Chester Bennington. Thinking back.



It has been two weeks since Chester Bennington took his own life. I’ve been searching his name multiple times each day, as though hoping something will pop up, saying ‘WHOOPS! It was a hoax! It was a horrible publicity stunt! YOU DREAMED UP THE WHOLE THING; NOW GO TO BED! HE’S FINE!’ And everywhere I go online, I see people like me, most of whom never met the man, expressing a deep, aching sadness that seems perhaps disproportionate to the circumstances. So a person died. People die all the time. And he was a celebrity. Celebrities, being people, tend to die, too. And it wasn’t an accident – he did it himself. That happens often enough. And he’s just one guy. He’s not more or less important than any other guy. So why does this one feel so different? Why do I, like these millions of people on the internet, still feel as though someone is punching me in the gut every time I remember the awful truth? Chester is no longer alive. Chester took his own life.

The first time I saw Chester Bennington was in the music video for Crawling, which must’ve been showing on MTV around 2001 or 2002. So I would’ve been about fourteen, I guess. Back in those days, watching MTV was my main method for discovering new music. I honestly don’t remember what sort of music I was listening to prior to Linkin Park, but I know I had never liked anything of the sort before, and probably didn’t openly admit to liking it right away. Having seen the music video a few times (MTV used to replay the same videos over and over again, and you would often see the same one multiple times within an hour, especially if it was the current ‘fresh’ video) I was hooked, and also perhaps nurturing a small crush on Chester. He was undeniably cute, seeming small and fey next to his bandmates, with an elfish face and that ridiculous bleach-blond spiky hair that was popular back then. But contrasting with the cuteness was an edge. The labret, the black nail polish and, of course, the fucking SCREAM.

I was a weird, awkward, sensitive teenager, and despite the liberal ideals I inherited from my parents, I held quite conservative values in many ways. I would easily have been put off by Linkin Park if they had gone on to do anything offensive or crass, or had a bunch of scantily clad women as props in their music videos, or produced the sorts of R-rated lyrics and concepts that were often prevalent in that sort of heavy-ish music of the time (eg: Limp Bizkit). But they didn’t. They didn’t even swear in their first few albums.

As a very, very insecure young woman, there was nothing in any of their lyrics or music videos that put me off or made me feel small. Women were never objectified, scorned or mocked, nor were they the source of the frustration and anguish in the lyrics. In fact, in some of the music videos (‘Numb’, for example) women were the protagonists of the stories, melancholy though these stories were. Chester was singing for them, not about them, and this was an absolutely crucial detail for me. Unlike many other bands, Linkin Park weren’t singing/rapping/screaming on behalf of men who felt bitter about or hurt by women… they were doing it on behalf of anyone and everyone who had ever been hurt by anything. The lyrics were just general and vague enough that they could be adapted to suit myriad situations. At the pinnacle of my angsty teenage years, I felt like these lyrics were written for me.

And as I ventured tentatively onto the early internet to find out more about the band, and eventually purchased their first documentary DVD (‘Frat Party at the Pankake Festival’ – lol), I discovered that they were really nice, funny, regular guys I could relate to and laugh with. They were unashamedly middle-class, a group of goofy friends catapulted into stardom, comfortable with their ordinariness, never trying too hard to be edgy. They were exactly everything they needed to be to enable me to develop what very quickly became an obsession. I had a bedroom covered in posters and magazine cut-outs and pictures printed off the internet and, in addition to every CD (including the live stuff, remixes and collaborations), a collection of paraphernalia, like the precious goodies received through my official ‘Underground’ fanclub membership – T-shirts, stickers, patches, badges, keyrings, signed photographs, guitar picks, exclusive CDs, a vinyl… This is where all of my pocket money went. I was hooked. I listened to nothing but Linkin Park for about three years of my life, and looked at Chester Bennington’s face stuck on my wall every day of those years.

When it became apparent that everyone was in love with Chester Bennington and the others weren’t getting as much attention, I decided my favourite was Mike Shinoda, and later, Joe Hahn. Joe Hahn was always referred to as ‘Mr Hahn’, and so naturally my screen name on LiveJournal, in those innocent pre-Facebook – even pre-MySpace – days, was MRS_HAHN. Cringe. Through LiveJournal and other channels, I met many fellow LP fans from all around the world, several of whom I’m still connected to via other social media today.

