The Babbling Buddha draws a stream of wondrous wayward women. They wander up the path, every fourth or fifth in tears – as I was, when i drifted under those prayer flags for the first time. Blinking, slightly shell-shocked. And fuck-it-all, free. I offer them a bed and a cup of tea, and then leave them to weep and unfold.
I came home to find Elena and Apple sitting at the kitchen table, finishing their blackberry-chocolate-chip pancake dinner. They had pitched their big yellow tent on one of the platforms and were almost ready for bed.
The three of us went to the Carrington Bay rave. We watched in awe as the rushing tide between the ocean and the lagoon came to a complete halt, one moment of unearthly stillness, and then â€“ switched direction. Apple squatted on the edge of the dancefloor with me, mesmerized by the girls in flouncy tutus, fur hats and fairy wings, goofing it up with boys in fun-fur pants and spangly ties. She leaned into me and whispered conspiratorially: “it’s like christmas here!”.
This one’s for all the ladies in the house, fuck-it-all free.