Yours, with Caution

The Best Present is a Blustery Red-Headed Vegetarian

2011-12-21T14:51:00.003Z

I'm taking part in a Secret Santa type deal with other writers and artists this year. I'm still (shamefully) working on my present, but the wonderfully talented Noel has gifted me with this wonderful rendition of Rocket from 'Sunk'. I think that I might be in love with it?

You can see the original tumblr post over over here. Thanks again, Noel! <3

Sunk

2011-10-18T18:48:00.006+01:00

Dear readers,

It's now been about four months since I last blogged but I've thought about you every day. Now it's time to repay you for your patience - here are the first two chapters of my latest novel for your perusal. Please do tell me what you think - constructive (and gentle) criticism is always welcome. More than anything I'd like to know if you enjoyed what you read. I'm nervous about this whole endeavour for various reasons so it would be helpful to know if those niggling little negative voices are justified, this time.

Trigger warnings, I guess, for violence, swearing and the POV of a guy who's not too aware of his own privileges.

Happy reading.

K x x x

Click For Chapters

Logic

2011-06-20T21:54:00.001+01:00

It is not love
Or need
Or war

It is all spines and tendrils
Tentacles through moles and scars
A sticky swarm
A crowd of flocking bubbles
Or clouds

It is singing

And I don't know what it means.
It grows towards the darkness and the day
As I reach out, shrink back with it

Not understanding

Lemons

2011-06-03T12:51:00.006+01:00

I fell in love with a stranger on a train, once. He had short, dark hair that curled behind his ears; he was carrying three paperback books instead of a computer in his laptop bag; but what really made me want him was the way he smelled.
He smelled like lemons.
Not synthetic fruity shower gel, or the acrid fumes of citrus cleaning fluid, but real lemons, the kind of smell that lingers on your hands after you've finished making home-made lemonade, the smell that stays up your nose and on your tongue for a really long time after you've finished eating a sorbet.
I sat and I tried not to stare at his hands and his head as he studied his book. 'House of Leaves'. This is not for you. Wires were pulling at my muscles - sit up straighter, smile a little more, open up your body language. I tried not to breathe too loudly. The quiet that linked us was thick and cold in the air and I almost hyperventilated on it, would have opened the windows if I knew how.

I wanted to say something to make him smile - but the one time I had made a connection with someone my own age on a train was a disaster. He had sat down behind me and after a minute or two, when the train started moving, he touched me lightly on the arm and he said,
"Excuse me, do you have the time?"
He had a low voice, an even younger Willy Mason. So I turned and I smiled and I told him the time and I watched as his face crumped while he took in my glasses and fat cheeks and stubborn acne scars and he said,
"Sorry, I thought you were someone else",
and he moved carriages.

I didn't say anything to the man who smelled like lemons, or ask him for the time, or tell him I've always been too scared to read more than a few pages of that book. I just sat and quietly took in the back of his head and the smell of his skin. Because who else can say they fell in love with a man on a train, and let him go?

A Contradiction

2011-02-15T23:51:00.004Z

She lay there by the side of the pool and she didn't breathe.
People stopped swimming, walking, with drinks half-raised to their mouths. They sat up on sunbeds and stopped working at the bar and some began to cluster around the girl and the doctor, just to watch.
She was tiny and convulsive and the doctor, an Englishman on holiday, had made her spit water; nobody could tell if that was a good thing. I told my younger step-sister why fits happen and how to give people CPR as the girl's chest was worked for her.
By now my mother was treating her brothers for shock, and I was nearby in case I was needed, and two things occurred to me simultaneously; the fear that my mother had experienced a few days before while I lay winded and dizzy beneath a quadbike was more important than anything else that had happened that day; and how my ability to deal with these things in anything other than a calm and professional manner after two years of learning how to deal with death and suicide was more than a little sad.
The girl lay still until a lifeguard finally came and swept her up into his arms, her limps jangling as he carried her away to an ambulance, too late.

New York Cares

2011-01-16T23:16:00.004Z

Hello all,

Sorry for my unexplained absence; I had revision and exams, and I did some traveling around New York.
New York was shiny and inspiring but at the same time grimy and frustrating. It was like any other city, really, but bigger, and I'd like to go back with more money to waste.

