What it Feels Like For A Girl

 The breakfast room is light and airy exposing a Cornish sky that can't make up its mind. Across the room, a nice, middle-class couple are wrestling a small girl who is just finding her voice. There is a lot of wriggling, a lot of shushing, and a lot of apologising for the noise as the small child struggles to assert herself. As I watch the tiny human woman fight for agency, it strikes me that we spend our first 18 years being told to be quiet and behave, and the rest of our lives answering the call to find our true voices again. A societal paradox, where we impose our collective responsibilities onto our children while pursuing the dogma of individualism ourselves. There has to be a middle way.

Avian Gratitude

It doesn’t look like much. But it’s everything in this moment. Sat on a bench in the park with a latte and a pain au chocolat, watching the day unfold in this autumn sunshine, I’m joined on the bench by a robin. He chirps to get my attention and stares pointedly at the pastry. I peel off a morsel and place it between us on the bench. He stares at it, at me, then darts forwards, picks it off and flies into the hedge behind me, returning a few moments later to chirp his thanks before flying off. A simple exchange. A moment of beauty. A blessing. 

Transcendant Tragedy

I’m sat in my mother’s flat. She’s sat opposite me playing contentedly with a packet of Extra Strong Mints, one of the dozens of packets I’ve found in drawers, tins, Tupperware and her many handbags. I’m sorting through piles and piles of junk mail and actually really important mail, discarded equally across the rooms. A little transistor radio she found and that I put some batteries in is playing Classic FM. It takes the edge off the tragedy. 

As I sift through another pile of Damart catalogues, charity begging letters, bank statements and urgent hospital requests, The Lark Ascending spills forth from the tiny radio, filling the room with its uniquely joyful poignancy. I am flooded with memories of my late father and his love for me and music. My copy was a gift from him. And I cannot listen to it without crying, its sense of loss echoing my own. 

And so it is that I cry tears for one lost parent and the sheer beauty of Vaughan Williams' music in front of the other, lost to dementia. My mother looks at me quizzically. ‘I can’t listen to this music without crying,’ I explain, ‘It’s too beautiful.’ She laughs a gentle laugh and smiles at me, not understanding my tears. I go back to sorting the dusty piles of paper.

Let Her Eat Cake

I'm sat having a late lunch with a friend in a popular Tunbridge Wells cafe. The cafe is known for its cakes, its hearty salads and its quiches. The menu is small, locally produced and fresh. We are enjoying our lunch immensely when two middle-aged women enter the cafe, one of them pushing a buggy containing a lively baby girl. The lunchtime rush is over, so they decide to sit at the table in the middle of the room and park the buggy across the walkway, blocking access to two tables and the kitchen hatch. The staff politely suggest they move to a corner table where there is room for the buggy. Rather than follow this suggestion, they opt for the table next to ours. The large buggy won't fit in the space between the counter and my friend's back. After a few shoves, my friend, deep in appreciation of her soup and salad, realises the woman is trying to get through, apologises, and moves her chair. It is not enough. She gets up. It is not enough. She lifts the chair out of the way and the woman pushes through, a thin smile that does not reach her eyes is the only thanks she gives.

She parks the buggy in the middle of the space, blocking access to three different tables. There is then the hugely bothersome task of getting a high chair for the baby, and finally, she almost sits down, but not before demanding that I move my bag of shopping and handbag that is next to my chair, so she can sit sideways on her chair, rather than at the table. The back of her chair now touches my ribs, making eating a challenge, but she is too absorbed in her next drama to notice.

The other woman, who has until now been silent, begins to look at the menu and complain. The waitress comes to take the order and questions that seem to cause the questioner physical pain spill from her mouth like bitter seeds of discontent. Do they have any cake that's sugar-free, and gluten-free? Because she's on a restricted diet and can't have sugar, dairy, gluten, legumes, peppers, tomatoes, margarine, butter, olive oil, crude oil, bath bombs, eggshells, foie gras, borsch, roast hedgehog, and a thousand other things you might reasonably expect to find in a cafe and cake shop. The questions go on and on. The waitress suggests there may be some avocado left from the breakfast menu. No. She doesn't like avocado. The waitress suggests the salads, the soup, a sandwich on gluten-free bread, but each is rejected in turn for containing an offending food. The waitress patiently and pleasantly persists, but everything is rejected until, with a huge sigh, the woman bravely suggests some eggs and maybe some ham. But all todays eggs have gone at breakfast, so instead, she orders a panini with ham and cheese without a hint of embarrassment. Not gluten-free, or dairy-free, not even butter-free. Just self-awareness free.

