The End of Us, the Reclaiming of Me

Posted on 18 April 2026 by Jemma

There’s something really powerful in recognising when you need to change direction.

It feels very similar to the night she left — when I walked into the Best Room, my colourful Wonderland sanctuary. A place of solace. A place of calm.

I looked to the left — the antique sideboard, covered in spirits and wines and exotic liquors from different corners of the world.

Then I looked to the right — where the 130-year-old piano, kindly gifted by a friend, stood silently proud, willing its kinship in that moment. Realistically, though, anything more ambitious than a scale with these currently unpractised fingers would’ve ended in an orthopaedic catastrophe. Disco Granny attempting the Macarena after 15 sherries.

I looked back to the left, thinking, this would make this shit disappear for a bit…

But I realised I’m past needing things to disappear now. I have to feel every atom of this if I’m going to heal.

You need to be sober to feel.

Rational brain kicks in:

Do you really want beer shits in the morning, a raging headache, sticky brain, and life-regret decisions?

The Jemma-that-once-was would’ve thrown caution to the wind in a metaphorical “fuck you” moment — smashed through the lot, got the yah-yahs out, acted first, thought later.

And I chuckled, realising that the thought that ultimately stopped me wasn’t growth or wisdom — it was the sheer reticence to shave my arsehole for anyone right now.

Isn’t the human brain wonderful in a crisis?

Back to my mission.

I knew that today was the day.

Do I let this destroy me? Do I spiral? Or do I change direction? And what the fuck does that even look like now?

Playing the piano for seven solid hours until the pain in my hands overtook the stabbing ache in my gut hadn’t cut it.

But I had walked away from temptation.

Baby steps.

In a desperate attempt to navigate the thoughts tunnelling through my brain like a Dickensian labyrinth of decaying alleyways, I had bought some walking poles.

Now, anyone who knew me 15 years ago would know the only walking I entertained was to the fridge — or the morning-after walk of shame to the tram.

But these poles meant something different.

This wasn’t that kind of walk.

Not the one where I’d wake up still drunk (if I’d slept at all), retracing my steps like a broken zoetrope of blurry, regrettable snapshots.

Not the “who the fuck is this” number on a crumpled bus ticket found in a pocket as deep as the regrets from the night before.

I started thinking about all the walks I’ve taken in 38 years.

Walks of regret.

Walks of chaos.

Walks where I had absolutely no idea where I was going but somehow still ended up on my feet.

I’ve walked myself into injury, into danger, into joy, into love.

I’ve also walked past things my brain quietly buried — splinters of memory I didn’t want to feel.

So I’d bought the poles.

Partly symbolic.

Partly because I genuinely thought I might regurgitate a lung or lose a kneecap.

Disco Granny, but pre-emptive.

I’m aware my last post sounded self-pitying.

It’s not me.

I’m usually that fat, funny bird from Barnsley people say, “Oh God, she’s hilarious.”

Some think it’s attention. Some think it’s ADHD.

But it’s just how I see the world — pragmatically prismatic.

Unapologetically fuckless.

I weave through life telling the truth, cushioning it with humour and self-deprecation so it doesn’t completely annihilate me.

Think Robin Williams… with a bigger arse.

Truth has always been my lighthouse.

Say what needs to be said — just don’t cause harm doing it.

And yes, I’m a gobshite. Through and through. It’s no secret that I could talk a glass eye to sleep.

But talking is how I process.

Talking is how I heal.

It’s also how I’ve historically walked myself into trouble.

But it’s also how I walk myself out.

Except… for the last two and a half years, I haven’t really spoken.

I’ve talked — but I haven’t spoken.

It’s been that metallic taste of biting my tongue. Orphaned words sitting there, never allowed to exist out loud.

And in trying so hard to say things carefully, calculating how to safely sever the artery feeding this growing tumour of censorship, I had never noticed that I was dying the death of a thousand silent paper cuts.

Ironic, really.

Langsett.

The breeze there feels different.

Unfiltered. Uninhibited. Safe.

And as I walk, I realise something:

I did a lot of talking — but I never truly spoke.

The weight of that hits.

Hard.

Thankfully, misery doesn’t stand a chance against a soggy Alsatian.

Bowie wedges his head between my knees like he’s offering emotional support — turns out he’s just tangled in his lead.

Still. It works.

I laugh.

Langsett mattered.

It was our place.

Our first proper date.

We had fun there, even if my cute little moment with the yellow fuzzy caterpillar was a subconscious coverup for the fact that I was about to become an organ donor after wheezing my way to the top of the hill.

The beginning.

I’d even secretly planned to propose there — Google pins dropped along the route, a treasure hunt leading to a ring and a future.

Funny, really.

What once felt like fate now feels like fiction.

I’d laughed off the early signs. The comments. The subtle digs.

That’s the thing about being a funny fuck with cripplingly low self esteem. There I’d been, two and a half years ago thinking ‘fuck me, this lass is bloody fit, and she’s talking to ME?!’

But it shouldn’t have ever happened…

What once had started as a joke that she’d initially swiped left on Hinge, but in an uncharacteristic glitch of the app I had circled back around offering my digital self to a her as a re-swipe… Contextually now, this previously humourous fact now left nil but a sour taste in my mouth.

Didn’t realise I was losing myself in the process.

If that relationship was the Titanic, I’d rather someone had lobbed an iceberg at it early doors instead of letting it slowly sink under layers of bullshit and deception.

At least then it would’ve been quick.

Clean.

Honest.

Salt-corroded memories fossilised and buried so deep that only the most determined of aquatic scavengers would ever reveal them, like opening up a depressingly shit Blue Peter time capsule.

I wonder what other things I’d bury in a time capsule of my life (I actually have a life goal list that includes a wish to make one to open before I’m 69, though knowing me I’d likely forget where the chuffing thing was).

Would I look back with fondness at my past slightly less-bearded self and smile affectionately, the self esteem issues that had plagued my whole life thus far, a distant memory? Would the most depressing bit be the gas bill? Would it be a list of all the Nearly-but-Not snapshots in my life that had pulled the metaphorical rug from beneath me?

In a parallel universe, she’d swiped left that second time too and I was saved from this existential crisis, periodically in the here and now punctuated by the soft wet Bowie nose.

There’s not one person that wouldn’t wish to present their best version to the world on a dating app, however I wasn’t expecting to be dating a Yorkshire chameleon, the whole debacle transpiring to be as disorienting and welcomed as the bubonic plague.

Back in the present — coffee, friendship, breathless steps uphill.

We joke about the cannonball of parenthood, moving towards an age where reaching your own arsehole becomes a gymnastic feat, beards becoming an eventual inevitability but still welcoming the growth and gratitude of those little moments as your Small becomes Tall that remain tattooed on your hearts as you silently will time to slow down. Every adult conversation interrupted by parenthood remains a much longed for and welcomed moment of warmth. They are not moments you wish away. You don’t wish for time to pass in order to make those precious moments fewer and farther between.

I keep walking.

Because I have to.

At the summit, I stop.

This is it.

(After a brief and deeply undignified encounter with a bush that tried to exfoliate my entire fanny mid-piss…)

I dig.

And Christ, it’s harder than it should be.

Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.

Surely it shouldn’t be this hard to dig a fucking hole to close a chapter in your life?

A tiny plastic trowel against something much bigger.

Symbolic, really.

Eventually, there’s a hole.

And it’s just me, my thoughts, and everything I’ve been avoiding.

I take off the ring.

The one that symbolised commitment.

Now just…weight.

I run my fingers over the irregular notches in it’s design, crafted using the Japanese ethos of ‘wabi-sabi’, the unique beauty of imperfection and transience. It’s fucking beautiful and I feel a pang of sadness.

“I’m cutting the rope. I’m freeing myself.”

I don’t even realise I’m saying it out loud at first.

Then I am.

Louder.

Stronger.

Until it feels real.

I soak up the solitude of this moment, look across and see Sara patiently waiting, Bowie’s ears cocked picking up my whispers carried in the wind.

And then I drop it in.

It hits harder than I expect.

Like something inside me collapses and expands at the same time.

Memories, feelings, everything tied up in that one small object.

I make a mental note to tell Sara that in spite of all the damage and pain and need to heal that that this whole chapter has left me with, I’m really pissed off about having a fucking misshapen finger.

I briefly deliberate over whether to bury the ring I’d given her, now that’s it’s back with me, so painstakingly designed and crafted as a unique symbolism of my love for her. I quickly shake my head, and this incredulous idea away.

The power had disappeared from the ring I’d placed on her finger the minute she walked out of my life.

Now, I cut that tie by removing the power from my own ring.

I need to finish this story my way.

All of those memories encapsulated in that one little ring. And I look at it for a minute, having a little sob.

Thoughts, spiralling sensations, bodily feelings, memories, jokes, laughs, happy times, sad times, the times that I never quite knew which way we were going.

Hands shaking, I cover it.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

“This is where it ends.”

I think how this moment could actually be beautifully poetic, were it not representative of the whole fucking heartbreaking shitshow that’s been the last two weeks of my life.