New LGP and short auto-bios should be coming up fairly soon!

A Short Escapade into Non-Fiction

2010-10-30T19:52:00.014+01:00

Dear Internet,

As a queer, vegetarian Psychology student, there are three commonly asked questions in my life that have become increasingly exasperating;
1) Because you're bisexual, do you fancy everyone?
2) What do vegetarians even eat?
And 3) Do you know what I'm thinking?

The answers, in short, are 1) no, 2) anything that isn't made with meat, and 3), only if you tell me.

As silly as these questions seem to me, a wise man once said that there are no stupid questions, only stupid answers, and while I could go on at length about all of these topics, I thought I'd have a crack at giving a good answer to number 2. I was also inspired by Cath Elm's fantastic mini-zine, Twt 2, in which she confesses that she loves to have a nosey at peoples' shopping baskets to see what they'll be up to in the near future.
So, I invite you to take a look at what I bought at Sainsbury's this afternoon;

I can't claim to be representative of every vegetarian out there, obviously, but I think it's a pretty good shopping basket to show we don't just sit around eating raw peppers.

In total, I spent just over sixteen pounds on
- Leeks
- Asparagus
- Vivaldi potatoes
- Sweet potatoes
- A big bag of carrots, pasnips, little potatoes and onions
- Bananas
- Pears
- Cottage cheese (with onions and chives)
- Low-cal halloumi
- Quorn and apple sausages
- Veggie bacon
- Sauce mix for a veggie bourguignon stew
- Fresh bread
- German cakey-things (to save for Christmas)

For the next couple of weeks I'll be making stews, grilled halloumi with asparagus, appley sausages with cheesey leeks, sweet potato wedges, asparagus wrapped in (fake) bacon, jacket potatoes with cottage cheese and crispy (fake) bacon, and lots of really creamy soups.

So, Internet; this is an example of what this vegetarian eats. If you have any other questions about the lifestyle, or if you want some rockin' vegetarian recipes, please feel free to ask.

Veggie love,
Katy x x x

P.S.
To any veg*ans reading; would you care to share your shopping baskets, too?

P.P.S.
Because there is no fiction above, here is a haiku;

Vegetarian
Cooking is more exciting
Than most people think;

Winter stews, soups and
Burgers, sausages, wedges,
Even bacon baps!

Library of One

2010-10-24T22:56:00.006+01:00

My sweet, unloved one,
When your flower bloomed it was not as before,
Not cold, black fire
But steely allure, glinting,
And you are made of stone
But you are standing before me in lemony sunlight,
And how can I say no to you, beautiful girl?
Our ashes are lost to the sea, as one.

Napoleon did it better.

Scuffling

2010-09-29T20:35:00.005+01:00

My walk has a fat, round-shouldered kind of dignity. I take a lot of little steps to keep up with everyone else, you giants with your long and elegant strides, your thighs that don't touch in the middle or create painful friction as they squeeze together.
People seem to assume I drag my feet when I walk. I don't; it's the grim side-effect of the fashion-industry never supplying jeans that are short in the leg but wide at the waist. I'd sadly rather have wet calves than a muffin-top; so, on I drag.
If you can ever hear the short, quick sounds of shuffling denim behind you, turn around! It could be me.

Euroclydon

2010-09-15T12:48:00.006+01:00

Do you want to see what I submitted to one of my favourite zines?

It's a poem called 'Euroclydon'

You can find me on page 20 (and somewhere on page 19 - guess where), but you should read the whole thing, because it's worth reading through.

It might need some explaining - for the past couple of years I had bad anaemia, caused by a teenaged eating disorder, then aggrovated by my insitance on trying to keep up with a vegetarian diet. You could always hear the rattle of little red pills in my tote bags, but I haven't had to take them for a few months now. I feel better than I ever thought I could.

Wishing you good health,
x x x

The Prince and the Hare

2010-08-20T13:43:00.006+01:00

Adam inadvertantly invented a character that has been walking and wending his way through my thoughts for a while now. I have more of his stories planned, ready to be written, probably in the same oral tradition as this, maybe not. Here's one of the first, written as part of a birthday present.

