Party times

An art deco pub on a cold night, accessed by cobbled lanes of an area of London I know little of. I would have found and explored this by now if I'd still had my bike. Having tap-danced excitedly on the parquet in my new shoes before leaving the house, my nerves start to get the better of me on the journey out and, although I see lots of people I want to talk to, I keep to myself and sup pints until I'm drunk enough to chat. I love the cosy red-lit room and the general hint of Spiral Scratch to this new night, and I adore the preserved decor of the pub and the Christmassy party feeling going around, but I'm surprised to find that it's in the bathroom where I suddenly feel a wave of nostalgia for something I have never known but always imagined, away from the music and chatter and laughter that now comes alive in my head instead and seems to slow to a stop, like a moment frozen in time to a grainy film still or captured in a brown and peeled photograph that somehow feels familiar, like I'm inside it. I am picking up the frequency of a time gone by, a party that happened here in another era. Ghosts of bright beautiful young things laughing and chinking glasses, never stopping to think that this won't always be their time. I hear a group of people singing in the bar, and at first this is part of the hallucination. Then it stops, echoes for a moment around my head and these walls, and real sounds kick in while I remember where I am. I try to imagine what the people of that time would make of ours, and it dawns heavily on me that this won't last forever either, so I go to dance and appreciate the scene and this room filled with the the laughter of people I hope I will know forever.

Hopes, dreams and the names of the trees

Leaving the house on Friday morning was a bit like walking through the wardrobe into Narnia. As I stepped down the stairs, a bright pink Angel Delight sky lit up the acid yellow leaves on the tree in my front yard, drifting down around me like confetti. At one time I would have been astonished by this sort of thing, the stuff that happens in nature, everything that's supposed to be grey drenched in colour, but I was sad that all it made me feel was nostalgia, but for what I wasn't quite sure.

Maybe it was the memory of collecting autumn leaves as a kid, pinning them up on the classroom cork board and arranging them next to the correct tree names, and stretching my tiny hand out next to them, quarter of the size, wishing to be big and grown-up. Back then the future was exciting and far away and unknown, and I didn't yet have memories but only hopes and dreams. And the names of the trees.

So maybe I've come to a point in my life where there are more memories than hopes and dreams, and I've kind of become 'stuck' in them and it suddenly feels vital to me to keep making new ones, to appreciate pretty things and laughter and nice words, and to tell people things they need to know. And also, memories fade and disappear and I don't want to fade and disappear with them.

A leaf was amazing to my five year old self, but the old man upstairs sweeps them up and puts them in a bin bag.

You make my head spin

It's always weird when you stumble across something written by someone you're really close to, and you are surprised because you never hear them say stuff like that in real life. It's a strange mix of feeling like there's part of them you don't know, and loving them a little bit more.

Born on a blue day

I was leaning out of my window once, smoking a cigarette with an old friend, around 1996 or so. Jay was the sort of bloke who knew everything about everything. The conversation somehow turned to the development of language and the alphabet, and I wondered aloud why it was that letters and numbers had certain colours which were never really acknowledged in the 'real world', and in fact were represented incorrectly most of the time. I wasn't sure whether or not this was a daft thing to say, nor whether it made any sense, but Jay seemed interested and probed me more on the subject.

"That's called synaesthesia" he said, finally.

I didn't have the internet in those days, so I had to take his word for it. However, I soon realised that not everyone had colours for letters, or shapes, tastes and textures for sounds, or that the days of the week had different 'personalities'. Just me then. Through a later conversation about it with a friend, he discovered that not everyone thinks and dreams in black and white as he does. Revelations all round.

So having found out all I could about synaesthesia and learning that we don't all follow the same pattern but do have other traits in common (difficulty with numbers being my favourite one - I had always been frustratingly bad at maths but never knew why), I suddenly felt all unique and special and I wanted to tell people about it.

The first person I remember telling was my dad, who had struggled with me for many years on the maths thing - he himself was a bit of a maths boffin so couldn't understand why my grasp of it was so weak. He appeared to be listening, but then may as well have said "that's nice dear" for all he actually was. I stopped talking, and was left feeling like a bit of a tit. Every time I've tried to talk about it since then it's been pretty much the same. People basically think I'm bonkers, making it up, talking rubbish, or just aren't that interested. I am used to keeping things to myself though - not least because the words I want to say are not the same words I need to use to be understood.