With each pile of dirt, I’m cutting the rope, I’m freeing myself. Reminding myself that this process is necessary.

I build a rock stack.

Balance.

Control.

Something steady after chaos.

In every significant life transition, these rock stacks have been present. They represent the movement from darkness toward healing and the weight of contemplative learning. More than markers, they signify my own introspection—the quiescence necessary to achieve such a fragile, hard-won balance.

I made one on the top of Snowdonia. I make one every time I go to my dad’s cave. I made hundreds of them at Creswell Beach when I was really unwell just before qualifying.

For me, the act of making these stacks represent a moment of equilibrium, finding the balance between gravity physics and shaking but well-intending hands, knowing that one stray thought could see it topple (and it would appear that Small has developed a taste for it too).

Feeling really fucking proud of myself with a sharp intake of breath I said one last time-

“I cut the rope, I free myself“

And then I stand up.

And walk away.

On the way back, something shifts.

Not completely. Not magically.

But enough.

I laugh again — properly.

Watching Bowie attempt to dig a hole in water.

Relentless. Determined. Completely pointless.

And it hits me.

That’s what I’d been doing.

Pouring everything into something that was never going to hold.

I’m not fully there yet.

I don’t have the answers.

But I have something more important.

I tried.

Back at the car, I look behind me.

Hoping I’ve left it all buried there.

The ghosts. The weight. The what-wasn’ts.

I don’t know what comes next.

But I know this:

I cut the rope.

I freed myself.

And now, for the first time in a long time, I’m walking forward with nothing left pulling me back.

The End of Us, The Start of Me

Posted on 14 April 2026 by Jemma

So, I’ve been sitting with my thoughts a lot lately—questioning my views, my values, and the core philosophy I carried through that entire relationship, and what it all really meant. I was asked recently, at what point do you feel like it’s time to take the ring off? And that question has sat heavy, thoughts whirling, refusing to settle.

So I started asking myself, what will it actually take for me to take off this ring? Because it’s really about what this ring actually means to me.

And the ring… well, the story starts way before the ring. It starts with a conversation where I was looking at her mum and saying, “I know that one day I’m going to marry your daughter”.

And at that point, really, to be fair—hands on hips, staring me down—I should have realised that I was stepping into uncharted territory, sailing the black seas rather than riding the wave. I was never going to ‘win’.

I reflect on a moment when we both said that if we ever split up, it would be because of our parents, not because of us. And I sat heavy with that. From that moment on, it felt like a constant effort to try and find my place. I don’t even know if “win people around” is the right phrase—more like trying to earn the right to feel secure in being the most important person in the life of the person I believed was my soulmate.

That should have been a warning shot. The tears in the eyes, that angry glimmer. And instead of stepping back, I thought: I’ll prove you wrong. Tell me no and I’ll say, ‘right, fuck you—hold my beer’.

But it wasn’t one-sided. I looked back through messages before I blocked her, and there she was saying the same things. Talking about marriage. Talking about that moment—standing at the end of the aisle, turning around, seeing each other in that soul-colliding instant. Those words hold you. They hold you in a way you don’t understand until someone tells you: no, you’re not having that.

And that’s when it hits.

One of my best friends asked me, what value does this bring? What value is there in punishing yourself like this? And my answer was clarity. It brings me clarity.

But it’s been 14 days, 18 hours, 16 minutes. And for someone who thinks the way I do, that’s a long time to sit inside your own head. Trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense is like trying to put a wig on a palm tree and wondering why it doesn’t look right.

How do you find clarity when you’re mentally wading through mud? How do you get to that place where you can say, it’s okay—stop, forgive your mind, nurture your heart?

I kept asking myself, is this my time? Is now my time? And nothing sat right. It all just sat like a lead balloon in my gut. And it hurt.

I kept going over everything. Every conversation. Every moment I ignored my gut. Every moment I didn’t. Asking myself: why didn’t I listen? And what does that say about me, not her?

Because I’m responsible for my responses. I’m responsible for how I processed things, how I justified them, how I made them make sense.

So instead of asking what value it brought me, the real question was: what am I bringing to myself?

And the answer was pain.

I was hurting myself.

And I’m done hurting.

I feel like I’m on the brink of something—some kind of closure. Like waking up from a dream and trying to cling onto it, knowing it meant something important.

In that dream, I was in her world. Her family’s space. Walking past people I would have once stopped and spoken to. Standing near places that used to matter. And then seeing the family members people who I know are estranged in the waking world, that would never be standing side by side—smoke and daggers, and shadows I never fully understood.

And one of them looked back at me and winked, like: ‘I see you. I’ve been here’.

But the phrase that always echoed—blood’s thicker than water.

And I realised something when I woke up. That clarity comes with pain. Because it was the crashing realisation that I was never going to be fully part of that world. Not in the way I had imagined. More like I would always be an addition, an add-on—someone invited in moments, but never truly written into the core of it. Never on the guest list, even if I was sometimes in the room.

And why would I want that?

Why would I want to dip a toe in the river when what I really wanted was to throw myself in completely—fully, freely, naked and without hesitation?

Why didn’t I realise I might never feel able to do that?

That’s not about them. That’s about me.

Why did I give it value?

And I’m done hurting. I’m done hurting myself trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense.

The only sense I can make of it is this: I was lucky.

I was lucky because I hadn’t fully realised the dynamic I was in. I hadn’t realised, until it was almost too late, that I deserve more. That I need to listen to myself more.

I ignored my mind, my body, my soul. I chased what I thought I wanted instead of listening to what I actually needed.

So when I was asked what it would take to take the ring off, the answer is this: I needed to go through this. I needed to sit in it, question myself, understand why I ignored my own warning signs.

Because they were there. I just didn’t listen.

-(And yes, that’s been a pattern for me). But this time, I thought I was doing it right. I thought I was being honest, being open, being true to myself.

But looking back now, it feels like I was telling myself a version of the truth that kept the dream alive.

So now I’m sat in my car. The rings are back—not out of pettiness, but because they mean more to me than they ever would have otherwise to her. My house and car keys are back where they belong. I’ve got a packet of snacks beside me.

And I’m going to Langsett.

Back to the place where it began. Our first proper date. An unfamiliar hike that pulled me out of my comfort zone, the kind that leaves your legs aching but your mind wide open. The ease of sharing stories, laughing, joking—those early moments where everything feels light and possible.

I remember becoming completely, almost absurdly, fascinated with a bright yellow caterpillar. Stopping, laying aside it, getting lost in that tiny moment of curiosity and joy. That was me—free, uninhibited, unapologetically myself.

That memory now feels distant, softened, worn and tattered in the way an antique film reel nears it’s final play at the cinema. Days where everything felt vivid. Days when the colour wasn’t just in what I wore, but in who I was.

And I’m going back there.

I’m going to find that place where our journey began, and I am going to finish it there.

That’s where the ring comes off.

That’s where this story ends.

Because now, it’s time to heal. Long overdue time to heal.

I choose to take my power back. I choose control. I choose me.

And I’m not ashamed of that.

Because when I’m sat at 2am, consoling my daughter while she cries and asks why she left us, why she did this, what it means—what could we have done—I tell her this:

People come into your life for a reason. You’re meant to learn something from them.

And what I learned wasn’t that she was my forever.

What I learned…

is that I matter.

I matter more than I ever allowed myself to believe.

And today—today is the day that ring comes off.

And I couldn’t be more ready for that moment.

I breastfed an abandoned premmie found wedged in a wall running it to the closest SCBU: 10 days into feeling like my soul has been pulled out of my ass.

Posted on 10 April 2026 by Jemma

I wake up cold and panicked, tits tingling.

The familiar nail dragging sensation only ever comparable to the oxytocin-induced equivalent of the “not my daughter, you bitch” gut-punch feeling of seeing your kid been punched in the face by an unnamed Shitbag at a kid’s party, her Everything imploding with the resounding and soul crumbling thud-an autonomic readiness to wager the war you “never signed up for”.

——

To be factual, I neither found myself walking towards the underpass, Ginnel… (Gin-uhl, jenn-ell, debate it like Yorkshire ‘picky tea’ on the night you perused Casualty Corner before food shop day)….. -between two Northern terraces, nor did I actually find and/or rescue a 35 week preemie newborn swaddled in stained towels within a nook of a semi-crumbled wall alongside and leading to said ‘ginnel’.

Now, I wouldn’t describe myself as Mother Theresa, far from it, but waking up panicking about the potential demise of that starved, weak and extremely cold baby that I ‘dream found’ that I’d frantically put in direct skin to skin, removing the frost-hardened stained teatowels avoidantly enshrouding it, placed just so in a way that not even an amoeba could mistake as an attempt to signal ‘this child has been abandoned’ were they to pass, the fear that I may well be the only middleman between what I saw before me, and an unmarked grave the week following, thinking what if any attempts I make, just aren’t enough…. I consciously say out loud that this tiny human deserves to be given a fair chance. In that moment, ‘dream Jemma’ recognised this, touches the cold, sunken cheek of a very clearly unwell and near-death helpless newborn left to the elements…. My only thought, primitive and instinctive was: Help.