The Prince and the Hare
a grown-up fairy-tail

The young man woke at the break of dawn, as pale sunlight leaked through the broken living room blinds and onto the end of the couch where his head rested, and decided that it was time for adventure.
This happened to the young man often – he would stay in a place for a few months, maybe a year at best, until he was recognised or became bored of his surroundings and set out in a direction that he had not yet travelled towards.
This time, he set out into the city after breakfast in his clean travelling boots and his new warm fleece, and he flipped a coin, and chance dictated that he should travel east, along the coast of the great city. So the man set out with a song in his heart, and made sure to keep to paths where there were no people to notice him, and this lead him across great rocky beaches and through deep forests.
On the fourth day of his travels, his new boots filled with sand and his pack heavy on his shoulders, he found himself at a tiny wooden structure a few miles into the woods.
The young man presumed this was a shrine to some forest god or other - he’d seen a lot of them on his travels over the years - so he knelt before it in respect, and closed his eyes in silent thanks to whatever was watching over this forest. But, when he opened them after his short prayer, he noticed that this shrine had little windows, and a door on working hinges with a tiny door handle, and the number 14 painted onto a mailbox nearby that was no bigger than his fist.
The young man closed one eye and squinted into one of the windows; there were curtains and, if the man strained his eyes a little, a toile tea-set with miniscule sugar tongs on the windowledge. Before he even realised what he was doing, he found himself taking the miniature door handle between finger and thumb and turning it.
Before him stood a hare, stock-still, with a broom fixed half-way off the floor mid-sweep, and carrot and coriander soup bubbling away on the stove, her little white tail just sticking out beneath a blue apron. Her eyes were shining wide in her head and, after a second or so of the two beings staring at each other in shock, she started to scamper for the back door.
“Wait! Don’t run,” said the young man, instinctively reaching out a hand to stop her but accidentally punching the side of the house in the process, “You’re safe with me.”
The hare’s breath slowed a little.
“Who are you, sir?” she asked. “Why are you here?”
“They call me the Lime Green Prince,” he said, and reached out to shake her tiny paw. She lay her broom across the floral rug and shook his finger politely. All around her were vases, photos and other knickknacks, all newly polished and gleaming in the light of a small fire crackling in a tiled fireplace. “I’ve been trekking through the forest and I stopped when I saw your house. It’s beautiful,” he added, sincerely.
“Well, sir, you can stay for the night, if you like,” she said warily, picking up her broom again and moving it to a cupboard under the stairs. "We don't have many guests in these parts, but if you are as trustworthy as you seem, it would be awfully rude of me to send you back out into the woods for the night."
“That's very kind of you," said the young man, "but I’m afraid I’m far too big for your beautiful little house.” He gestured around him with a finger. “It would be my honour, though, to set up camp just outside.”
“If that suits you, sir, it's what we'll do" she said. "And at the very least you must stay for dinner." It was a statement, not a question, and so the young man lay on his tummy at her front door so that he could see her, and the little brown hare served up a feast of carrot soup, fresh bread and sweet tea, and he talked about his travels and of his homeland far to the West, where he did not like being a celebrity or having the responsibilities of a prince, and had left in search of a less noble destiny years ago (although exactly how long ago, he had no idea).
And when the soup and the bread and the tea were all gone, the young man set up his tent and rolled out his sleeping bag, and he slept restlessly, for the night was cold and he could not help but imagine the little brown hare asleep inside her cosy hut, with fire dancing in the grate and a patch-work duvet to cuddle up in.

