His and hers.

Today, I've eaten about 1700 calories, and I didn't leave the house till eleven pm, and I lost all of my dissertation notes. I wrote about 1000 words of it though.

I am actually happy. I am happy that Little Bird and he, and my other friend (Thin Man, let's say) came to fetch me because they so dearly wanted to eat with me that they kidnapped me. I'm happy that we went to Tescos, and that I terrified Little Bird whilst she and he waited in the car as I turned sumersaults in a car park. I'm happy about our time together. I'm happy.

Little Bird makes me happy. He does too, in a different way. I don't know. He made me flip for a fair while, and I fear now it is waning.

My Grandma sent me a card today. I prefer to communicate with her by letter; I dislike phone conversations, preferring face to face exchange because I tangle the words down the telephone wires. I like writing and I like getting letters. My Grandma is excessively garrulous, so letter writing confines her to a page. Today, though, she sent me ten pounds with the letter and I feel as though she's trying to buy my letter writing. I write because I like writing; and, if I'm honest, I prefer it. To tarnish it with ten pounds seems so very mercenary. I will have to thank her for it; and she doesn't respond to my form of thanks very well, it's never effusive enough. This ten pounds makes me feel very guilty.

What would you do if you were here, Lady of the Rings, my other Grandmother? What would you say to me? I wish I knew. I sometimes worry I adore you more because death always elevates a person. I do wish to be like you, adventurous and successful, good at people, good at committees... I don't think I am. I worry I am more like your sister. I focus too much on down emotions, I am silly too.

Am I enough of a lady for you? I don't think so. I am ramshackle in comparison; I should effect my own style more, I know, wear more makeup. Be a lady. Not even a lady, just to make the best of myself. That's what you would say. And you'd tell me I was doing well, and that I should write a book, and that you were proud of me. You might have shown me makeup... well, I worked it out on my own anyway.

I might have showed you my theatre school monologues. I don't trust the other to keep the secrets. I'm only showing two of my tutors.

"I'll show you when I'm thinner".

That is what she said about her birthmark tonight; one on her shoulder and one on her stomach. I wanted to say, "You are perfect as you are". I have tried so hard to rid myself of this stupid obsession that I want it for her too; I don't even think she likes being tied up in food and things, and I don't want her to have that hanging over her. I hate sounding patronising, because lord knows my food relations are still less than perfect. But I hope for better for her than I do for myself.

She is perfectly lovely, and so pretty that she even makes my awful headband I wear to study look good. One day I will tell her that she has bad qualities; but they are over enthusiasm and flightiness. These are none so bad, dear. You're beautiful, kind, funny, clever... there's a list of complimentary adjectives.

The other night she said she just wanted to be mean to whoever she was in a relationship with, or just to be desperately cruel to someone. I understand; she's been through a lot and she needs to let it out.

The man she likes was insensitive today. He called her fat, in front of people (and I know him, he is not malicious or horrible, and was only saying it because he doesn't think she is at all fat) but she thinks that she is at the moment. Misinterpretations are hazardous. He's directing her in a play and she doesn't like that he is arrogant as a director (all directors have to be, though, I think). Having said that, she doesn't mind when I refer to her as a pork in our stupid accent. I wonder if she knows she is beautiful? I might send her a post I wrote about her a while ago. To make her happier.

Magdalen Laundries.

Oh those dirty, dirty girls. God Bless them, I crossed myself. The calico itched my breasts under the starched wimple and I was grateful for God reminding me, in His Infinite Wisdom, that I was right. That little scratch, a raw red line across my nipple straight from him; his caresses against me, and I was glad for it.

I would have to punish Rose later, but that was not until later, and I would be ready for it by then. After all, they needed to be kept in line, and kept well, or they would not be here under his Divine Plan; it was merely us that carried it out, specially. And I was not perfect; my waistband cut into the soft white flesh from too many potato farls, my five decades on this mortal coil began to strain my corpus at the edges. I, too, was to ritually abase myself before Him.

I wasn't always in tune with His plan. I remember the grass on my legs when Peter and I played by the stream near ours; and I told him how girls were beautiful, I thought, I thought the books I read showed me the truth. My brother said these old masters, these latin men, had said the same thing, and everything we did now came from them. I said it was a sin, to say such things of heathens; but their language is ours now, and their practices are out. Their words are gorgeous though, I crammed them into my mouth greedy like doughy lumps of bread, I couldn't wait to devour the verbs and the roots of all our words, our bastard words. It wasn't to be though; they wanted me to marry, to stop working (it ain't for a girl, says mother, unless you want to be a nun). I could never love a man; marriage seemed to me a shackle to a tiresome beast. I liked the clean; so I went to our convent. I'm a good nun. I'm Mother Superior, I am Him.

In my mind, He was never a He. He looked like the girls in our place; he looked out of their terrified eyes at me, his was the tiny gleaming stone in an edifice of sin. I can look at those girls and see something beautiful in their fallen, sin ravaged bodies. They are beautiful (but the Devil will make them beautiful, and God is ugly because he is honest. They are always godliest after their eyelashes drip with the blood of their newly shaved heads, a baptism in their own soiled viscera to be born again for me, my dirty daughters).