I swiftly scoop up my lethargic liege, sodden weeks old nappy bulging at the seams and all, grunting, nasal flaring, all the things that make me realise that once you’ve seen a poorly baby in your real conscious life, you never forget those signs that say “oh fuck”, even if you are REM-ing the fuck out of your lucid dream state….

I can still smell the damp moss around the crumbled bricks it lay upon, the olfactory assault of the sour waft of dank putrid water puddled amongst the inevitable end point of the complex and mismatched [but very broken] tangle of a drainage network that abruptly gathered in a sudden yet uninvited gathering of the dank, voiceless drip- drip- drip- signalling a chequered flag retrospectively waved at the water that somehow, despite being so very close, never made it to the sewer.

The cold, stale insult on my nostrils, flaring in response to the bundled up emergency I saw before me, Drip -… Drip….

Dream Me holds this tiny helpless being, heart pounding, willing my core heat to defrost some of its miniscule extremities, cupping its head to protect from the chill, I run… Hard.

Now (as dreams have a beautiful way of presenting thoughts as facts- snapshot moments traversing vast spaces and astronomic timeframes), I’m running…. I see nought but a few paces in front of me only. I’m no longer in the alleyway, but I feel this tiny helpless baby wrapped into me, as I run harder than I ever have, the drive to save this creature and overpowering purpose consuming me. Dream Self recognises that I am racing towards a neonatal unit I am nearby, knowing that “I just need to get this kid to safety…”

I feel the aching forgotten soul of this tiny helpless thing yearning for life, knowing that the adrenaline coursing through my veins like molten lava will keep me going, just one mile, another mile – nearly There, but I sense the nasal flaring slowing, the painfully visible carotid pulse noticeably slowing through it’s paper-thin skin, and I think- Nutrients!

I remember how the rich and royal in days long since forgotten would often ‘wet-nurse’ the young of their employers, as I unconsciously whack a boob out and guide a nipple to this fading soul, see the most minute of movements signalling the recognition of food, energy, life. In this moment, I was willing this baby to latch to this temporary life-sustaining source of much needed energy and nutrition, I see the primitive survival instincts of this tiny, unwanted baby kick in… That unmistakeable physical ‘draw’ as mouth signals milk.. the ghosts of many sleepless nights suddenly enshrouding me and calling on previous subconsciously filed memories of questioning my own belief and ability to ‘parent’ when holding my now 11 year old, weak, reliant, hungry and helpless, casting a murky shadow over an intrinsic need to nurture. Yet, with a tangible tug, I’m hurtled to the Here and the Now, every nail-dragging ‘pull’ of that feeble suckle, gradually getting stronger until I am reassured that whilst I’m feeling the thud of my heart in every muscle fibre screaming at my weary limbs to slow down, I know I can’t stop running, I must not stop running.

The tiny, unloved, unseen, invisible baby is feeding away, flaring reduced, respirations stabilising, it’s excruciatingly prominent carotid pulse, now regular underneath it’s tiny malnourished underweight frame, every tug a life-giving affirmation- This baby is a fighter.

I’m suddenly back at the entrance of the ginnel, having been catapulted to the scene of where the dream started yet somehow at the end of the seemingly infinite cobbled offensive path, panting, breathless, limbs screaming, sweat pouring.

Clinging to this the tiny sentient being, I see the SCBU.

The team—ready. Resus kit prepped. Paeds lined up like figurines waiting for orders.

I run.

TUG, TUG, tug- a strange auditory synchronisity with the dripping broken drain faintly heard punctuating the heavy, dense atmosphere, I can barely breathe, but the tiny baby, warm, pink and now flailing limbs, is safe.

I unravel this frail being from it’s dirty shroud and kiss the now significantly less icy forehead of the ward I was temporarily custodian for.

I wake up.

What. The. Fuck?

Read into this as you will.

I spent hours and hours dissecting this dream. Left in a clammy sweaty dazed state for the whole morning- what did this mean???

I think back- am I the baby? Was I a faceless entity put there in the dream to serve- and save- the baby? Is this me seeing a biologically vulnerable thing and nurturing it to safety, putting things in place to ensure survival at the most primitive instinctive sense?

I firmly believe that we are all here for a reason, for many however, this reason never truly reveals itself and they may bimble through life navigating things entirely unaffected by the significance of one meaning to the next. To some this may seem like a welcomed oblivion, to others the biggest curse in the plight to achieve self-actualisation (and anyone that knows me, knows the short period of time where I would have happily dug Maslow himself up to burn him to a pile of the indignant ash I believed him to exist in eternity as- I’ve thankfully grown since!)

It made me think- Are people inherently and intrinsically hard-wired to ‘fix’…. I mull this thought over, repeatedly and with extreme dedication (I even managed to not pop a cortex whilst doing so!)… Is the thing that I saw as a helpless soul (abandoned baby) a reflection of all that I see and have issue with in the world. Does the fact that I ‘saved’ said baby make me a martyr to the injustices of the world around me, or am I, without realising, seeking validation somewhat? Or could it be that in this moment, I simply miss pouring my heart and soul into holding the hands of, and guiding the steps of the families traversing the perilous river of growing a human.

I’m exhausted!

I lay, a million thoughts running through my head- do I have a pathological need to serve, to support those around me, was the ‘baby’ in my dream representative of the pregnant and postnatal caseload I hold as dearly to my chest as I held the fading premature bundle to me and got them to their ‘end point’. I miss them, a ‘family’ that I know I am there, present for, in varying levels of input, for up to ten months at a time.

Am I at an impasse where I am inherently and to my core absolutely breaking, watching great chunks of my soul, my safety, my core value and truest psyche crumble around me? Fuck, was I the baby?

I’m spiralling by this point, psychological equivalent of having a full tank of fuel in the car, but stuck circling the M25 with no way of finding the right exit watching the guage plummet wondering which will stall first, my racing thoughts or my sludged-up engine very much running on empty by this point.

—–

The doorbell rings- I forget I was expecting Tim to pop in on his rounds today, I’m pulled out of my existentialist crisis and realise I really fucking need to put pants on, I’m still sporting the strangled chicken aesthetic that would only be appealing to a polar bear with neck-down alopecia identifying it’s next ‘snack’.

I talk. I hear. I mull shit over.

I piece through the last 9 days and 14 hours (not that I’m counting!) of the pure hell I’ve been launched into.

Tim has this excellent ability to just be in a moment. We’ve had many life crises navigated in very much the same vein of ‘fuck it, let’s make a dark humoured joke about this shitshow’, and it never lands unsavoury. But the hug at the end of this moment, means everything. To really feel nurtured and safe to introspect and work through my perceptions, test that to a less objective and unbiased viewpoint. Metaphorically, if I’m the 70p gossip mag in a hairdresser’s, Tim’s the BBC website—grounded, factual, no bullshit.

Hearing and feeling first-hand that level of shits given, I feel ‘safe’ in my own head for the first time in a week, I feel my shoulders un-hunch.

Tim leaves, I head to Small’s football training, I temporarily redirect my Erin Brokovich-esque Karen rage at rallying a team to voice and fight for something I, in this feckless state and in resounding defiance of the silencing I realised I’d previously felt with any viewpoint that may have been even the remotest bit contentious, believed in for the girls and the team.

I feel an unfamiliar pang of hunger, realise that there’s a reason I can see my toes (and twat) for the first time in years, and consciously remind myself I need to eat, my body needs fuel. I recall Sara saying she’s coming over and not to worry about an evening meal, so I await her return.

The door is barely clicked shut, closed in a ‘normal’ way that I’ve not been familiar with for the last 2.5 years, I allow myself the tiniest of smiles in recognition of the fact that whilst my heart and soul feels like it has been ripped into infinite pieces, I am resoundingly certain that the doorframe will no longer follow closely behind- when the doorbell goes.

Me casa es su casa

Why the fuck is my best mate ringing my doorbell?

Sara has seen my arsehole in 50 inch screen HD whilst a gynae colleague was casually waving a hysteroscope in front of me chatting away, prior to the inevitable and imminent insertion of It into it’s fleshier and more amenable neighbour. At the time I was unsure of whether I was blushing more at the fact that she’s being reminded of the night she had to hose the sick of my naked body as I lay in her bath, bollock naked, for a ‘nap’, tangled in my partly detached hair extensions after a 6am kickout from the haunt of our very messy 20s, or whether it’s the fact that the hot gynae nurse assistant is eyeballing me oblivious to the fact that I’m secretly wishing that in a parallel universe, this was not the way I’d envisaged anyone remotely as attractive as her to be seeing the core of me in quite such magnified narrative.

I open the door and am met, my hair thrown up in a shambolic attempt for ‘presentability’, greasy, forgotten even more so than the depressed, messy, sad and woeful tragedy that I’ve seen in the mirror for the last week, and a sea of faces of those I love meet my tear-filled gaze. Sara, Rhi, Amy (and my wonderful Rosey-cheeked bestie Sophia and brother Leo), and Scothern.