My obsession tapered off after high school, as teen fixations do, but I still bought their albums up until buying CDs wasn’t really a thing anymore, and the internet, YouTube and streaming took over. The all-consuming obsession had faded, but I still listened to my favourites, kept a few LP songs on my playlists, checked in on the band on social media and quietly appreciated their transition from distinctly early-2000s nu-metal rap/rock into new territory. They kept mixing things up, but there were always those catchy, replayable and unmistakably Linkin Parky songs coming off each album, and while I could no longer claim to know every word and every note of every song on every album post-2008, they were a comfortable, constant presence, evolving and creating and refusing to fade into has-beens. They were like old friends that I had sort of lost touch with, but still cared very deeply about.

And then July 20th happened, and it’s still happening, even though I’ve given myself a stern talking-to several times, told myself to get a fucking grip, to get some perspective, to stop being so goddamn ridiculous about the passing of someone I had never met face to face. I watched him perform live in 2012, but I never spoke to him. And yet I feel like I knew him. He was so familiar, so distinctive. As a teenager, I doodled him in my homework diary countless times, and as a twenty-something, I still loved him to bits. He seemed immune to the passing of time, eternally youthful, and now he really is, in the most tragic way imaginable. It’s such an absolute waste, and I’m heartbroken.

This week, I’ve at least reached the point where I can listen to any Linkin Park song (even ‘The Messenger’ and ‘One More Light’) without bawling my eyes out, so there is light at the end of this tunnel. I don’t know how to conclude except to say I am sad that Chester’s gone, and I’m sad that he felt bad enough to go in the way he did, and I’m sad that people can be in such pain, regardless of their circumstances. And I hope the rest of the Linkin Park guys are holding up. I want to give each and every one of them a hug, as well as each and every fan who’s feeling a bit like this right now – like it’s the end of a chapter in our lives that we didn’t realise could ever end and yet now it has, and we’re left reeling, feeling horribly mortal and vulnerable and hollow.

I was going to write about mental health and abuse and the intersection with hateful internet commentary, something I saw Chester grappling with in his last few months, but I feel neither qualified nor strong enough to delve into that on my blog, so I’m going to end it, rather abruptly, right there.

Just be kind to one another, OK? And RIP (return if possible) Chester B.



Oops, I forgot to blog for five months.

I’m here because I need to write, but both of the novels I’m working on have toxic fumes coming out of them.

I only started the second novel because the first one — the one I’ve been “working on” for three years now — was doing the toxic fume thing and I needed another writing outlet and now look at what’s happened! Goddammit! Infectious novel-rot. “Give it up,” says my brain. “Give up this writing dream until you’re 45 and you have something to say and the skill to say it.”

My brain and I are not always the best team. But here I am. And here’s a life update, courtesy of my brain, soothed by tea and the breeze coming through the window on my left and the peace lily on the desk on front of me. That’s a good place to start.

1. Luc and I are living in a new flat and we’ve been filling it with plants, because plants are happy-making and alive and they’re not technically pets, so they don’t violate the terms of our tenancy. That doesn’t mean I won’t be upset if (when) one of them dies. I will, in fact, be very upset. So far, in addition to the tiny dragon tree I bought at Ikea two years ago (named “Hogarth” after the street we were living in then), we have:

  • A big dragon tree with two smaller dragon trees in the same pot. (Currently unnamed. Taking suggestions.)
  • Two peace lilies. (Named Simon Pegg and Angel, both names related to the movie “Hot Fuzz”, which I finally got around to watching at the insistence of our recent guests and which brought the existence of peace lilies to my attention.)
  • Two ferns. (Currently unnamed, though I have a few ideas I’m toying with…)
  • A ragged little buxus tree. (Named Renly Baratheon. He was our first purchase for the balcony. I might have doomed him by naming him after a dead king. Despite repotting him, he’s looking a bit yellow.)
  • A cupressus macrocarpa. (Named Fartknocker. I asked Luc to name this one. He doesn’t take the naming of plants seriously enough, in my opinion.)
  • Two little lavender bushes. (Named Trinity and Serenity. These were gifts from the aforementioned guests, who helped with the names — twin names, bringing to mind two of my favourite bits of pop culture: The Matrix and Firefly.)

The new flat is conveniently located near to shops and the underground and it has a spare room that I occupy as an office when it’s not inhabited by guests… Guests!