But it doesn't stop me thinking it's a fantastic thing, or researching it, or even sometimes using it to my (I like to think) advantage. Once, I went for a job interview and decided to wear the colour of the name of the company. I felt comfortable, like I fitted in, and it was the best interview I ever gave - I got the job. I've successfully repeated this tactic since. I get annoyed when I see advertisements and companies using the 'wrong' colours on their logos or fonts. But it makes me so happy to see a 'right' one. Channel4 have been getting it right since day one. I love how the W of Wednesday is the pivot on which the rest of the week rests like a see-saw, and how Tuesday and Thursday either side of it are paler shades of its own colour. I like how my boyfriend's first name is the same as the strip of his football team. I could tell everyone which team they should support based on the colour of their name (which would mean Everton or Leicester for me, hmm).

Music is another thing entirely. Voices conjure glass or stones or water, instruments can bring sparkly lights against darkness, or metallic forms, or things shattering, or even a sort of trajectory through empty space, like it's the only thing that exists. The sound of a flute brings sweet-tasting pastel coloured puffs of air. Some music fills every available space like smoke in a room. Trying to learn songs that other people have written is a challenge though, as I find myself wanting to do the 'right' thing, and having to train myself to do as the writer intended. I like this challenge though, and when a song all pulls together the wrongs sort of right themselves and it takes on a new form. Writing songs is easy until I try and involve other musicians and find I can't explain in musical terms what it is I want them to do.

I think a lot of TV food critics might be synesthetes from the way they often describe flavours.

All this that I now know and acknowledge, I took completely for granted until my friend first mentioned synaesthesia. I'm more aware of it all going on now and love looking at the art of synesthetes like Kandinsky and David Hockney and thinking about where they might have been coming from. I would find it immensely hard to put these things into art or music so I admire these artists above all others.

Sometimes it seems strange to me that nobody knows, or that nobody ever celebrates it, or that people like me are reluctant to because it seems so daft. But if everyone thinks like me then how do synesthetes find each other?

I'm one, are you?

September

You and me, rain and sun making quick rainbows against stormy grey. Occasional bursts of blue refusing to give way to white winter skies, crunchy leaves and dry sticks. An everyday task in a new home, looking for something in a drawer, and the first fireworks pop and crackle somewhere in the distance and I get goosebumps. He hears them too but he doesn't know what it does for me, that I'm trembling as I feel myself cross from summer to autumn and I'm both scared and excited. A little ache in my chest of things past, each year at this time, but it feels okay to keep these things to myself. Songs I can barely listen to and others I can't get through the day without, all more important and beautiful and heartbreaking than the endless sickly summer soundtrack. Things I've put off 'til tomorrow all year - tomorrow's here now. Decisions to be made and faced, and items to be ticked off lists torn from notebooks and scattered around the flat in places they're most likely to be seen and actioned. The urgent need for plans, things to fill the days scribbled on calendars, the threatening chasm a decision might leave in my life, but nothing lasts forever and sometimes you just have to let things go and watch them take on new shapes. My head filled with all these things I want to do and the still-new excitement of sharing them with someone, then with the worry that I don't have enough time, why didn't I think of this when I was young and bored? What if my time comes early and I haven't finished what I'm supposed to do? What am I supposed to do? Maybe I don't want to know really.

We dance and snake around each other and hold hands and you tease and let go but you catch me, and you lead me safely over the season edge and plonk me down somewhere new, and with a cheeky wink and a nod in the right direction you're gone again and it's cold and crisp and all a little too clear. And for the rest of the winter, every time I smell a bonfire or hear a firework or see a bright star or a pink sunrise, or the wind blows the leaves around my ankles, I like to think of you and everything feels okay.

Timewarp

Coffee in a brilliant little café in a new part of London for me, where an inquisitive cat sat at our table and ate the flowers from the vase and jazz played in the background. Then treasure chests and racks and racks full of the clothes of our dreams and oh the hats hats hats! Like two big kids, playing dress-up in the 1930s. I wish it was another time.