A love letter to the men that I know. I know who you are and I know you you think you are too.

I didn’t feel like being funny today. The conversation dominating Twitter, all of the news about Sarah Everard’s murder makes it hard not to think of anything else. It has sent shock waves through all the women I know. Shock in that kind of awful way, a resigned shock, like you saw it coming. Things you were told to do by your mother when she packed you off and sent you to uni, or dropped you at your first house party. You share your location, hold your keys in your hand and walk swiftly and with purpose thinking it will somehow help. The strange thing is you do all of these arbitrary things in the hope that it will save you or protect you somehow. But the really scary thing, and what Sarah’s horrific murder has shown, is that it doesn’t. Because she did all the things you’re supposed to. It’s a painful reminder that living in a woman’s body carries with it a heavy realisation, that that in itself is a dangerous and potentially deadly fact. 

I’ve never really been a love you outloud kind of person. As in someone who is comfortable saying, “love you” in a sincere way to someone else who has normally said it first in a living, breathing conversation. A boy who I’d had a love/hat relationship with at school visited me at uni once, very sweetly kissed me on the cheek and told me that he’d always love me at the tail end of a night out. Standing by a roundabout, the lights causing him to go in and out of focus, I just replied “we should be pen pals and keep in touch”!! This was at the tender age of 18 I might add. I was not in fact 12 and at summer camp, so it was really not that acceptable of a response.

Chicken. Chicken is probably the one food I would happily die for. Fried chicken. Roast chicken. Itty little bits of chicken battered in KFC’s finest. My favourite meal as a kid was chicken, potatoes and beans. I’m a cheap date, what can I tell ya. There’s something so satisfying about ripping the meat off the bones, eating it with your hands, fighting over who gets the wings in your family and the little nubbin at the back of the body, which is somehow so crispy and so rich in smoky skin flavour, but so thoroughly underrated when it’s completely intoxicating.

There’s a sense of power that comes when you’re dancing and owning your own body. A shimmer of recognition runs through the little group around you, because as each one of you gives into the music and dances with a little more wild abandon, you give each other the confidence to really, truly let go. It’s the thrill, the feeling of being looked at, but secretly knowing that it’s not for anyone else.

My body has served me pretty well my whole life, I don’t know if I’ve done a particularly great job of taking care of it, a lot of broken fingers from my early (misinformed) netball days, cracking my chin and then head open on separate occasions once on a trampoline, the other in the playground, and all round just being pretty accident prone. This week, I somehow managed to absolutely deck it in the bath (!) when I was reaching for the shampoo. It’s such a small space! How!

But me and my internal organs, we’re on pretty good terms.

As someone who structures their day entirely around food: what to have for breakfast: eggs and bacon if it’s a real weekend feasting or granola if I’m pretending to be classy, then a mid morning summin’ summin’, nicely interspersed with many a coffee bought from sexy barista A – which I absolutely cannot afford – and then culminating in the pinnacle of the day, lunch / dinner and lastly DESSERT, but I’ve had absolutely no appetite this week.

This may seem like an unusual hill to die on. But somehow, lying out in the garden, eating a fluffy loaf of white bread with pots of humous everyone is tucking into, but no one can quite remember who brought, drinking G&T’s and anticipating the moment when the sun will set and it gets too cold to stand being outdoors in early March, it was where we chose to lie.

Does anyone actually have a healthy relationship with food? I wouldn’t say I’m in a toxic relationship with food… more like, food is my mistress and I’m being infrequently ghosted, but bread crumbed along enough with a series of memes/ late night phone calls/ semi interesting articles to maintain my interest.

Looking up at the pretty Italian lady whose mouth these words of wisdom had fallen out of, my legs splayed, flat on my back, the basketball flood lights shining into my eyes, I couldn’t help wonder if I might have made a mistake.