2. We had guests! Guests with luggage! Guests all the way from South Africa! Two of our oldest friends came to stay for nine days this month and it was fantastic. It was hot and sticky in London for almost the entire duration of their visit, but that didn’t stop us from doing loads of touristy things (and not-so-touristy things). Some things I experienced for the first time and felt like a tourist again myself: the London Eye, the London Dungeon, Madame Tussauds, etc. I was pleasantly surprised at how much guiding I was able to do. I’m certainly not the greatest guide, but I’ll confidently state that I can do a better job of showing people around London than I could ever do in Cape Town, and that’s something. I sort of know how all the important bits link together and I’m familiar with enough cool things to fill up at least two weeks for London newbies.

And here we have... a phonebox! It smells like piss.

And here we have… a phonebox! It smells like piss.

We also had another guest at our flat, just briefly, before she headed back to Berlin. We went for a picnic in my favourite London park. There was cheese. It was a good day! I had last seen her in Cape Town. It’s so weird and so nice seeing old friends in new contexts.

3. I joined this feminist meetup group in January and have been to a quite a few cool events with them since then. An exhibition, a debate, a lecture, a body-shaming protest/ body-positive celebration… I’ve slacked off a bit lately because of the heat and other engagements, but I’m so grateful for meetup. And for feminists. It’s difficult to build a social life from scratch, especially in a place like London, and it’s great that technology can help to bring likeminded people together.


Yay! Femimists!

4. I’m sort of working backwards. Which brings me to… our wedding! After our rushed coffee-shop marriage in 2014, we decided to have a belated wedding celebration on the week of our first anniversary, because these sorts of opportunities for merriment don’t come around all that often. It was a beautiful, colourful, special day of heightened emotion and over-consumption. (I mainly over-consumed the iced tea.) The sun was out, we had friends and family there, and we did it our way. It was, I think, a bullshit-free wedding, and I will always remember it with great love and fondness.

Totally not posing.

Totally not posing.

5. Antidepressants. They might seem like a downer to mention at the end of such a merry list, but they’re ANTI-depressants, sooo… yeah. I’ve been on them since the end of last year and I think they’ve made a big difference. Can you tell? As evidenced by some of my blue-tinged/-soaked blog posts last year, the sads kept coming back, no matter what I did, and I was finding it all a bit debilitating, so my doctor (I call her mine because I ask for her specifically these days and begrudge having to see anyone else) recommended the meds. I never wanted to join the ranks of the medicated, but fuck it. Sometimes, you have to do what you have to do, and I don’t regret it. Things are way better now (apart from my energy levels and, relatedly, my writing, but I’ll save all that for a whingey blog post some time in the future when I’m feeling whingey).

I could write much more about this year so far, buuuut… maybe I should have another go at one of those novels. Urgh. “CACKING ICKRICK!”, as Berro would say. It’s an inside joke. I mean, it’s a joke that only I’m in on. Actually it’s not a joke. Man, writing is a lonely business.

Go to sleep, brain.

I often want to blog when I’m sad, but then I almost never know what to write and, if I write anything, I’m usually quite reluctant to post it. I just want it to be articulated, so I can identify what it is and then stamp it flat and go back to being fine again.

I think it has something to do with feeling torn in half by emigration, and lonely in the sense that I want to confide in someone, but I don’t know what to say or who to speak to. I’m a bit unmoored today. Tonight. Shit, it’s late. Why am I awake?

Last year, these things would’ve reduced me to a grey saline gloop, but now I’m just a bit… numb? and that weirds me out. I’m abstractly sad, in the same way I’m abstractly excited for upcoming events and abstractly hopeful about the future and also abstractly pessimistic about everything. I feel a bit floaty and disconnected. Lack of sleep, perhaps.

I just need to get out and socialise and try not to think about how fast time goes and how nothing stays the same and everything ends. Is there a pill I can take to purge myself of sentimentality? A vaccine against homesickness? Something to patch up self-doubt and stimulate productivity and social bravery? No? Well, shit.

Oh, brain. Why do you do this?

Things will be better when the sun comes up. Positive thinking. Sunshine. Bananas. Meditation. Family. Home-cooking. Living in the moment. Lucky, lucky, lucky. Yesss. Ok. Onward.