I quickly forget how I’d anticipated a night of figuring my shit out, figuring out quite why the dream overnight continued to haunt me in a flurry of untimely and uninvited tableaus throughout the day.

But I quickly forewent this in favour of an evening with my nearest and dearest, each a resounding pillar of quadrangulation to the messily unhinged yet unfounded doubts that plagued me. I feel the peace and presence that I’d felt earlier that day with Tim and the night before when speaking to Adam and Lizzie from afar (enjoying a much-needed break but still sending their apologies for being absent due to being geographically in another continent!). I feel, for the second time in what is now 10 days since I saw in almost dissociative objectivity my world get turned on it’s arse and tossed on the scrap heap, a calm that remains alien to me still but which I trusted that I was safe space to feel.

The conversation earlier in the day with Tim was “at what point do you think you will feel ready to stop wearing your engagement ring?”

I’d thought long and hard about this, was it when I felt ‘healed’? Do I feel it’s when I’m beyond broken and the sadness turns to anger and disbelief that I didn’t see any of the now clearly ‘more red flags than a circus tent’. But we learn I guess, will it be when I stop loving her? Do I need to hate her? I came to the conclusion that this time would come only when I could see far more clearly the beautiful moments that I can cherish, than the pain, sadness, grief and finally got to a point beyond the bereavement that sits heavy on my chest, catches my breath when I start to vocalise that “I’ll be ok” and I choke on the words.

When I start to feel like, as true as the impulse and urge to defend your young as angry mama bear protecting her ‘cub’ … in the self same way that she’d hurtled to the rescue of my bruised sobbing Small that day long since passed where she’d been (unseen by me) punched square in the face by the shitbag at a party, having pinned this as a mental polaroid on a corkboard graffitied with the words “I didn’t sign up for this” seeing now, that I was too blindsided by the pretty picture as a photographic memento to take any other fundamentally cohesive meaning (warning) of the bigger memo.

Thinking on it more and mulling over my thoughts in the quiet hours since my tribe – The Family You Choose- left,

I can’t help but wonder if the moment I’m waiting for—the one where I finally take off that engagement ring—is the exact same moment I truly understand that dream.

Crying into my chicken selects: the dark side of lesbian breakups TikTok doesn’t show you

Posted on 8 April 2026 by Jemma

We’ve all been there haven’t we?

You’re in love, think it’s the real deal, goes a bit wrong, you convince yourself there’s more fish in the sea… You then go one of two ways- 1. Throw yourself under anything with a pulse in a frantic bid for anything that makes you feel less like an alien, or 2. Do something drastic like leave the country, shave your head, become a Monk… Then cycle repeat.

But what if you find yourself at an impasse and go neither way? What happens then? Well, dear Reader. This is where you find yourself in the jarring Upside Down of what-the-fuck-ery so you do now?

Picture this:

You respect your body and your twat a lot more than you did in your twenties, having abstained from the things that nearly destroyed you despite them being ‘easy fixes’- the behaviours playing to an anthem of an initially steady (but rapidly gaining) momentum decline that would be enough to give Newton a rod on.

However, convincing yourself that you’ve ‘achieved’ somewhat for pairing the orphaned socks together in a frenzied blur of internal monologue, where that Kondo lass would be smiling down at you from her perfectly Feng Shui-ed compartments for life- “well done Jemma, first prize for being a shit show, but at least your toes will be warm until you’re dead”.

I nearly did shave my head on Thursday evening. Convinced myself that it would be ’empowering’, something that isn’t just for broken hearted gals with a birth year starting with a 20. Sure I can pull that shit off? How to rid myself of all this bad karma, bad juju, dropping the ‘weight’…. Maybe self discovery? Become everything that the ex-mother in law was terrified her own daughter would do, because it’s a ‘rite of coming out’ passage?

I had those fuckers, in my hand, ready to go.

Hands trembling, eyes leaking, a Pinterest save board hyperfocus overflowing with fat birds all looking Free with likely cold ears. The trimmers were turned on, I’m sat on the floor frozen in a follicular fight or flight, buzzers chopping nil other than the shadows of the person I’d become, when I just slumped, hands in my lap still clenched around the trimmers. A nice chunk out of the bush (at least the Girls were unscathed).

I realise I’ve not paid much attention to that particular part of my body until I’m sat looking at the orphaned tumbleweed hurtling away from it’s motherland like a weird ‘This Is What Colour Your Eyebrows Should Be’ banner whisking across the screen of a shit B film copied from the market VHS stall before the piracy advert fully starts. Not even the moment that I realise that I can actually see the fucker it came from… I had entirely disembodied myself from my pelvic area in anything other than the sense a Karen (housing committee board) would angrily spit unfounded venom at that one neighbour that didn’t hoover their wheelie bin. Easily now, in the seemingly relentless uterine war waged for the last 6 months- reserving no more than 20 days off in the last 180. My haemoglobin had plummeted, self love dead, so why not grow a 70s bush? My own feminine version of the handlebar Tash.

Still, in that moment, faced with realisation that a large proportion of my own self protection ‘barrier’ was now missing, I found a Tiny Teensy Moment to acknowledge that whilst the breakup diet had completely bypassed the chins, they’d been rerouted to the cake shelf, every cloud.

It was in that moment, somewhere between the internal battle of which way to direct my trembling sweaty hands with the trimmers buzzing away, strangled badly plucked chicken, or a thumb… That I realised that neither of these were self-empowerment, they were a form of self harm. Because had they been a true honest part of me before, they’d be like that already right? Because I know myself, right?

Like fuck I do. It was in those wee hours that followed that I remembered that I’d made my friend promise to never let me revisit my Thumb haircut (Covid life), in the same way that I’d promised to sweep the Bestie’s bedroom for ‘personal effects’ if she snuffs it before the GP makes his final home visit to certify there’s no pulse. We make those promises, did I subconsciously think this wasn’t one of those situations, did it call to initiate Operation Wingbitch? I doubt it. So I sighed into yet another dodged bullet of life choices that I’d have previously made much more impulsively, with greater fallout, bigger consequences. I sat looking at my battered bald chicken, and for the first time in 48 hours, didn’t want to be swallowed into the ground.

But alas, these moments pass quickly Dear Reader. As I sit scooping chicken selects into my sad face because I’ve less chance of these resurfacing uninvited than anything that has nutrients, I reflect. For, despite that brief 20 minute interlude, it’s been a smorgasbord or shite before, immediately after and ever since.

The supposedly empowering Re-Thumbing moment, a kind of unease that is only superseded by a danger fart on the way to your first ever professional job interview (I lost, but still miraculously got the job even if I did have to wash my arse in McDonald’s, do the interview commando and had to drive there like my coccyx would explode if it touched the drivers seat). My freeing bald fat girl board saves accidentally pinged into the wedding planning inspo Pinterest…. And I feel my breath catch, my earth plummet all over again as I’m met with a sea of woodland-themed and sunflower-drenched saves, moody and whistful snapshots of a happy ever after that was shot from my life at point blank range, punctuated with accents of the beautiful outfits I never had the chance to try and find Temu copies of… Gut punch.

Fuck that….

Let’s look at angry lesbian breakup tiktoks, that’s surely going to help, right? It worked for a while, then I saw how much fanny was flinging itself at Lesbian Nan, everyone has someone out there, the ragey posts, the ‘oh, she’s not worth it’ first #wlwfirstbreakup hashtags. It made me feel even more sick.

How do I even find a bastard hashtag for this crock of shite?

So, for now

…

I’ll just sob into my chicken selects.

Holiday blues

Posted on 21 November 2022 by Jemma

A month down the line.

It’s hard to believe that a month ago today we were both well in the depths of the most horrific long haul flight I’d never imagined I’d be mopping sick up on, navigating tiny aisles and even tinier seats with my lardy arse, or that we were about to embark on a holiday of a lifetime.

Let alone, be stuck on the other side of the world in charge of a frothing loud and hyperactive Small for ten days, with not even a sniff of another responsible adult to take the slack.

But we did, and it’s done. And it’s been really weird being home. Japan is the only place that less-than-stable 20-something me would’ve easily spontaneously gotten on a plane and never returned from, and I’m feeling the pull still even as a semi-conscious semi-adult 30-something, so it must have been decent. We’ve acquired this cute little mama-Small delusion where we’ll still faux plan a day exploring the suburbs, like we’re waltzing around bustling Ueno rather than schlepping the sodden streets of Barnsley.

I’ve yet to properly eat bread since coming back, my body’s acclimatised back to not walking 10 miles a day and other than a slightly unhealthy obsession with cooking ramen daily and just shy of 2st having been misplaced somewhere, it’s like it was all a very long and colourful dream. Small’s feet have just about stopped hurting from our little treks, so I reckon it’ll take her a while longer to feel the holiday blues!

Well, I say that. The suitcases are still downstairs, semi unpacked of all bar the goodies I’ve yet to find homes for, Small is still finding little trinkets from our travels. And I’m still putting away a mountain of washing. What goes up must come down, so they say.

