My First Bedroom

My first bedroom was where fairies gathered motionless on the walls waiting for night to come so they could dance around under the faint glow of the fairy castle lamp. Occasionally they tiptoed off the wall to tuck a silver coin beneath a pillow covered with wavy chestnut hair. In the corner stood a washbasin where tiny soapy hands scrubbed away the remains of each day’s adventures. The mirror above the basin reflected rosy marshmallow cheeks, lips plumped with a thousand questions and eyes sparkling with the thrill of the present. Next to it towered a white wardrobe with a neatly ironed green school uniform hanging on the front like a medal. Inside the wardrobe Snow White’s dress vied for space amongst hems of colourful tulle, shiny Lycra leotards and lovingly knit woollen creations.

The wardrobe was good for hide and seek and for disappearing into when I didn’t want to be found… I feel the cold metal from my tap shoes digging into my skinny legs as I crouch in the corner of the wardrobe with my eyes closed to shut out the darkness. But I stay where I am because I believe that one day the back of the wardrobe will suddenly open and lead me to a world of snow queens and talking lions and enchanted forests. A world where I can be a real Snow White, the heroine of my own fairytale. I hear my Mummy’s footsteps, followed by her voice. I know that any minute now the wardrobe door will open and I’ll have to climb back out. Back into my bedroom. My first bedroom. A room where fairies are trapped in wallpaper and can only come out at night when no one’s looking. At least they didn’t think I was. Even fairies make mistakes.

You lose your sense of humour

You lose your sense of humour when you’ve only got a week left to write a 5000-word coursework essay and you still haven’t started even though you’ve had three months to do it and you’ve had a fever for the last week which has kept you awake at night so you’re feeling tired as well as ill whilst trying to think what to write but you can’t concentrate because there’s a contract sitting next to you waiting to be signed but you don’t know whether or not to sign it because it’s for a flat you’ve made an offer on but you’re not sure whether to go ahead and complete because everyone’s saying it’s a bad time to buy because the housing market’s going to crash and you’d be a fool to buy now but then again if you don’t you’ll lose the flat you’ve had your heart set on the flat you walked past the other day and saw the owner in the window cradling her newborn baby who she’s waiting to take to start a fresh life in a new house where another family sits waiting to move but you don’t know why because you’re not dealing with them directly because they’re further up the chain but your decision still effects them and potentially even more people because you don’t know how long the chain is or exactly how many lives could be turned upside down by your decision but you can’t think about that because you’ve got an essay to write and the deadline is drawing nearer and the page is looking blanker and bigger and you still can’t think of a word to write so you might as well switch off the computer and try again tomorrow because everything looks smaller in the light of day

Her Mum's Kitchen

It was hard to see in her Mum’s kitchen. It was always thick with smoke. Not smoke from cooking - not much cooking went on in that kitchen. Smoke from her Mum’s cigarettes. If her Mum could’ve rolled pastry as well as she rolled a bit of baccy and paper, she doubted she’d be the size 8 she was today. In fact she had a lot more to thank her Mum’s nicotine addiction for than her skinny little ass.

It was her pert buttock that started it all. He pinched it as he passed her in the club. She saw him blow her kiss as he walked towards the bar, motioning for her to join him. Her friends urged her to follow, told her he was far too fit to ignore. And well, she deserved a bit of fun after the way Andy had treated her. So she DIO’d her Bacardi Breezer and followed the trail of testosterone.

He’d insisted on walking her back to her Mum’s. On kissing her goodnight outside the front door. She thought he’d started walking back down the path as she turned the key in the lock, but suddenly there he was pushing her inside, pushing her forwards through the hallway and into the kitchen. One hand over her mouth, the other pushing her forwards. Forwards over the kitchen worktop. Darkness. The sound of a zip opening. Her arms flaying across the worktop searching for something. Help. The sponginess of the tobacco packet first, then on top something small, hard. Grab. Flick lighter. Flame to denim. Shrieks. Obscenities. Legs being slapped.
Jeans pulled down. Off.

She watched his silhouette run from the kitchen and out the front door, then stamped on his jeans until all the flames were out. Her Mum’s kitchen thick with smoke.

We Keep Walking

We spot a road signposted ‘To the Future’ and start walking. For the first few miles the road looks the same as the one we’ve just left. It’s a busy urban road lined with office blocks, glass-fronted flats, shops, restaurants and bars. Cars whiz along it in a hurry to get somewhere. The pavement is crowded with people shouting and bumping into one other. The road smells of money – ten, twenty and fifty pound notes fall from the sky and are snatched by reaching hands. The road sounds like a speeded up record on continuous play. Suddenly a church appears and the air is filled with confetti-shaped promises in every colour of the rainbow. After the church the road turns a sharp right. Identical suburban houses line either side of a pine-scented avenue. As we walk a large white bird swoops down, narrowly missing our heads. The bird deposits a basket on one of the doorsteps. As we pass the basket we hear a baby scream. The screams pursue us for the next five miles. As we continue walking the houses become bigger and the screams start to fade. For a while there is silence. The air is warm and scented with freshly baked bread. Gradually the air becomes thicker. Stickier. Slowing us down. A fog starts to form and it’s hard to see where we’re going. We encounter fewer and fewer people along the way and soon realise we’re the only ones still walking, although we can hear footsteps behind us. We pass a hospital and peer through the window, but it’s dark inside and we can’t see in. Not far from the hospital is another church - this time the air is cold and filled with tear-shaped memories. The road is very bright now. Empty. We keep walking.

