Great, just what London needs...

....another unemployed, freelance writer with a pipe dream and no kidneys. I am 23, an ex-teacher, living in London, (currently) watching Never Mind the Buzzcocks and yes, yes...ok...I'm writing a blog because I want to write professionally. By which I mean, I want to sit on my sofa eating Party Rings and get paid for it.

The reason I'm lucky enough to be able to pursue writing as a career is because I am currently on heamodialysis, awaiting a kidney. Apparently having four hour sessions of dialysis three times a week isn't particularly conducive to a career in...well, anything, as it turns out. If, by reading this blog, you are inspired to sign up to the national donor list, all the better; but this blog is not intended to be dogmatic. 8055 people are currently awaiting an organ transplant in the UK, but organ failure (kidney, in my own case) is a tough sell: we 8055 losers (couldn't even make their own body parts work...dicks) rely on you other 51,991,945 (is that millions? I did it on the calculator on my phone...) to help us out. And it's not sexy. But it can provide some cheap, macabre laughs I shall try and relate - articulately - here.

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Postscript

You wouldn't believe where I am. You could guess, if you've seen the gratuitous images of my self-satisfied gurning face in front of an infinity pool on Facebook...otherwise you might find it hard to imagine the paradise in which I currently find myself. I am in Dubai. Bar Abby Clancey and the cast of TOWIE, is is not everyone's idea of paradise - it actually wasn't mine. It is exciting, exotic and fucking hot, but the skyscrapers and traffic, the desert and cultural deficiency (not to mention the chavs that clutter up the Ritz Carlton these days, I mean honestly...) suggest you'd be hard-pushed to call it paradise. It is vaulted to utopian heights simply because, four-months after the transplant, I am here. My nearest and dearest suffered for seven years as I dreamily aired my wanderlust. Yet the reward of a post-transplant holiday seemed too extravagant a prize for which to yearn - wasn't a life free from dialysis enough? Wasn't having a drink when t...

Moving on

My 1st post from my new digs! And I can't think of a better way to spend a fiver than on 24 hours worth of internet (so this might be the first and last post for a while...) As moves go - and I have done three now - it was incredibly straight-forward. With the help of Scottie (the Man who came with The Van), my brother (the older - younger had absconded to Birmingham for as yet unknown purposes) and Maisy (more on her later) I loaded up said Van in less than an hour then drove down to Clapham with ma bru (I have been watching Blood Diamond again) and un-pakced said Van in a remarkable twenty-minute burst, ably assisted by Adam and James who had no excuse as they can see my front door from theirs. I say "I" loaded The Van: I was actually summarily dismissed as too weakly to do more than shift boxes seven inches through the french windows. It was in fact Maisy who did most of the first-leg hard graft: she returned from her nineteenth trip to The Van to report that Scott...

Run

I decide to go for a run. I decide to go because when I undress in front of the mirror all I see is my rotund belly and bulbous thighs. I grab at them and pull, as though I am trying to rip off the chunks of flesh. This, in contrast to the tired, dry skin on my face, etched with deep lines like carvings in rock. It has not recovered from the eighteen months when it was not nourished, but elsewhere fat is sprouting. I lace my trainers tightly. I don't know the time, I have stopped wearing a watch. I start running, and soon I am fleeing. It feels good: I haven't been able to run recently - thwarted by low blood pressure. Every rusty muscle is in movement, together, sliding back and forth in tandem and I feel slow but I feel fluid. I pull up from my core. I think I am the best runner you will see today because once I watched a tutorial on YouTube with Paula Radcliffe. I run alongside the common, not on the grass; I prefer the solidity of the ground, the heaviness that rises ...

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