Mini Review: ‘Darkmans’, by Nicola Barker


Nicola Barker herself says that she’s an “acquired taste”, and I can see why after reading Darkmans… It’s weird. And I loved it. Once I managed to click myself into the rhythm of the broken sentences, the excessive parentheses, the interjections and the repetitions, it started to make sense even though it didn’t make any sense. Does that make sense? This story is a sort of rambling slice of life; more than 800 pages that don’t scope over a huge amount of time in the narrative present, but pull in swathes of history — the history of place, the history of language — in a big, bizarre stew that skilfully combines the mundane with the fascinating, utterly creepy and inexplicable. It’s a ghost story, a human story, and a literary high that will enrage you but also grab you (by the feet, specifically) and drag you all the way to the end — which doesn’t feel much like the end at all — and then infect your nightmares (and your daymares) and make you want to start writing something off-the-wall that gives no fucks about literary conventions. Because it can be done to great effect. This has been proven. Well done, Nicola. I’ll be back for another hit soon.

Verdict: Definitely DEFINITELY not everyone’s cup of tea, but if you’re feeling adventurous, it’s a cup of tea worth sampling, just in case. I wasn’t sure if it was my cup of tea at first, but then I found myself slurping it up and refilling my mug, despite the freaky flavours.


Given the amount of time I spent lying in bed feeling sick and/or miserable this year, my general feeling about 2014 is that it was a bit of a write-off and not much happened… but actually, stuff DID happen. Lots of stuff. Significant stuff. Here are ten things.


I was in my pyjamas and he used a hair-tie instead of a ring. Talk about spontaneous.


No regrets. I had a great three-month break in Cape Town, and the fact that I was (rather unfairly) evicted from the UK is going to be a good fireside tale for the rest of my life.


The wedding hasn’t happened yet, but the paperwork was done two months after the engagement. I wore a dress.


Learned a lot, confronted my fear of answering phones and even got to meet some authors.


A long weekend away in Brighton, a week away in north Wales, two trips to Guernsey and a day-trip to Sark. I also discovered many great things in London, which still feels very new to me.


So it’s not full time and it’s not lucrative, but it’s something and it’s a challenge and I’m good at it. I got some other freelance work, too.


Attended some life-drawing classes, went to David Mitchell’s The Bone Clocks book launch, saw Wicked and 1984 at the theatre, enjoyed a feminist meetup in a pub, ran three times a week (until I got sick/sad), spent time with various friends and family members on their trips to London, etc.


Well, at first I didn’t, but then I did, and now things are getting better! 🙂


Not as much as I should’ve/could’ve, but I feel like I’m more connected now than I was a few months back, and I’m deeply grateful to everyone who has reciprocated.


This has been tricky, especially in the circumstances, but things are falling into place and I’m starting to look forward to this sentimental life event. It’s going to be wonderful to have so many special people together in one place.

2014 was not an easy year. I didn’t achieve all (or even most) of what I wanted to achieve, but I did learn a lot and I feel like I’ve set myself up for a pretty interesting year in 2015, with a stronger foundation of self-awareness and a better focus on health and happiness. Thanks to everyone for their positive contributions to this year. No matter how small or distant those contributions may seem — a Skype call here, a comment there — they are very much appreciated and they make a big difference.



Mini Review: ‘Wicked’, by Gregory Maguire


This is without a doubt one of the weirdest and most unexpected books I’ve ever read. I saw the stage play first, absolutely loved it, and decided to read the source material. It’s definitely a case of ‘inspired by’ rather than ‘based on’. They’re very, very different and I was initially thrown by the dark, adult nature of the book after the child-friendly nature of the play. But enough pointless comparison. What’s the book like? There are some fantastic ideas, sparkling prose, wonderful characterisation and razor-sharp observations about humanity, politics, religion, prejudice, violence, love and hate, good and evil, and everything in between… There is so much going on and it’s so frantic and off-the-wall that the initial weirdness of the pacing and exposition is quickly forgiven and forgotten (or you grow accustomed to it)… at least until the denouement, where it all becomes a bit scrambled. I struggled to retain my empathy for Elphaba when her actions, like the plot, became seemingly random. There are many loose ends and others that were tied into awkward knots. I guess I should read the rest of the series, but I need to take a break first. One could quite easily write a PhD on this novel; however, this is just a mini review, so I’ll sum it up by saying that this book is very good but also very messy.