We’ve come away with a greater appreciation of being outdoors, more respect for each other having shared and bared all in our time over there, and a significant lack of comprehension for rude bastards. I’ve only just stopped subconsciously bowing with every social interaction with strangers/service staff, and I’m still finding myself disgusted by bad manners and loud/shouty arrogance. Small is struggling more so with seeing graffiti everywhere back home, and her first words on stepping foot out of Manchester Airport were “mummy, isn’t England really filthy compared to Japan”. She’s not wrong, but it’s taken a good month just to realise quite how different a world it was.

On reflection, it was a really fucking big world too it appears, and I’m riddled with the ‘what ifs’ and the ‘I should’ve gone back to that village/shrine/shop’ moments. I’m at peace in the one sense, I reckon it’d have been sensory overload had we pushed harder to do even more and I’d have been discovered a glittering dayglo wreck shaking in a street corner had we tried to do more…. But do I feel bad that we didn’t manage more shrines, more museums and the famous Ueno zoo, absolutely.

I’ve clearly struggled to make peace with being home, my purse is still bulging with 1 Yen coins and the IC travel card taking pride of place. It probably wasn’t helped having a day to sleep then being back to work with Small heading back to school. Every now and again though, Small without prompt tells me just how much she enjoyed it, how she’ll never forget our adventures and that she can’t wait to go back. She’s already decided shes going to go and live there a month when she’s 25. I decided against arguing the specifics. The weather has changed, from the late autumnal acer leaves carpeting the front garden on the day of our return, to being cold, wintery with bare trees- there’s no denying we’re home.

But we have 81640 gachapon toys to play with (and still finding more to open), magnificently coloured outfits we acquired en-route, a kitchen full of ingredients to still eat as we were, and of course a newly acquired Crunchyroll subscription to binge all the anime she was fan-girling about whilst there. She’s still saying please and thank you in Japanese, and the snuggles are even better after a week of being besties. I never thought having regular adventures as a solo mama on (potentially) ill-planned holidays would ever see us as we are now- content, together and more understanding of each other than ever, but here we are and I guess it worked.

So, until our next adventure, unless I fall out with the NHS and buy a campervan to disappear with her in tow, I guess that’s it! Thanks for reading 🙂

Sayōnara Japan! Our last day in this wonderful place 🇯🇵

Posted on 30 October 2022 by Jemma

It’s midday, guess I did need that sleep, the classical cat music blurring through my brain still as I jolt awake thinking I’ve missed the flights. Small’s been waiting patiently and decided on the one of two outfits I left her and I’ve wrenched myself out of bed.

I surprise her with a little visit to the rooftop terrace where she’s wowed by the views, as am I, with the Tokyo Sky tree clearly visible in the background and skyscraper after skyscraper lacing the vast heights that we’re surrounded by.

Off we set walking to make something of the day and we find her much-loved chicken sticks for brunch. We then head to Harajuku to visit the Meiji-Jingu shrine, after 3 visits that left us no time to do so and I’m extremely glad that we did make it.

The huge Torii gates beckoning us towards the shrine are set atop a backdrop of ancient reaching trees and beautiful woodland area. It’s so elaborately decorated with masses of gold edging and old dark wood immaculately sculpted that we barely notice the hundreds of folk there. After a few lovely and serene hours, stocking up on tea from a local mountain village and getting a few last souvenirs we head back to get some food.

On the subway I’ve become a full blown Karen, or maybe the two entirely separate groups of other tourists on the train are managing to piss me off royally are being especially cuntish. Three girls, dressed up in cosplay looking adorable but that’s where it ends. They’re talking so loudly, publically and with so few shits given to the culture of train etiquette, only one wearing a mask, and I’m feeling my fists itch. I’m not the only only casting them annoyed looks though, they’re talking about how ‘you can’t truly get into the anime culture without having done yada yada….’, what about the trainful of culture that you’re actually in and pissing off right here, dickheads? The next ones on my Karen hitlist are very American, talking loudly about some element of the Japanese transport system that they disapprove of, swigging beers (also not wearing masks). I’m relieved when all the disrespectful bastards have all fucked off and it’s quiet once more.

We head back to Ameyoko Street to find food, looking for a very illustrious sushi restaurant that I was foolish to think we’d get seated at, and head to the neighbouring restaurant instead, also a conveyer sushi place, and get seated. This feels like a truly Japanese place to eat, filled with nearly all locals and a sushi chef diligently creating the wonderful plates right in front of us.

I order sake with mine, and it’s very very delicious, almost too much so, as I’m thinking of squeezing another bottle in before we leave, until realising that Small is eating plate after plate of raw fish in my warm and fuzzy presence and I should maybe hold back a little.

We’re just about to finish, when a chap (expat) approaches us from the next booth, explaining that he’s so very happy to see people coming to eat here, as it is a true representation of the gorgeous dish, and how lovely it is that Small has been given the opportunity to come to Japan, it being a place he visited and never returned from, having wishes he’d been brought in his childhood.

We saunter through the busy shopping street taking a little more of it all in and having one last diabetes-inducing crepe and head home.

On walking back to our hotel for the final time, I reflect a little on the sushi place bloke said, and get quite teary about it. It has been a wonderful opportunity, for the both of us, and I appreciate that we’ve had the chance to spend the last 10 incredible days here seeing it all and soaking everything in. I realise it’s been my favourite solo adventure with her yet, and she’s transfixed on the return trip that she’s hanging onto me saying would be in 2-3 years. I figure out I’d better put my annual leave request in early and graft at saving if I’m to achieve the same again on a similar level, especially as I’d be wanting to travel around the beautiful country a little more next time with her as well.

We nip by her beloved Family Mart to stock up on the abominable sandwiches she loves and a handful of indeterminate whiskies and sake (maybe some shochu too, I didn’t google translate the label), and we’re back at the hotel to try and squeeze our last few goodies into the suitcase.

It’s been wonderful, peaceful, and eye opening. Japan has given me more than I ever thought it would, and opened my eyes to the many possibilities of exploring this magnificent country again. The sake has worn off too now, so maybe I’ll not forget my passports, or child, as we head to the airport.

Sayōnara Nihon, you’ll be much missed and forever cherished.

Alice in Shinjuku and other adventures

Posted on 30 October 2022 by little.plant.pot@gmail.com

This morning was a delightful lie-in after yesterday’s events, maybe I’m getting too old for this shit now, my body’s in pieces. Maybe time to hit the gym. For other jokes, I’d thought about doing Shinjuku, Harajuku and a cheeky swing by Ikebukuro again, but alas it wasn’t to be as we didn’t get out until lunchtime and I’d made a reservation at an Alice in Wonderland themed restaurant for 5.30pm.

First job for the day was coffee and the elusive ‘meat sticks’ shes grown to love but can we fuck find any, so after pre-loading for the day in Ameyoko street we start hunting for a rucksack for her to help with the necessities for travelling home with.

There’s loads of kids dressed up for Halloween and it’s such a sight, loads of tiny princesses, ghosts and ghouls just going about their midday business. Small tried to convince me, badly, to acquire some hideously fluffy converse and for a moment I’m tempted then remember the amount of shit we’re bringing home and I realise it’s not worth the drama of squeezing everything into the four suitcases we’ve brought. She’s appalled by what she named ‘fish street’ after all the foodstock on sale, its bustling and a real insight into the true Ueno but we’re on a ticking clock so head back to the station after swinging by Tokudaiji Temple.

We go straight back to Harajuku instead of our other intended stops to have one last look at the goodies having gotten dolled up full ‘kawaii style’ (she’s stopped getting embarrassed about people stopping her to say how adorable she looks by now and is actually quite flattered) and feeling very grown up with her dangly earrings, with Small picking up a few more pairs of ridiculously bonkers shorts for the road. Another little Purakura photoshoot and we’re off for a wander, getting waylaid as two excitable foreigners in Japan would, calling in at the dog cafe I’d promised her 3 days running, to realise we simply didn’t have the time if we were to navigate Shinjuku in the full mania of rush hour in time for dinner.

With the unanticipated 23 minutes we had left before needing to be back at the subway, we hit the famous squishy shop, bang next to ACDC Rag and I was almost grateful for the need to wear facemasks as the smells of sweets, fruit, bread and syrupy foam attacked my nostrils like a kid having raided her mum’s perfume drawer. That said, the staff were amazing, and Small was thrilled to see that the main staff member was wearing the very same skirt she’d just bought next door. They made a huge fuss of her, posing for pictures in the foamy photo booth surrounded by fluffy abominations and feeling very chuffed with herself- they even gave been a discount for being so cute, lucky bugger.

She’d said she’s not bothered about getting a fancy 3D animal drink in one of the many skyscraper cafes whilst watching the scramble of Shibuya crossing beneath, which is a relief really as I’ve yet to easily find anything above floor level, even armed with tour guides and google maps. So it’s lucky really that we needed to head in the opposite direction and actually eat a sit down meal after what feels like 10 days or more often than not street food (and her bloody Family Mart Ham egg and cheese sandwich).