The next day, the young man was woken by a long pair of feet on his chest, and whiskers in his eyes. As he stirred and rubbed his face, the hare got comfortable on his sleeping bag and said,
“Good morning, Green Man. May I ask a favour of you, sir?"
“What is it?” he mumbled, sitting up in the new light.
“I thought perhaps we could gather vegetables together, today,” she said, playing with her ears in a bashful kind of way. “I may have friends coming to visit in a few days, so it would be nice to stock-up on the essentials.”
“It would be my honour”, said the young man, standing, “although I have to admit, I’m not very good at this kind of thing. I tend to live off of biscuits and instant noodles while I’m travelling.”
“Not a problem, sir”, said the hare graciously. “I can teach you what tastes good in these woods, so that you can eat fresh food from the land whenever you travel, and so that you can help me out a little.”
So the hare and the young man set out into the woods, the young man strolling a respectful distance behind the fast-hopping hare. She wound her way deeper into the woodland, bouncing artfully over the branches and through the drying leaves while the young man stumbled along after her.
The man had a tiring day, learning how to tell when carrots were ready to pick, which berries were sweet and ripe and which were poisonous, and how to avoid the traps of farmers and hunters. At the end of the day, the little brown hare served up a deep-filled Autumn vegetable pie and some big slices of carrot cake, and the young man went to sleep that night feeling a little bit smaller, a little bit wiser and a lot more at home in the forest.

The next morning, the young man was woken bright and early again by the hare, who seemed much less bashful than before.
“I was hoping that, today, you could help me work on patching-up my house,” asked the little brown hare, respectfully covering her eyes with her front paws as the young man dressed.
They spent the day playing in the woods while they collected snuggly green moss from the forest floor, found strong sticks to keep the outside of the hut windproof and lined the walls with shiny, waterproof leaves and dried flowers. When they were finished, the young man found himself able to stick his head and shoulders into the little house to add the final touches, and that night the hare served up a rich berry salad and gave him a kiss on the cheek for dessert. The young man went to sleep with his feet feeling a little longer, his ears feeling a little bigger and his heart feeling a lot brighter.

The next morning, the hare woke the young man once again, and this time, she invited him into her little house and asked him to hurry.
“I wish I could come in”, said the young man with earnest regret, rubbing sleep from his eyes, “but I’m too big for your house, remember?”
But the little brown hare just said, “Hurry, hurry!”, waving her paws as if to push away his concerns. “There are guests waiting for us.”
And so, curiously, the young man followed the hare to her door, and found himself the perfect size to fit through the frame, although his ears brushed the top of the wood. The young man had no time to wonder how this had happened, because he suddenly found himself surrounded by rabbits, mice and songbirds, all patting him on the back and wishing him congratulations on his wedding day.

The Lime Green Prince had no idea what to do. The hare had been so kind to him, but she was, well, a hare, and he had not exactly been feeling like himself in her presence. He found himself sandwiched between a forest cat and a large stoat on the brown hare’s sofa while they chatted about a squirrel who was rumoured to be having an affair, and he decided that, while he did not want to hurt the hare’s feelings, he could not marry her. The young man had to make his excuses and leave as quietly as possible.

For his first escape attempt, the young man took the hare aside and told her he had to go and fetch more food from the woods, as the guests were complaining that they were hungry.
“Don’t be silly, dear,” said the brown hare, and she sat him back down and patted his knee. “We collected plenty of food for the party a few days ago. Besides, dinner should be done, soon, and there'll be a lot of it!”
By then, a raven had arrived to read their vows, and a suit had been laid out for the young man in the bedroom. The raven had brought the 'happy couple' a freshly-dug carrot as a wedding present, which the young man accepted as courteously as he could; even in his panic he marvelled at how large it was, bigger than he had ever imagined a carrot could look. He now knew how much his help in gathering the vegetables a few days before had meant to the hare, and he felt a pang of guilt and sadness for what he was about to do.
And so, as the brown hare announced that she would soon serve their wedding feast, the young man went into the bedroom and found the smart brown suit that had been laid out on the bed for him. He hauled the carrot into the corner, opposite a pile of wedding presents, and began to dress it in the jacket, shirt and trousers, tying the tie very carefully. He left it propped in the corner, as if admiring the gifts, and with a lot of effort and a fair amount of regret, wriggled out of the bedroom window, getting his big feet and fluffy tail caught a few times and hurting his knees as he dropped from the second floor before he was out, bounding across the forest with all the speed he could muster.
He ran and ran until he found himself, heart pounding, at the shore of a great green ocean, with only a little white tail as proof of his adventure. He thought of what the hare would do when she found her decoy fiancé, and the need to keep moving engulfed him. The Prince decided to head across the sea, to the South, where he knew nothing of the lay of the land – he hoped only that there would be no more forests. He smiled slightly, and headed for the dock.