Verdict: If you’re looking for a neat, coherent story with a clean narrative arc and a consistently relatable protagonist, then this is not the book for you. It’s a mad scramble of characters through a broken timeline in a world that is at once hilarious and absolutely terrifying. It’s an experience and it makes you think and you won’t forget it in a hurry. If that appeals to you, then read it.

Four and a Half Castles – Exploring castles in north Wales

We rented a car and drove to north Wales. It was a glorious green week, almost entirely sidestepped by gloomy weather. Rain clouds only made an appearance once or twice just to give our raincoats an opportunity to be useful and to show us some other shades of this beautiful, sheep-studded landscape. We were looking after a little old dog that needed twice-daily walks and I was unwell for a while, so we couldn’t pack every day full of activities from dawn to dusk, but even with our loose planning and slow starts, we still managed to see plenty of amazing things. Like castles.

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Mini Review: ‘The Bone Clocks’, by David Mitchell



It’s no secret that I have a special place in my heart and bookshelf for Mr Mitchell. Why? To name but a few reasons: the beautiful imagery, effortless humour, diversity of style, wild ideas and the fact that he doesn’t quite follow the “rules”. It’s not for everyone, sure, but I get such a kick out of this sort of genre-bending weirdness. This novel is six books stitched together with a character and a thread of the paranormal. It almost needs six super-mini reviews… Hmm…

Super-Mini Reviews: The Six Parts of ‘The Bone Clocks’, by David Mitchell

1. A Hot Spell, 1984: The protagonist’s voice is strong, the setting is vivid, the skin-crawl factor from the paranormal bits is like a fish hook through the face, dragging you onward.

2. Myrrh Is Mine, Its Bitter Perfume, 1991: My favourite of the six. Despicably eloquent snobs and such a perfect contrast to the first bit.

3. The Wedding Bash, 2004: This one was a mixed bag; parts of it were on the plodding side, I felt, and the focal character voice less interesting than the previous two, but the climactic scene was brilliantly handled.

4. Crispin Hershey’s Lonely Planet, 2015: Shameless metafiction bathed in acidic humour. I wanted to hate Crispin, and sometimes I did, but I don’t think any writer or wannabe writer could ever hate him completely…

5. An Horologist’s Labyrinth, 2025: The paranormal becomes the focus here. If any of the parts are going to chase away the more literary readers, it’s this one. Super weird, but it had to be there and I was entertained throughout.

6. Sheep’s Head, 2043: A sobering conclusion. It’s not without it’s paranormal thread, but it’s chillingly real after part five’s flights of fantasy. There’s hope too, thank goodness; hope for us tragic bone clocks.

Verdict: Did I love it? Yes. Was it as good as Cloud Atlas? I don’t know. Should you read it? Absolutely, unless you’re allergic to the paranormal stuff!

Mini Review: ‘Gone Girl’, by Gillian Flynn



Holy mother of unreliable narrators! This book had me humming along, forming opinions and feeling mildly intrigued and then suddenly it turned around and punched me in the face and I couldn’t put it down after that. The author has crafted the most toxic relationship ever, and I loved to hate these people. It’s a skilful dissection of a marriage that feels plausible in so many ways, making the implausible stuff all the more horrifying. I can’t call it a page-turner only because I read it on my Kindle, but it was a button-clicker of note. Not sure about the ending; a bit of a fizzle rather than a bang, but it was exasperating in its own way, and I guess that’s in line with the rest of it. Gone Girl is slickly written, darkly entertaining and fucked-up on so many levels. It’s so clever that there’s almost a smugness about it and I can see why it was a best seller. I really enjoyed it, even though it made me feel slimy; somehow complicit in all the awfulness.

Verdict: You might run out of fingernails to chew on and hair to pull out, but read it.

Mini Review: ‘The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry’, by Rachel Joyce


This book was twee, a bit repetitive and plodding (har har) at times, but it hasn’t completely wafted out of my head yet, even though I was quite distracted reading it in an airport and on a plane while being deported. You could call it overly sentimental, sure, but I enjoyed it slightly too much to dismiss it in that way. I like literal journeys (couldn’t be too bothered about the metaphorical one here) and I like pretty descriptions of nature and I like fuddy-duddy domestic characters like Harold and Maureen finding their routines and the smallness of their lives opening up against the unexpected. It’s satisfying, somehow.

Verdict: If you’re in the mood for a tear-jerking mixture of terrible tragedy and sweet, floral Britishness, then this is the book for you. It’s well written and compelling enough to pull you through the slow bits.