After promising her (not convinced it’s one I’ll definitely be able to keep) that we’ll come back to the dog cafe after dinner, we head to Shinjuku for an early dinner and after finally finding it in the basement of one of the hundreds of gigantic rabbit warrens, we arrive at Alice in Fantasy Land. The busy crossing just in front of the station’s East exit before we enter the restaurant is glowing from the light of the giant 3D playful cat billboard above, and it’s so much better in real life. I decide that Shinjuku is one of my favourite looking places at night. Inside, we’re greeted by a sea of card knights, beautiful themed artwork and quotes from the book in every corner we looked, and are shown to our booth.

Having failed to get google translate to work properly, the meal I’d booked was going to be very much a mystery, but donning our rabbit ears and Alice headband and being entertained by the cutest Alice and Cheshire Cat waitresses, she wasn’t bothered in the slightest. Everything was incredibly tasty, all themed and decorated in Wonderland style, and before we knew it, it was time to take our bellies full of food and fantasy home.

Heading back to Harajuku to try and get back for what I presumed would be another ‘last entry before closing time’, we re-lived our recent sprint to a cafe with pets, and slightly less out of breath than last time get to Rio dog cafe. I’m informed that the charge is by the the ten minutes and feel a little like I’m visiting a bloody brothel but she’s already hot-footed it in and is exploding over the fluffy cuteness. The music is oddly comforting yet slightly disorienting, it’s saccharine jingles piercing the brain and I’ve yet to shift them now 12 hours later. I’m sat chilling with a dog in a pastel nappy (‘oh, I didn’t realise that dogs pennies bleed too’) and swiftly skip over that one whilst she’s trying to get a Shiba Inu to play chase. It’s almost as standoffish as yesterday’s cats, but she’s blissfully ignorant and before we know it, it’s closing time and we’re leaving.

A slow saunter back through Takeshita Street mourning the closing of the shops and we’re back at the station. I realise now what it was that I’d seen a few days earlier in a different but juat as busy station, walking past two semi-nude posters of women wearing nipple pasties are laid midway up on the floor of the very busy steps, not having realised it was the same thing, different place, and realised that the commuters are purposefully walking around them and not using that entire mid-section of the steps up to the platforms. I’m wondering if it’s a statement, advertisement, or political experiment (or all!), but it’s so interesting to see people’s behaviours on the matter.

Returning through Shinjuku, I’d had a glimpse of a darker side to Japanese culture, where there were scantily clad maids and waitresses coaxing men into their bars, hefty entrance fees and ginormous billboards of extremely young women wearing obscene skirts lined up as if on a X Factor for strippers. Small announces out of the blue that she thinks if people are going to pay lots of money to go to a bar ‘to do sex’ then that’s their business. I practically choked up and tried to explain how her very strong notions of autonomy and bodily choice may not necessarily be the right way to understand an explanation of fetish and exploitation, nor was it a knocking shop. I make a mental note to explore what the fuck she just came out with another day, as she’s yabbering on about how one day when she has her two children (clearly she’s thought about this), that she’s going to ‘ask a man to share his seed so that she doesn’t have to do sex because that’s disgusting’. Another mental note to figure out why she’s thinking of all this and all I can think of is the hugely sexualised imagery of certain people that she’s seen in the millions of advertisements here, and thank the stars that more often than not she’ll advise me that the whole thing is inappropriate. Saved!

We walk back through Ueno’s back streets, past the house that has a tiny stone on each brick of the little wall around it, and make a slightly less grim mental note to read what/if significance is there, as it’s lovely to look at. She decides to get me to record her doing a video of opening the earlier squishies after trying on and becoming glued to her new -very appropriate length- skirt, and it’s to bed for her.

I’m starting packing, after what takes a good hour for Small to finally nod off, TV playing some random tat and then begin. I realise quite how much shit we’ve bought whilst here, and after bubble wrapping everything to allow for rough baggage handlers, I’m thrilled with my new 100¥ shop vaccume storage bags. There’s no one at reception to ask to borrow a hoover so I set about manually sucking the air from all the vents like my life depended on it like some inanimate resus and feeling rather light as the dizziness kicks in. The programme about cats playing, to a background of some quite recognisable claasical music starts to work it’s magic and I get stuck in.

It’s been quite some time since I became so fixated on something that time just disappeared (the last being an addictive phone game that saw me 3 days MIA with a boss calling to see if I was still alive-that was 10+ years ago however, I’m marginally more sensible now) but the suitcases are now packed after a methodically organised operation. I blame the classical cats that I’ve been zoned out to whilst planning the planning and pre-packing the packing. Standard.

It’s 6.39 am, and I’m going to be absolutely fucked tomorrow regardless however everything is packed meaning that no matter what time it is, I’ll be broken and jet lagged in 36 hour’s time anyway.

81625 steps, Pokemon and pissed off cats.

Posted on 29 October 2022 by Jemma

Feeling a bit au fait with the subway system now. It’s just as loud and busy as London, but it’s quite possibly the easiest system to navigate, and an entirely full platform in rush hour is still silent. I think I’ve figured out the silence rule on trains- it’s because every fucker is fast asleep, how on earth does everyone cat-nap so well? Obviously I looked into it, and it’s a known phenomena over here, the sway of the carriage, white noise and feeling safe due to a culture of neighbourly consideration, can’t imagine having any belongings left if I had a nap on a train back home!

She’s either still asleep, or has listened to me about the no talking, finally. Sitting opposite to me on a busy commuter train, knowing we’re here for 30 mins and I can still see the odd glimpse of her insanely neon shorts. It remains an alien concept but I actually really like it, I may ask her to adopt it back home. The silence that is, I’ve got no say in the abominations she wears. There’s no brash conversations loudly echoing down the carriage about the next door neighbour running off with the postman leaving her kids to starve, no ridiculous displays of, well, anything.

Personally, I find it calming, and it doesn’t make me feel like I need to explode with everything as much as I thought it would, how bizarre that ordinarily I find myself batting the status quo both internally and externally (often subconsciously), yet here I am a country with myriad cultural and etiquette rules to observe, and I like it. Maybe I could live here. It’s not like I’ve properly unpacked or finished decorating the bathroom yet, so we’re talking minimal upheaval. Maybe I could become the token fat gaijin in a maid cafe?

We’re on the subway to Shinjuku, the busiest station in the world, in rush hour. No giant sardine train experiences though, maybe the real rush starts later, it’s busy sure but not to the extent that I’m acquainted with folks in the way only can when smashed up against their delicates.

Had a bit of time spare, so decided to go and ask for the station stamp, that’s another thing that covid has fucked up- half of them aren’t doing it, Shinjuku included. I thought that yesterday’s tiny station was because of its miniscule setup (just the two platforms), but it would appear that maybe it’s a people-touching-it thing too.

Getting a seat on the next hour long leg of the journey to Mt Takao together has made for a slightly less grumpy Small, and I’ve found a vending machine selling hot black coffee for the equivalent of 59p, winner. Even managed a sneaky slightly-less-illegal pork cutlet and cabbage sandwich (sounds gross, tastes delicious), snaffling it next to the vending machines.

We arrive after 90 minutes of journeying and head to figure out where the fuck this mountain is. The tour company said that I could either get a cable car halfway up or to the top, and back, which I like the sound of as my strained achilles is demonstrable right now. Sneaky prawns, it in fact only climbs a third of the way, a 20-30 minute walk to the Temple from there and then again to the summit of Mount Takao. I’m looking around me and there’s a handful of the usual hiking superstars, but many of them are extremely elderly/slow/using walking sticks to get around, so I’m reassured and we hop on the cable car.

Small could not understand the gradient of the seat on entering, the steep incline at 31° making for entertaining angles until we hit the big climb. I’m touching knees with a gentleman in rather an un-Japanese way, until it levels out. I’ve slurped my morning coffee jelly though so I’m armed with apologies and ready to take on the world.

Small getting a fortune gachapon hand delivered by a performing mountain monkey rolling it down a track thriugh a teeny tiny Torii gate had her in stitches. The laughter is music to my ears and somewhat lessened my pending angst at the oncoming marathon. The little old dears still hobbling along the relatively flat path make me wonder, where the fuck is this temple and summit?

It’s like we’re having a leisurely stroll in the woods, passing the 450 year old octopus cedar tree ‘Tagosuki’ with ease, topping up our supply of togorashi spices from a hillside store and then – BAM….

The steps, ascending to the gods (quite literally) appeared out of nowhere, after what felt like what I now confirmed had been an upward slant going off the damp upper lip. The guide leaflet notes a place of the 108 steps, so surely that’s going to be it right? Wrong. Whilst beautiful, that was just the beginning.

The vast stone steps are beautiful, cold, and were I not on religious ground whilst hauling myself up them, I’d call them cruel. I’m the only fat one but not the only one popping a lung up, though I’m getting a little annoyed at how easy it appears for the very old ladies whizzing past me. But then I realise where I am, what I’m here to do and that I should stop whinging like a little bitch and get on with it.

The view are vast, soaked in whilst eating what appeared to be chicken balls on sticks, but turned out to be baked bread balls coated in sticky soy sauce, absoluty delicious and unlike anything I’ve ever eaten.

