Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass.
It's about learning to dance in the rain
KILL ME NOW.
That quote gives me the severe ick. How many walls do you think it’s plastered on?
Dearest legends of the Postcards from America variety,
I’m back in yo’ box! You may have noticed that there was no blog last week—apologies. I had one of those weeks where every day moulded into the next, the weekend rolled around, and Az and I found ourselves in Hickory. It’s a charming little town an hour north of Charlotte, and we’ve been there before, so it felt like a triumphant return.
Az was off playing Warhammer with fellow nerds, so I took the opportunity to befriend half the town (again) and gathered more life stories than Michael Parkinson on a coke-fuelled bender.
This week, my old work friend Gemma is travelling with her mum, Barb. Gemma lives in London, and Barb’s from Australia. Naturally, we’re automatic soulmates—I feel an immediate kinship with Aussies. They’re like Harry from the Royal Family: rule-breakers, lighter (though he’s an angry, sad MF these days), more relaxed than us reserved Brits, and always up for a laugh and down to earth. The fun cousins. The ones who use the word "cunt" as a term of endearment. “Yeah, mate, he’s awesome, a right sick cunt.” Delightful!
Where were we?
Oh yes, having people over for dinner. Stressful, isn’t it? As a cook, I go alright, but I’m no Nigella Lawson. I mean, how does she manage to flirt with a sausage and the camera simultaneously? My cooking style is more “get everything into the saucepan ASAP”. Very slapdash.
I made a batch of pasta that could’ve fed the whole street, paired with a side salad. Thankfully, Gemma and Barb were thrilled, road-weary and grateful for a home-cooked meal. Barb threw the word “mate” into conversation, and I squealed with joy. Over a bottle of Prosecco, we swapped stories, laughed, and soaked up the comfort of good company. I went to bed feeling content and happy.
The next day, we walked to a nearby park, sat in the shade, and continued sharing stories. After a much-needed bench rest, we headed to Camp North End—a sprawling playground of breweries, restaurants, and shops. It’s the kind of place where you pay $16 for nachos that leave you hungry but look stunning on Instagram. Content for the gram. Spew.
That evening, we had tickets to a baseball game. I’d never been before, so I was buzzing with excitement. The weather looked dicey, but in Charlotte, you never know. We found our seats on this balmy night, under angry as fark black clouds. At first, it was just a few drops of rain. Then, suddenly, all hell broke loose—lightning, thunder, torrential rain. People screamed and scrambled for shelter as the pitch flooded. To be fair, it was fun.
We huddled under the hot dog stand, gawking at the storm. Leaving meant getting drenched, so Barb sourced some black bin bags from the bathroom. Cue the scene: three of us wrestling with bin liners, trying to poke our heads through and reenacting a scene from Aliens (“It’s coming out of her!”). I was snorting with laughter, barely staying upright. The stadium turned into a sea of people wrapped in bin bags, and honestly, it felt like a festival. Who needs a poncho? And anyway, I look cracking in Black PVC.
Friday arrived, and our last morning together before Gemma and Barb moved on. We took a walk and met my friend for coffee. There’s something so grounding and affirming about old friends meeting new ones. It deepened my connection to Charlotte in a way I hadn’t fully appreciated before. Sometimes, it takes having friends visit to see just how far you’ve come, and for that, I feel bloody grateful.
Safe travels, Gemma and Barb. Thanks for being your wonderful selves.
In other news, our young cubs (friends) from across the road are moving to a suburb outside Charlotte. It’s our last week with them, so we went out with impending ear damage at ‘Bingo Loco’. Picture this: a dark room packed with tables, hardcore air conditioning, a guy screaming into a microphone, and 90s dance music blaring. It was fun for about an hour, then we escaped to our local pub to finish the night. Not a late one, but Christ, my head this morning.
I checked in on our family WhatsApp group:
Me: I feel like a greasy turd.
J: I feel half alive lol.
K: At least I made it to Mother’s Day lunch lol.
M: I haven’t left the couch lol.
Worst invention of the last 10 years? “Lol.”
That’s it for me, kids! It’s Sunday, and I’ve got the papers to read, a long bath, and clean sheets to crawl into. lol.
Bloody love you—have a great week and thanks for being here and supporting me!
Thank you for that piece! For a French girl like me, it sounds deliciously exotic! I experienced a Rammstein outdoor concert in Barcelona last June under a thick stormy rain, my clothes were heavy with water and it took 3 days for my shoes to dry but it gave a magical spike to the concert, the people there were electrified by that special moment, the band and us soaked to the bones but ecstatic to live that together. This was my best concert ever! Lots of love.
You're such a delight! I've never known anyone else to have anything near this much fun living in Charlotte.