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I wish I had a boyfriend. I wish he lived in the wardrobe on a coat hanger. Whenever I wanted, I could get him out and he'd look at me the way boys do in films, as if I'm beautiful.

Jenny Downham

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Jenny Downham
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: January 1
Actor
Author
Film Actor
Novelist
Writer
Inner and Outer London
Wish
Coat
Film
Wardrobe
Beautiful
Coats
Wanted
Boyfriend
Look
Whenever
Looks
Films
Way
Lived
Hanger
Boys
Hangers

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No, really. I free you.' I don't want to be free.
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. . . my bones they'll burn or bury. It'll be my death.
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I've always wanted to be a cat. Warm and domesticated when you want to be, wild when you don't.
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Hold my hand. Don't let go.
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Statement: A girl and a boy jump into a river. The boy swims over to the girl and says, God, it's cold. Question: What's the probability they will kiss?
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When I first saw Ellie, I knew it was her-- she was my fantasy. I didn't want it to be true, but every time I met her it was obvious, and the funny thing was that she was better than the fantasy, like I got more stuff than I'd imagined.
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The inside of the door is glossy white. A total re-paint. I touch it with my fingers, but it stays the same. It's so bright it makes the room waver at the edges. Every few years we disappear.
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She needed food. Diets didn't count in a crisis.
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It's as if a child with a brush and too much enthusiasm has been set free with a tin of black paint inside me.
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I shrug him off. 'Can't you just go away? There's a moment. It has a sound in it, as if something very small got broken.
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We make patterns, we share moments.
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Her skin tasted expensive.
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I said I wouldn't leave her.
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Was this love? Because it hurt. It was like a bit of glass stuck somewhere important--his heart or his head, and it was throbbing.
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Every few years we disappear, Zoey. All our cells are replaced by others. Not a single bit of me is the same as when I was last in this room.
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As an actor I worked for seven years with a community theater company based in London. We used improvisation techniques to take stories to young people who wouldn't normally have access to them - in prisons, hospitals, young offender's units, youth clubs and housing estates.
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I love you. I love you. I send this message through my fingers and into his, up his arm and into his heart. Hear me. I love you. And I'm sorry to leave you.
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I didn't understand that when you make love, you actually do MAKE love. Stir things. Affect each other. The breath that escapes from me is dazzled. He breathes it in with a gasp.
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I miss him as soon as he goes. When he isn't with me, I think I made him up.
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I'm me and you're you, and all of them out there are them. And we're all so different and equally unimportant.
Jenny Downham