We cleanse our minds as much as you can do with a proper dab on, weak knees, and sweaty child, and head through the Negai Kanau Waku Kuguri wish ring and the Yakuoin Yukiji temple. The entrance to this temple is my favourite yet with all the bright colours, I’m fully wowed and it takes what little breath I have left away.

We get our goshuin stamp and carry on. The steps and climb is a bit brutal now, and its not just me being fat and lazy either as theres a notable decline in pace from nearly everyone on the next step. But my god is it worth it. The view, a panoramic scene of mountains all around us, Mount Fuji in the distance, is just magnificent.

After a look around all the tourist bits, and deciding that as we’ve managed to do all this before lunchtime we head back down the hill to find some food and stop near the chair lift gate for some traditional soba noodle dishes. Small managed to throw her miso soup everywhere and instantly went to clean it up, Japan has fixed my child, I’m in raptures!

The chair lift is an experience and a half, and vertigo kicks in amidst Small’s laughs of glee looking down, the bump of the rails bringing her all the joy whilst I’m praying to all the gods at all of them temples that I don’t just jiggle off and roll down like the fat ginger tourist that I am all the 300+ metres down the hill.

All things said, she’s not been too much of a bastard today and in reward I decide to surprise her with a visit to the Pokemon Centre in Ikebukuro, partly in thanks for her sleeping most of the hour and a half journey back. I have no idea why she’s so knackered, I’m the one that has had 3hrs sleep, but I’ll let it slide.

Ikebukuro is stunning, in the way that only a Japanese town with its glittering lights and shining billboards can be. Sunshine City, the department centre that we’ve headed to, is a kawaii nirvana and shes truly in her element.

We get all the treats then head to a cat cafe, which unfortunately don’t allow children under 13 but we’re recommended another one that does, on the other side of Ikebukuro but unfortunately closes to new entries in 17 minutes. I run like it’s last orders at the Chinese buffet and theres no shits given for the sweat running down my face blurring the glitzy streets and slightly misaligned google maps instruction. We make it at the time they’re closing, however with my terrible Japanese and the help of google translate they allow us in.

Now we all know cats own humans, and these furry bastards couldn’t give two shits about being played with, but she’s blissfully unaware to this fact and gets stuck in. Theres a Maine Coon that looks like it wants to eat her, yet still she tries to pet it, so away I sup my free coffee until closing time. Shes so grateful, shes been missing the cats at home and this was just what she needed. A cheeky stop at the Animate character store and after being told that all the shows she likes are so old in Japan that we’ve no chance of getting any merch from them, we head home to open the days gachapon haul instead.

Its been a busy one, and we’re both truly shattered, but as our holiday is drawing to a close, she has nothing but gratitude for every single thing we’ve managed today.

Tomorrow is our last full day, theres one Asahi left in the fridge, and after having a semi-conscious sit in the gigantic bath tub its 2am and time to sleep.

Last day tomorrow, I’m so tired that I’m not planning a thing, not setting an alarm and I pass out.

Pink shit and pretty lights: Harajuku and Teamlabs

Posted on 28 October 2022 by little.plant.pot@gmail.com

Another day of sleeping through alarms, but actually was well worth the extra rest, we’ve been getting in around 11pm-12am most evenings, my feet and legs are in shreds and I’ve a hefty suspicion that I’ve strained my achilles (and have been ignoring it for the last month) having made itself painfully present as the days of trekking have continued. Just as well I was mistaken about today being Mount Takao day, woop!

The plan was to hit the shrines and temples in Ueno, but then also to have a cheeky gander in Harajuku to whet the appetite for our free day on Sunday. In reality, feeling absolutely fucked from far more than a lass like me is used to, and even less sleep, I’ve made peace with the idea that we could just hit the Kawaii Kingdom, as we need to be a fair trek away in Toyosu for 6pm. Started the day by opening this morning’s gachapon, naturally.

You know something? I haven’t seen anyone have a coughing fit yet, which makes me all the more keenly aware of how covid savvy Japan is in comparison to home. For example, bought a new type of mask to try today, one that gives me the opportunity to actually circulate some air beneath it rather than sticking to me, a little bit of the softer inner caught as I yawned in my mask- I am both pre food and pre coffee still by this point- and away I went.

I’d like to call this chapter of our day ‘How to clear an entire carriage on a busy subway in 5 minutes’. I’m trying to discreetly yet effectively regurgitate the tiny bit of mask fluff that’s lurking somewhere around my trachea, the more I’m trying not to be seen/heard and subdue my efforts the worse it’s getting. I’m getting angry stares from all angles, am dry-heaving and eyes streaming and only taking the tiniest of breaths for fear of reinitiating yet another respiratory buckaroo. I’m not certain that I haven’t pissed myself a little too if I’m honest, snazzy. Japan is the most health aware country I’ve been to, especially covid considered, and I wish there was a way to show many onlookers how many covid hoops I had to jump through just to get through the airport and I am in fact not patient zero, but have just eaten my mask.

There’s been lots of chat about etiquette today, and the rules and ways of the Japanese culture that mean that no, she cannot gallivant on the station and must not wander off. I explained the electrocution risks of the subway were she to knock someone off-balance and explained that children can get ‘arrested’….. Going off her recent memory of being chased down for forgetting to put back up her mask after a slurp of the horrendously overpriced Mickey lolly, she quickly quietens down.

Harajuku has the cutest station jingle, I really think I’ll miss that when we’re home, every station playing a slightly different jingle to aid the blind in getting around (there’s also a dedicated ridged path along every pavement/intersection made purposefully for this reason), it’s so heartwarming. I’ll miss that -and coffee jelly- sorely.

Stepping out, Takeshita Street right in from of me and we’re met with a cherry-print platform, mini skirt and crop-top wearing bloke with the most garish faux pigtails and scrunchies I’ve seen. He’s yodeling away (badly) to a speaker on his shoulder with such sparkle that it’s impossible not to feel cheerful, and he reminds me somewhat of a cross between the Sheffield cyber pixie and one of the gay bar’s most infamous drag queens when murdering nearly every song.

We’re in kawaii kingdom here alright, everything is pink, shiny, oversized and gloriously wacky. Small is salivating with excited and she’s gone, there’s no getting to her. She needs to look in every shop, every little nik-nak place, everything is exciting. It’s true sensory overload, the sparkles, the colours- I’m doing alright with it surprisingly- but she’s like a whirling dervish and eventually settles to her normal frenzy after a stern reminder that whilst we can buy a few bits, we’re just having a nosy before we come back properly.

The purikura halls, so many of them! So many selfie booths, opportunities for aaaalllllll the modifications. Turned out we chose one that automatically changed our faces, we’re all of a sudden slimmer facially, our ginger skin is even paler and our eyes are as big as dinner plates, Small is less than pleased that it changed her face without permission, and was still harping on about it a good half hour later.

Exploring Takeshita Street was all going so well until she saw the dog cafe, the upper floor scattered with poodles, terriers the lot and she’s gone again. Placating her with a crepe, my genius idea to cancel out two crazies, she’s happy enough just looking. There are pig, otter, hedgehog, cat and dog cafe’s that I’ve seen thus far, and I know it’s only a matter of time before I give in. Bag crammed with goodies and having visited all the shops advised by the Japan loving content creators that I follow, we go for a gander. Headed into a shop we’d been looking for called ACDC Rag for the weird and wonderful (they put my most colourful dungarees to shame), bumped into a lovely American lady who gladly took photos of us outside and in we went. Who doesn’t need a cat hoodie? -(mine). Small picked up a pair of dayglo macro-shot sweetie shorts, having trudged away from the one size t-shirts that were too big even for the growing up box, and I’m well on my way to bankruptcy. She tried to convince me to try on the same cherry platforms our cheerful mate from earlier had on, took a lot of convincing her that I wasn’t prepared to break my neck for, using the excuse of her ridiculous amount of plushies to bring home as reasoning.

The sights alone, the cosplay and lolita outfits were so beautifully worn by most folk that we felt oddly underdressed. And I’m usually the one that looks like a confused rainbow the minute I’ve ticked off coffee and underwear from the daily list.

Lots of teenage school kids around though, why the fuck aren’t they in lessons? I wish I’d have been granted permission to go shopping as a teenager. I imagine Harajuku is the same as Saturday morning Meadowhall for our rough ‘uns. Small’s still in raptures that her Rikka Takenashi uniform is a direct mirror for the real thing, and I’m thrilled that the real things are all below the knee and then some.

That is, until one saunters past, hoiked up almost to underwear territory, much much older than a schoolgirl would be- fairly certain it’s a chap and it’s only when he passes that I see absolute arse cheeks rolling down the back of his very wrinkled thighs. I guess people have kinks for everything, just this one that creeped me out a touch, a touch too brave/brazen day for even my parameters, and I’m left yet again trying to explain all of this to 7 year old Small.

She gets stopped a fair bit to be told she is very kawaii which she is thrilled to bits with, and appears to be a common theme now. I just let her dress herself l and I reckon she’s going to inherit my what-the-fuckery fashion sense.

