apples and letters and elections.

I’m writing letters to people without the intention of ever posting them. They’ll probably get to read them though, because I can’t keep things to myself. The other day in Dead Goat Society (creative writing thing – I made up the name and normally am in charge but on Tuesday someone else took it) they asked us to write down three things about us that no one else there would know. In fact, only one of them had to be true. But I couldn’t think of anything for either the true or false ones because I talk too much and everyone there already knew everything about me.

Thing is, I like posting letters. Sliding the thick folded ink covered sheets into the envelope. The quick taste of the envelope (does anyone else worry about paper cutting their tongue when they lick it closed?), and the slightly different taste of the adhesive they put on the stamps, and making a mistake writing down the address, and then agonising over whether it will suffice anyway. Putting on wellys. Walking down a green and grey road with too-narrow sidewalks to get to the shiny red post box, with the lights from the cars sweeping by and making it gleam.

I don’t know why this description is happening in my head in a kind of twilight time, or like when it’s so overcast and almost night time that it’s all grey and there’s a slight drizzle and all I want to do is not let the letter get wet and then stomp home and think about roasting marshmallows or drinking hot chocolate.

What foods constitute comfort foods? Is it okay that practically anything good does for me? I mean, if I’m down, a really good pear is in some ways better than hot chocolate. Because hot chocolate will leave me feeling like I would like another sweet thing, whereas with a pear you know that if you’re still hungry, it won’t be for unhealthyness. I know where I am with a pear. In fact, I adore pears. We don’t have any ripe ones just now and it’s breaking my heart. I once told a bunch of friends that apples are only what pears do in their free time. They laughed.

Apples are associated for me with when I was about thirteen. I had two friends who called me the big apple because I would have an apple at break, and then an apple at lunch, and then steal an apple after lunch to eat whilst wondering around. I was such a rebel with my apple stealing. Not even off trees, just out of the baskets at lunch. You were only supposed to take one though, I think. And I have a vague recollection that most of the apples I ate at break were stolen from the school too. Maybe that’s why people picture apples as being what Eve ate. Because they’re just so stealable.

The other reason they called me the big apple was because I’m half American. Speaking of which, I’m voting in these UK elections now. But I can still vote in the states whenever they next have an election. I can’t wait. And when I go live there for a year as part of university, I’ll presumably get to vote on stuff in the state I’m living in. That will probably get old really quickly but still, it’s like I’ll actually be influencing stuff. In two countries. I am all powerful.