Fresh from Sharm

2010-08-02T17:15:00.005+01:00

Life is like boxing;
But if to live is to hit,
Leave your gloves at home.

For my Spanish Rose

2010-07-05T17:19:00.001+01:00

There is a vacuum of noise
That you have left behind,
That charming, annoying trill,

So while I know I should be happy that I had you,
Sweet killing-machine,
That you hummed on my keyboard while I tried to work,
Curled at my feet on brittle days;

Still, my lap is empty when I sit on the floor,
And my skin is cold without you.

Awaky My Soul

2010-06-27T23:10:00.003+01:00

Mumford & Sons - The Banjolin Song / Awake my soul - A Take Away Show #105 from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

These guys are forever inspiring me.
More stories/poems/general stuff made by me coming soon. I promise.

Smoke Without Fire

2010-06-20T15:15:00.006+01:00

After three days of endless rain, there was sunlight.
So she lent me a rollie and I dug out my lighter and we went outside the halls into the patchy fog.
“Gottverdammt. Fuck,” she says as we step outside. She wraps up in her yellow peacoat and pulls up her knee-length socks, shivering, and I stand there in my t-shirt feeling the wind ghost through the thin fabric, tickling the hairs on my arms. She breathes out a cobweb of warm breath. “I can’t stand the Winter. It gets even worse than this in the mountains.”
We huddle around the little flame. It sputters and kicks in the afternoon darkness, orange against grey.
“I dunno. I always kinda like the Winter.”
She sniffs at me. “Shut up," she says. "You love it. Look at you, you’re not even wearing a coat. Stupid English girls. You never dress for the weather.”
I laugh quietly and I don’t think she quite understands why.
We stand there for a while, her lingering on each breath of her cigarette and twisting her wavy hair around two fingers, me hardly smoking at all with my iPod on very quietly, enjoying that early morning emptiness when the other students still lie sound asleep, breakfast not yet served in the dining hall.
She breaks the silence with a question that she asked often, back then;
"So what happens when I leave, here? Does this all change? No more cold mornings?"
I inhale thoughtfully, trying not to cough.
"I have no idea, Marl. I'm no good at these things."
"Well. What would you like to happen?"
I stare forwards. "I'd at least like to stay in touch. Maybe I'll come and visit? And you can visit here."
She looks at me sidewise through dark eyelashes over round cheeks and I want to kiss her very badly, just in the middle of her unplucked, perfectly shaped eyebrows. And at the time I had scorned her for being paranoid about these things, while now I think she just sensed what was coming down the line before I did, a faint rumbling far off in the atmosphere, the promise of smoke without fire.
We stand quietly in the cold air, watching grey shapes and bright lights move on the distant hills, until we tire of the cold and we go back inside.

We Hitch-Hiked Across Europe for Charity, and This is What We Saw

2010-06-09T14:45:00.006+01:00

On the way out of England; this seagull was kind enough to pose for me while my travel companions made jokes about it.

Le Liverpool in Calais. It was opposite Le Pub.

Adam (left) and Tom (right), my wonderful travelling partners. Trying to get out of Calais.

The harbour in Dunkirk. It was so difficult to find somewhere to stay, here, but the food was good and I learned a little French.

Antwerp in the afternoon. I'm dying to go back.

A German guy took us to Frankfurt airport for some reason. It was a little scary.

The view from the roof of our hostel, finally in Prague.

The moment I realised I was no longer a traveller, but a tourist.

http://www.justgiving.com/Kathryn-Hitches-to-Prague

Both a Beginning and an End

2010-06-05T15:42:00.003+01:00

Some Say it's a Blessing, Some Say it's a Curse, originally uploaded by yourswithcaution.

Hello, out there.
I've been a regular blogger over at LiveJournal since 2004, but thought it was time for a change. I wanted something clean and ad-free; so, here I am.
I hope you enjoy what follows.
Yours, with caution,
Katy x x x