I never thought I’d say the words “I’ve been far to busy to schedule time in to eat properly”, but here we are, two huge crepes each in after I devoutly refused to agree to the mountain of rainbow candyfloss for lunch, on principle that she had another illegal wall-sandwich en route to the station. I can deal with a tired/grumpy/willful kid, but a hungry one to boost is just asking for shit to hit the fan.

After a short but very sweet time (by the second filled crepe, this time in Harajuku’s first ever crepe joint), we’re hot-footing it to the station to make our way across the city to Toyosu to visit Teamlabs’ musical light and sound extraordinaire. I was a bit dubious after hearing how it’s big brother Teamlabs Borderless had closed down recently, but actually it was almost beyond words. But as is well known I could talk a glass eye to sleep, so I’ll share some anyway.

After a wee wander through Toyosu, 20-something me without a kid could easily have spent a whole day at Teamlabs, each installation calling on all the senses with squashy floors, digital fish in knee-deep water that turned into flowers on touching the people wading through it. If anyone has played the games Flower and Flow, it might come close to describing the whole-body immersion felt with that kind of setup. Wading through knee deep water however wasn’t Small’s greatest as she clumsily dipped her rear in the warm fishy water whilst spinning around with all the coordination of a drunken octopus.

There were gigantic spherical balls in a mirrored room that changed colour on touch as you walked through them, a waterfall that required walking up it to get to the next installation, and living moss ovoids that changed colour and sound with all the whimsy of fairies on acid. In fact, I imagine for those that way inclined, being an acid might be an outer body experience at a place like this.

Meandering through thousands of orchids hanging upside down from the ceiling moving up and down and constantly changing the space you moved through was rather special. The notion was that when you really close to the flowers and smile at them, they begin to smile back as you become aware of their presence more and more (too fucking cute to serve it justice on recall alone).

I found myself getting angry at the yob-like behaviour if those around us, knocking all the flower heads off and talking far too loudly. Maybe I’ve finally acclimatised to the culture of Japan, if that means wanting to boil alive those who were spoiling the environment for others then so be it. But then, I also got massively irked at the dickheads waltzing through rather around the huge light strip installation that took me by body and mind to an entirely different plane, if I’m honest. Maybe I was just tired.

My favourite part was the soundscape light installation, mirrored walls and open spaces to juat sit and be, gave a nod towards the infinite whilst just soaking it all in. I reckon even Small got it, especially as she came to report all the wrongdoers that were refusing to wear masks and dicking around, no surprises being that they were the same amoebas that were rattling around the delicate suspended lights, walking in front of other people’s photos and being so insta-fuckhead-y that it was impossible to get back into it. So we waited. That wait resulted in a more than pleasant 5 minutes sat on the floor, I felt so calm, and at peace, it was like a sensory massage. She got a bit pissed off at the wait however and used my little anecdote back at me with a twist- “mummy there’s having a calm head and heart, and feeling at peace, and then there’s enough now, let’s go”, so off we trudged into a flower garden, a giant dome inviting you to lay on the floor and watch the depths of floating flowers and twisting leaves fly by you. It was so good that I couldn’t walk in a straight line on leaving. Or maybe that’s just me being too knackered and old to hack taking a hyperactive kid across the globe and trying to fit in more than humanly possible thinking I’m fucking superwoman.

A beautiful scenic route back observing the glittering night lights in the surrounding skyscrapers and some emergency tempura prawns, and we’re home. I fancy planning the day tomorrow but the Asahi decides for me, and I’m eventually asleep at 2.30am.

When your local Disney will never be the same again!

Posted on 27 October 2022 by Jemma

When you wake up 3hrs after your alarm clock, and that was only because of a wanting bladder, you’d have thought there’d be an ‘in/out/pants on and go’ attitude. But my oh so lovely mermaid/pastel blue roots have faded so badly
that the surround of my face looks like the verge of a roundabout mid construction-muddy and in desperate need of some TLC, halo of said grim roots surrounding my face, making me look dead- there is a point to this hang in there. The resulting makeup-athon led to Small announcing “mummy don’t worry about your face, it’s your soul that counts”, immediately after responding to request of an opinion on said face with “the kindest thing for me to say mummy is that it’s interesting”. Whilst it’s cheese as fuck, clearly I’ve instilled that in her as she recounted my said pep-talk verbatim. She might be a dickhead sometimes but she’s mine and I’m proud of the wibbly-wobbly-what-the-fuckery-way she’s turning outout, cute potato. Not all is lost, and what a lovely way to wake up, albeit 3hrs late.

I digress, we get to Disney around 11.30am, forget to bring the tickets, so did a lovely little 180, thankfully not losing more of our time.

Kids have no concept of time do they, she keeps thanking me for the fact that we got here ‘early’. I’m nodding with gratitude at her innocence, knowing she’ll one day call me out on our shambolic timekeeping (in the land where lateness is a huge taboo).

It was magical if I’m honest, and it’s made me love Japan even more. Whereas in France, it was hectic and crazy and loud and messy, here it’s calm, everyone is dressed up, I went to approach Belle to take a photo of her and her beautiful dress, only to realise she was just a regular guest, shopping bags in hand. It was beautiful and friendly and everyone was so excited, the locals really get into Disney here. There were all the wonderful contumes, and as soon as I was able to, I was asking for photos of them (shashin o totte mo īdesu ka? ) and feeling pretty chuffed when they understood enough that they acquiesced! There was a full blownblown anime cosplay that were clearly getting snapped all day and I never found the window when there weren’t any adoring fans falling at their feet to get a pic.

Small practically combust upon seeing 4chan, before the whole troupe as the Mei from Turning Red came bounding towards us about 15 mins later so she could get a full photo, very cute. I also think this is going to be Small’s next favourite thing, as she sadly looked like I’d just deep fried the cats on suggestion she might get the slightest bit excited about seeing the traditional Disney characters, let alonealone the disgust on asking whether she wanted to go and meet Belle and that I was happy to pay for anything like that. I might show her Bambi to recalibrate things.

Disney is Disney though isn’t it…. The clientele are what made it for us, the atmosphere was achieveofby the people who brought the magic with them. The customer service is unlike, I’ve ever seen anywhere- every single cast member smiling, waving, wishing us a good day and a good ride, it appeared as genuine glee to be there, and it was mirrored in the visitors. We didn’t wait any longer than 30 minutes for the big rides (other than two big ones being closed for maintenance) and I was gobsmacked that we actually got all round it! I’m glad we did Disneyland rather than DisneySea, just for the familiarity of the setup. But the lack of monster queues were definitely a refreshing taste, whether that may be because Japan has only just opened up or not I’m unsure. We were the glaringly obvious minority there.

We did the weirdest of rides and interspersed them with a cracking set menu and went popcorn bucket hunting. I’d have loved to have looked for the matcha or black pepper flavoured ones, as to date I’ve not seen a single one of those 300+ flavours of kitkats that Japan allegedly boasts, so feeling a little left out on the ‘snack-cidents’ front, filling it with standard cute Disney popcorn rather than the weird and wonderful. Still, she couldn’t give a shit what flavour it is, she can queue up for a ride and get all in there, sneaky eating handfuls of the stuff under her mask. Me too, guilty as proven.

Dropping pieces of popcorn and hunting the floor to find it to take it home was a priority, but amidst a whole 19 mins waiting for Splash Mountain, there it was about 5 meters away. Can you imagine, Japan is so clean and tidy that I was able to see my one cookie flavoured kernel standing brightly against the immaculate painted red floor, waiting for rescue and being walked around like a sinkhole, if only for the fact that crushing it would render me in droves of frustration and probably get me deported.

The eating rule is a little less enforced here though still very much a thing, and I’m feeling slightly guilty for making Small stand between an office wall and chicken restaurant this morning facing the wall to hide her woofing down her new favorite here for breakfast (ham, egg and cheese on white bread no crusts).

We finished off with the Electric Parade, which was magical, then we headed to find a good spot for the fireworks display, that being one of Small’s favourite parts last time so much so that we’ve a framed picture that I took. Nope…. Maybe it’s covid or maybe they didn’t get the memo, didn’t bother snapping any of the handful of fireworks adjacent to the castle (which were quite piddly in fairness), aside the backdrop of some basic lighting shone on the castle- ‘any minute now the real thing is going to start’. It didn’t, that was it. The only disappointing part. Small wasn’t fussed though, we had 3 trains to get and she was hangry, so whizzed up for yet another ham and cheese sandwich, despite my fruitless attempts to convince her to try even some noodles, anything! She got to ride on a double decker train though, so reassures me she’s happy!

I’ve cracked open the Asahi and am swilling the leftover popcorn out like I actually have an adult in me. I started tactically packing the suitcases but gave up half a pint in. Mountain Day tomorrow, ufffffffft. I wish the tour company had put me up for sake or mochi tasting instead!

Half Laughing, Mostly Fine

Formerly Mirth and Crumbly Cheese (aka The Adventures of Angry Small)

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