I can be kind. Iona's son left the other day; a boy, and he never knew his mother. The others sob and scream the grey air blue; they tear their hair, if they have it. She sat, with his imprint still left in her arms, staring at the wall and refusing to acknowledge his not being there, she would not wash and she would not sleep. She stayed in the room for two days. When they are like that, He wants me to comfort them. I stroked her shiny hair (it is shiny, though when we crop it usually it springs into tufts) and caressed her breasts. They respond to that kind of touch sometimes; I know it is wrong. But I cannot always be Godly, sometimes, he works in mysterious ways. When I touched her, her milk sprang forth in a stream over my hand but she did not move to wipe it. I kissed the wan lips, mine wet with colostrum, and stroked that pretty head once more. She is beautiful, the devil, Lucifer; and when I touch her, I am putting God back into her, I enlarge that tiny speck of good in Beelzebub's girl.

She started back on the iron press after that, anyway.

All I want is the best for our lives, my dear, and you know my wishes are sincere.

All I want is the birds for our eyes, my dear.

I thought this was the lyric; I think I like mine better. I just want to show you the birds, so much more romantic I think.

I talked to him last night.

I could feel that he was hard under his trousers... but I didn't say anything. So I knew it was a lie when he said he wasn't attracted to anyone... he said maybe he's gay. Or maybe he hasn't met the right man or woman. Who, who who?

I like his soft cheeks and his beautiful face, his pretty eyes and his argumentative ways. Or the little lump at the nape of his neck, and his hair. He had a spot above his left eyebrow tonight, and he was worrying it with a fingertip and being pedantic about it as he usually is. I touched it for him and stroked his forehead. He said, "nobody's ever touched me like that". It was serious, even, I think. When he's worried all I want to do is lie his head against my chest, kiss him and stroke his hair. I can't do the middle one, but sometimes (just sometimes) I rest my lips on the top of his head.

Then there is Little Bird; I tried to draw her today, I got her but I couldn't make her mouth come out right. She's always beautiful. I can't tolerate her believing what those horrible people said, she is neither fat nor pregnant, she is not horrible, she is lovely. What I really want is to hold her tight and to let her let it all out, or to go running with her and she could run it out. Little Bird, haven't you heard, you're being absurd. Everyone adores you- even he does, and that is why he's making you sad. Other people show it in normal ways. Stop worrying.

Not many people.

My dearest, when you speak with a sob behind a laugh I want nothing more than to gather you up in my arms and shield you from everyone else. Not many people make me feel that. And I would. You try to make yourself vomit when you are drunk (do you do it every day too, I wonder) and I would take your fingers from your clawed throat without being too precious about it. I'll tell you you're beautiful, clever, popular and kind, all of those things that you truly are. I liked to hold your chapped rough hands, they're useful hands. I'd wipe away your tears oft shed, and I would let you cry them onto me, because it is important to be allowed to cry sometimes, and then we could be quiet together like we always are.

Your propensity for self-flagellation makes me want to remove whatever it is you're beating yourself with perpetually and soothe it with cool calm words and caresses.

Soft and sweet.

Little Bird has been sad for a while now; she was on antidepressants earlier this year. I felt bad because I didn't know, or I hadn't worked it out; she'd come round to mine and we'd sit quietly and watch something, but that was fine. I like to be quiet sometimes. I thought she did too, and that was all there was. She might not be on them now, but I don't want to ask if she doesn't want to tell me. Then her Dad's stopped speaking to her because she's moved with her Mum (her parents are getting divorced) and her ex-boyfriend is horrible to her. She never really liked him as a boyfriend, but he hassled her into seeing him; then when she ended it he wanted still to be friends. He went round to her house one night and spent forty minutes telling her she was a terrible person, and tonight he told her boys are playing a game called Fat or Pregnant? behind her back. She cried (she got drunk) after the terrible person night, and tonight I thought she might again; we were food shopping and she told me about the game. I wanted to give her a big enveloping embrace and to tell her she looked lovely, but I couldn't in a food shop. In any shop, in public, really. I had to make do with rubbing her arm like some sort of sexual deviant- I am ridiculous at times. Her ex is very ugly, but charismatic; I think he manipulates her too easily. She is beautiful, and therein lies the problem; he wants to knock her down.

She's gained a little bit of weight recently; my friends noticed, and it was only then that I did. I didn't because I see her most days. I always thought she looked just beautiful; and she is one of the people I could say this about, and mean it, and yet she never made me feel ugly for it as most do unintentionally. She's wonderful, and she doesn't need people to say those things about her. He didn't need to say it to her. I am furious with him; she's having a bad enough time as it is without him ruining her again.

Darling, one day I will hold you as your mother did when you were a child and reassure you that you are wonderful in every way. I think that you need someone to do that at the moment; there are a variety of people you could go to, but I wouldn't mind if you chose me. I'd be honoured.

Oh me my.

Sometimes I want to shake you and shout, "stop being so self-pitiful", or, "stop ordering me about, you aren't always right".

Other times I just want to hold you tight and let you feel safe, because it seems you hardly ever do. You are selfish, but I do love your head on my shoulder.