When I first started writing I used to struggle with sensory detail. I used to worry that I was somehow rather numb to the world around me. I was especially un-tactile - forcing myself to stroke brick walls just to get to know them better. Now I realise that I’m just a rather strange creature who feels more with my lips and tongue and teeth than with my fingers and toes. As a number of my posts have shown, I’m firmly stuck in the oral phase and proud to be there.
From between my teeth a pip appears. From a kiwi fruit I ate a little earlier. I crunch it and it tastes of nothing. But sounds like the beginning of the end of the world.
She says the browned edges of the Jerusalem artichoke taste like bonfires. I hadn’t noticed until then, but they do. And suddenly I’m eating the beginning of November. I’m devouring piles of censored books. I’m sucking on cannibal roasted bones, and kissing boys who have spent their evening torching car seats in derelict playgrounds.