The Velvet Kiss

She was the first girl he ever kissed. Her lips felt just as he imagined a girl’s lips would, only softer. Like velvet. He loved her lips above all else. She never wore lipstick. She didn’t need to. Her lips were a permanent crimson and they sat atop her chin like a plump ripe strawberry waiting to be picked. During their twelve years of marriage, he never tired of kissing them. He believed her lips turned a fraction softer and redder with every kiss.

Her lips were the only things about her that hadn’t been affected by her illness. Although she was only thirty-two, her lustrous buttercup hair had become a wizened grey. Her eyes were now sunken murky pebbles, whereas before they looked like large eager hazelnuts trying to burst from their shell. Her olive skin had turned a ghostly white and lost its creamy texture. Now it appeared chalky, and he was afraid to touch it lest she cracked and turned to dust. But unlike everything else, her lips were as vivacious and fruity as ever. He spent most of his time at the hospice staring at them and imagining their velvety caress. Each night before he left he bent down and kissed them. Against her pale face, and glistening with the saliva from his kiss, her lips reminded him of an exquisite ruby perched upon a white silk cushion.

The call came at 3am one Monday in January. By the time he got to her room he knew it was too late. The first thing he noticed as he approached her bedside was the two thin slices of yellowy-blue marble in place of the ruby he’d left behind only hours earlier. Before pulling the sheet over her, he bent down and placed a kiss on her forehead.

Mes Amis

Friend 1: She’s a bunch of tall white lilies with Northern roots strutting down a chique Parisian boulevard. A high-heeled, high-flyer in a low-lighted white open space. Lap-top under one arm, baby under the other. Earth mother, sexy lover, party planning perfectionist. A Joe Malone Candle burning at both ends, leaving Gucci scented swirls of success on everything she touches. Producer, life maker, multi-tasking creator, nothing left until later. In the moment, on the move, inhaling food on her way to the moon. My inspiration.

Friend 2: She’s a delicate pink rose in a crystal vase dancing like no one’s looking to the beat of the eighties. A fair princess fleeing a dark castle. A glass butterfly, diving in and out of shadows, searching for safety. Bubble wrapped, ready to burst, discovering life, evading reality. On the ball, off the rails, silver-outlined, honey-coated. She knows it all, but keeps it quiet. She could go far, but chooses closeness. She’s learnt not to care what people think, to let her heart lead the way and give her head a rest. My soul-mate.

Friend 3. She’s a fire red sunset lighting a grey London street. A soft-centred toffee with a tough bite, a sharp tongue, a kind word, a contagious giggle. She dances to life’s different rhythms, moves to the music, finds its every beat. She’s strong-willed, hard-working, a fast-talking voice of reason. She’s always there. Present. Pragmatic. Planning ahead, thinking back. Dealing with it. Helping out, holding it in. Finding a way through. Never giving up. My rock.

Friend 4. He’s a jug of tasty gravy, adding flavour and warmth to every dish. His glass is always half-full and topped up with bubbles. He’s the fruitiest orange and the brightest yellow. An angel with a treasure in his soul. My love.

I've Done Nothing For A While But Listen

I haven’t written on my blog for over a week. In fact I haven’t written anything at all in that time. For the last few days I’ve done nothing but listen.

I began listening last Monday. I listened for an hour to a client who I see every week as part of my work with the Community Learning Disability Team. I’ve been listening to her for nearly two years. I keep listening because she needs to be heard.

On Tuesday I listened to a friend announce the birth of her new baby boy. I listened to the agony of her labour and the ecstasy of its fruits. I listened out for the response of my own biological clock, but couldn’t hear any ticking.

On Wednesday I listened to an editor’s approval of an article I’d submitted to his magazine. I turned up the volume so I could hear his acceptance at full blast. It’s one of my favourite sounds.

On Thursday I listened to my insecurities. I tried not to, tried to tune my ears into other things, but they kept butting in. Eventually I turned on some music and managed to drown them out.

On Friday I listened to my sister and tried to keep calm.

On Saturday I listened to my Granddad’s war stories. I’ve heard them a thousand times but this time they sounded different. I realise now the stories were exactly the same – I was simply listening more intently.

On Sunday I listened to my best friend exchange wedding vows. As I stood behind her I recognised the voice of true love and couldn’t help but cry.

On Monday I listened to chocolate-flavoured whispers as they ducked in and out of the duvet.

Today I listened to the silence and decided it was time to write.