DAYLIGHT FADING

three | i'd be scared that there's nothing underneath

                       | three: i'd be scared that there's nothing underneath |

                                                                or

                                          | the bends: radiohead |

Either my performance last night or a note from Leo has alerted the TV people to the fact that I don’t want to be fussed over and styled. I’m guessing it’s the latter though they will definitely have footage of the former. They’ll use it shamelessly but I’m out now.

No more reputation. No more bans on absolutely blinding your way through interviews.

I made a trip down to the local Oxfam shop and donated all of my Angel clothes. My absolute hate is someone’s new wardrobe and it’ll do charity some good that way. It felt so good to move all of what I considered my clothes back into my chest of drawers, hanging up dresses and fancy blouses in my wardrobe. 

I did come very close to lighting a bonfire with Angel's clothes but then I realised that I own an apartment and don’t have a back garden. Frankly, an indoor bonfire is a bad idea. 

I rummage through my remaining clothes, smiling at half-hippie look of most of them, trying to find something to wear. I want to dress like myself but without being too obvious about the fact that I’m not a pop star anymore or that I never really was to anyone who cared enough to look. It’s a difficult balance to get, given that all of the clothes that made me look like a pop star went to Oxfam this morning.

I eventually settle on a cream blouse with a high neck and bell sleeves. It’s one of the few things that survived my all-black phase. It was my way of looking fancy for my mother’s posh dinners but with my own twist.

I shimmy into some extremely tight black skinny jeans and find myself unable to resist the call of Dr Martens. They’re white with a beautiful grey vintage rose pattern on them and black ribbon instead of laces.

Half-and-half. I don’t want to dress like a pop star ever again, but I cannot give the game away. One night of half measures and then true freedom.

I spent the whole of last night joking with Cam about the various different tattoos I could get on my arse. I’m definitely thinking about one though, just somewhere like my arm. And a new guitar.

I shiver in excitement as I think of how many Stratocasters I can buy with the money from my pop star years.

I grab a black mac from a small coat rail next to my apartment door and pick up the white patent satchel I packed before getting ready.

I easily pull out a pair of white over-ear headphones before having to rummage past spare guitar strings, a box of plectrums, a pair of black drumsticks Charlie gave me as a joke last Christmas and a carelessly tossed in Oasis t-shirt before I get to my iPod and apartment keys.

Selecting The Bends by Radiohead as my album of choice for the night, I securely latch up the satchel, adjust my headphones slightly on my head and tuck my iPod into one of the pockets of my coat.

When I step out of my apartment, I find myself missing the house I used to live in – the bungalow by the sea in a small town before everything changed, with the people who still matter even though they shouldn’t. People who hate me now.

I toss the thought out of my head. I don’t have time to think about the past now. I fucked things up and there are always shitty consequences when you do that.