog well. By doing so, the essay demonstrates that the citizen journalism can not be the savior of free press.

Free press is regarding to the freedom of the press. It allows the media and public materials express without constraints from government on contents. It is of importance for one of the human rights and power against government malfeasance (Brunetti and Weder, 2003). Goodge (2009) defines that citizen journalism refers to “ordinary” users without professional or enough knowledge in journalism engage in journalistic practice based on web. He also argues that there is no clear or strict definition of citizen journalism. It also includes activities of posting or reposting and sharing eyewitness on current events. In this essay, we adopt the narrow definition of citizen journalism which is that independent individuals or institutions do journalistic jobs. Brunetti and Weder (2003) suggest that independent journalists have strong incentives to investigate uncover issues of wrongdoing; an independent press is the most effective institution to uncover trespassing by officials. In the meantime, Allan and Thorsen (2009) point out that the role of citizen journalism is fighting for human rights, democracy, dignity across different regions in different countries. In this context, citizen journalism plays a similar role as free press and shares the same purpose with it. However, citizen journalism is highly associated with mainstream or traditional journalism. There are norms and traditions associated with mainstream journalism (Goodge, 2009). Its independence could not be guaranteed and erode when it is in a close connection with mainstream journalism and government. Therefore, citizen journalism does not satisfy the key characteristic which is the independence of the institutions and journalists from definition of free press from Brunetti and Weder (2003). From reviewing and identifying essential proportion of the fundamental concepts, it implies that citizen journalism cannot be the savior of free press. The complex relationship among citizen journalism, mainstream journalism and the role of government will be discussed in the further part of this essay.

Citizen journalism plays an important role within an authoritarian regime and complex political context with the fast changing media and social movements in China. In the era of Web 2.0, internet in China has developed fast and China has the largest online population in the world. Specifically, the vast majority lives in rural area (Xin, 2010). Xin(2010) suggests that internet offers a freer space for users than any other traditional media, although the content on internet is under regulations from the government to ensure it could be fitted in the two dominating frames “online realism” and “online nationalism”, and is not challenging the ideology and threatening social stability. The weblog phenomenon and citizen journalism engage in political and social changes by cooperating with mainstream journalism and government in multiple ways. In the case of “nail house” in Chongqing which house owner refused to accept the compensation from the estate company and insisted on staying in their property instead of moving out as required, citizen journalism successfully revealed the issue of social injustice and ignited public discussion on housing disputes. In the recent case of a documentary film “Under the dome” focusing on air pollution in China conducted by journalist Chai Jing, citizen journalism stimulated public concern and debate of environment and pollution, and operations within different governmental departments, especially, pointing out the difficulties and challenges faced by environmental department. Her work also

The complex relationships among citizen journalism, mainstream journalism and the role of government will be revealed when we start analysing the following cases selected in this essay.

[starmansymphony-moved]

HELL YES MORE KIRBY HEADCANONS PLEASE

ROKAY LET’S SEE WHAT I CAN DELIVER

Aroace Marx? Aroace Marx.

Marx was only 16 when he made the sun and moon fight. As of present he’s 18.

Magolor’s mouth-eye thing is considered a bad omen among Halcandran society because of its bright red colour. Halcandran mouth-eye things are usually pastel colours.

Galacta Knight has this curse on him that makes whoever meets him forget him as they go home. The only exception to this is Galactic Nova, since they do not have a home.

Galactic Nova is actually a really small and weak clockwork star compared to other ones around Halcandra.

Remember the DnD headcanon? Yeah well I’m gonna go over that some more. (also if i get any terminology or anything wrong i deeply apologise i don’t really know shit (i was also looking at a wiki page for the 5th edition and i don’t even know how many editions of dnd there are)

Kirby’s character is a very nice bard. Goodg boy bard.

Meta Knight’s character has this really complex backstory that he wrote out by hand.

King Dedede doesn’t have a character, he just watches. He found everything to be too confusing. Everyone else is all cool with it and they totally get it (especially Kirby)

The campaign Bandana Dee made is simple on the surface but actually really deep. Not as deep as Meta Knight’s character’s backstory, but it was rather surprising to find out that the dragon at the end of the first dungeon was actually a cursed civilian, who knew the innkeeper in the third town whose best friend is the right-hand man of the main antagonist.

Magolor’s character was going to be a wizard but then he made them a Barbarian at the last second. 

Taranza’s character is a Druid who everyone suspects has a really sad past. Taranza doesn’t actually have a full backstory for her yet.

Marx just put himself in. He didn’t even try.

And I do have this one about Halcandran names but it’s kinda confusing so if anyone wants to hear that one just say so

[luxuryhomeslondon]

Buy Properties in Fitzrovia for the Best Investment Option

Fitzrovia, the iconic district in West London, was often overlooked in the past because of many well-known cities like Soho, Mayfair, etc. But at present, the city has made some amazing innovations in varied fields. The city has embarked as the hub for big businesses. The tech giant Facebook has established its headquarter here. The significance of this district improved a lot in the field of business, technology, etc. Because of increased popularity, investors from various parts of the world are now keen to invest in the real estate market of Fitzrovia. We cannot deny that for the mentioned factors, the price of the properties is little at the higher end.

Fitzrovia is quite popular for historical significance too. The district emerged out as one of the most happening locations for different types of businesses primarily because of its’ location. The city is located close to places like Soho, Mayfair. If you are keen to buy your dream house here, then we suggest you get information about the property for sale in Fitzrovia. Online listings of properties are available on various platforms, which you can go through to get an idea about the prospective properties available on sale matching your preferred location.

Reasons why you will buy your property here

Many will speculate why this district is considered one of the most desirable locations for investors. Besides being in the convenient vicinity to the cities like Soho, Mayfair, Fitzrovia has made excellent development in transport and communications. The connectivity between the stations like Goodge street station, Tottenham Court Road Station, Oxford Circus Station, is magically fast, and people can reach there within no time. Faster transport facility is undoubtedly one of the most significant reasons to attract more investors in the city. It has made it possible for the residents to reach other cities and districts like Manchester, Liverpool, Brussels, etc easily.

The acceptance of this city for real-estate investments has also increased due to the existence of reputed educational institutions like the University of Westminster, University of London, Royal Anthropological Institute, etc.

Lots of development works already done by the Government here in this location. Most of these have been accomplished or are in progress. The local authority here is paying attention to the development in the real-estate sector. This planning includes a massive development in all major real estate sectors such as commercial, residential, institutional, etc. Hence it is a good option if you are planning to invest in buying properties here in Fitzrovia.

Are you looking for the best Luxury Estate Agents London who can guide you or assist you in finding the property for sale in Fitzrovia? If that is so, then we are sure you will come across many such service providers ready to assist you. One of the best companies in the industry on which you can surely bank on is Luxury Homes London. Connect with the experts of the company, and we are sure you will get the best advice and assistance in discovering the ideal property for this location.

Luxury Homes London offers affordable luxury property for sale in Hampstead, Bayswater, Marylebone, Regent’s Park, St James, Notting Hill, St John’s Wood, Maryfair from £5 Million.