Lips aside (but not aside at all, in fact, brought into sharp focus) I like Lana Del Ray. She makes me feel like I did when I was fifteen, urgent, unsettled, as if my skin is too thin and I might laugh, or cry, or swallow the world up. Nostalgic prompt.

This song makes me think of first kisses.

And then, I was chasing fifteen year old Alice through the internet and fell over this.

First kisses. I had several. What? Thats how people like me get a bad name. But mine came in categories. I bet yours did too. There was never a certain contender for first-kiss stories, the way there are for periods or cigarettes.

There is this place in Edinburgh where I seem to kiss.

Yes, really, outside here.

The corner away from the main street now has a bus stop. You can sit on the wee granite windowsills and get a cold bum until the bus comes.

That was where the first proper kiss ever was, on my first ever date, back in the days when I was still hysterically frightened of going up town alone. Fear was one of the main features of my adolescence, but this date was worth it.

His name was Camp Craig – a moniker he, too, adopted – and he was ginger, thus uniting two of my endearing ‘types’ – effeminate men and men with red hair. I met him at Saturday drama class. I don’t think we fancied each other a jot. With hindsight, and a wanky sense of my own importance, I might argue we were a delightful early queer coupling. We weren’t. We just liked each other’s cool trousers.

We dates rather chastely for about two weeks and putting me on my bus home, he pressed his lips to mine.

I actually own a print of those cherubs, because I have absolutely no taste whatsoever.

Then there was the kiss on the bus (remind me to tell you that story some time).

And then of course there are all the other ones. Oddly, I am still at least facebook friends with almost all of my important kissing friends, and thus cannot elaborate. Camp Craig, however, evaporated.

In news not to do with kissing, someone exceedingly generously gifted me BFI membership. Shit is about to become a lot more cultured, as they say.

I am overdosing on Azealia Banks, a new low being listening to her at work, bobbing my head as I cut articles out from the Daily Telegraph. Democratised culture is a wonderful thing, and juxtapositions are to be encouraged (although, if we go via LaGuardia school of performing arts and Prince William’s ‘hip-hop dancing’ then the juxtaposition slips into curious collage, shedding all false notions of polarities of authenticity) but sometimes I wonder what the snobbish god of culture thinks, looking down on me.

I imagine he weeps.

Other things I have been doing involve ambitious editing programs, egyptology, and this website here.

I am now helping to revamp, and make new, this wonderful venture.

Go and read about it and PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE read a poem aloud and send it in. Your favourite one. All you need is a book and your laptop. You can even remain anon should you so choose!

Email your poems to: jenny[at], and you can be a poetry rock star.