This is the first Hogmanay I've spent alone. I hope it's the last. I miss spending it in Scotland with my gran, mum and dad. I even miss it years ago when my uncle would be there, but then he started inviting my brother to his house and not me, so I never saw him at new year. We'd get everything tidy, lie out a table of drinks and make loads of food and sweets. Then there'd be Chewin' The Fat and Still Game on tv, which we always looked forward to. Last year I spent it with my parents and our neighbours drinking Moscow mules. I just heard a firework.

So, in 2009 I graduated, went to some wonderful poetry readings, read at some myself, put together a zine with Chris, lived in four different houses, painted a bookshelf, made a wish at the Trevi Fountain, fell in love, saw Tori Amos a few times, started a postgraduate degree, read about 23 novels, wrote a few poems, felt happier than I ever though I could, did my last ever nightshift, found my favourite painting and realised who I am and what I want.

Did anyone see
as you were pushed
from being high up
and ignored and
thrown down by
weather to where
Man walks
where you now
stand, much more
interestingly, like
an eagle who
settles for
life without
height.

This anxiety has been ridiculous and this blog is turning teenage. I was going to write about hunger. I was going to write about how I lay in my bed and stared at the ceiling and let myself feel it. I can't write about these things without sounding like I'm whining.

Now I'm reading food poems.

It's been six years.
Please just stop.

Right now I am listening to Pink and Glitter. I am topless, wearing a hat and pyjama bottoms. I look ridiculous but my door is locked, there is some light from outside plus lamplight and I have chocolate soya milk. It's Saturday afternoon and I am feeling half healthy after a sleepless week. One of the best of my life. I saw Tori Amos in a tiny venue in London after sleeping on the street to get a wristband. I walked hand in hand with Rachel along Oxford Street to look at the Christmas lights. I laughed and ate onion rings. I was kissed. Warm. It was all so fucking magical and I can't describe it at all. And the SHOW. That will never ever be forgotten by anyone.
This morning I have been flicking through Anne Sexton's letters and gradually tidying my room. I need to hoover, but I have done most of the work and I'm happy with it. I would love to write a poem today. I would love to read a lot and listen to Tori all day, with the exception of one Steve Hackett song. I am going to have the kind of day I love to have.