I want to punch her on behalf of the waitress. I want to punch her friend on behalf of myself. But her friend won't keep still, she's up and down fussing over her grandchild, whose oblivion to this spectacle I envy. We finish our lunch and leave them there, eating their sandwiches, stewing in their self-righteous, middle-class, Tunbridge Wells privilege. But I see them, I see two unhappy women trying to exercise control over others, validating themselves, passive aggressively expressing the pain of being them. Compassion eludes me today. Right now, I just hate them and hope their lunch leaves them bloated.

Tea Time

A pot of English Breakfast Tea, a bacon sandwich to be savoured. The window is open, flooding the room with cold December air and birdsong. A door opens inside me and I let go of the pain for a few seconds to enjoy this moment of simple insignificance.

Heated Memory

This summer has been the hottest on record. Online climate change deniers rage that it's unconnected to man's pursuit of capital while the icebergs crumble into the sea. The future looks bleak. But there is comfort in the heat, a mandate to slow down, do less, reflect.

I pad around my house naked too hot to care what the neighbours think anymore and my mind looks back to a moment long passed, in London, mid-Nineties, when, similarly hot, I walked into the little kitchen in our flat one morning to make a cup of tea. As the kettle boiled, I looked out of the window and locked eyes with an elderly lady, also in her kitchen, also waiting for the kettle to boil, also naked.

We smiled at each other, acknowledging the moment, accepting the moment, connecting in the moment, and then went back to our tea making. A random moment of shared experience in a sweltering city of millions, so pure, it still makes me smile over twenty years later.

Closure

I have come to believe that the neat endings we aspire to when we speak of closure are nothing more than a Hollywood fantasy. Life, unlike narrative, does not give us all we need to move on. Instead endings are ragged and messy, their threads combining with those of our beginnings to weave the fabric of life, with its flaws, snags and occasional patches of brilliance. Today's ending, the last day of my Advertising career, is overshadowed by a past made present again through my father's death; I step onto the threshold of going back into therapy, to discuss my grief, my traumatic relationship with my mother in the month following my father's death, and all that has withered and greyed since. Today's beginning is all about endings, today's beginning terrifies me, and it is only in the grey light of dusk and birdsong that I notice, then say 'goodbye' to the job that crystallised the pain and forced me to acknowledge I need to start over again. Fear crawls across the evening, pulling me forward, even as I retreat to bed, reminding me I live and can only keep weaving.

Quid Pro Quo

The show is nearly over, only one more act and a closing number. Back in my leggings with drink token in hand, I ask the barman for something non-alcoholic as I have to drive home shortly. 'You like juice?' he asks me and I nod. 'Lychee? Elderflower?' I smile and nod enthusiastically, 'I'll mix you something up.' he says with a twinkle in his eye.

I run up to the dressing room with the rest of the drinks order and once back at the bar, see him shaking the cocktail shaker vigorously before pouring the contents over crushed ice in a tall glass. With a flourish, he garnishes the drink with two glistening pink lychees, succulent as Tiger prawns, and two straws. I take a sip; it is delicious and I tell him so. He smiles and I understand that the extra care, the desire to please comes from having watched and enjoyed my performances; it is my reward for entertaining him, for doing my job well. The drink tastes even better.

Listening

Communication, they say, is more about listening than talking. And indeed, I've always found that truly, it is amazing what people will tell you when you listen. I'm working in the box office and as the night progresses, things get quiet. The doorman and I strike up a conversation. He isn't challenging any sterotypes; six foot three, broad shouldered, with an impassive face and imposing manner. Our conversation moves from small talk into more personal territory; he tells me about his army days in Iraq - capture, constant fear and coming to care not if he lives or dies. He tells me about his childhood in East London, his feelings of isolation and even of his little black and white cat, Nancy. I ask questions and I listen to the answers, including the casual homophobia, sexism and racism, without judgement, and I begin to understand it's been a long time since this man really talked to anybody. I feel a sense of privilege, I feel intensely interested in what he's telling me - recounting a world that is completely alien to me, yet familiar from the news and Hollywood.

At the end of the night we go our separate ways, not even saying goodbye in the bustle of closing up, and as I drive home, I feel profound sadness for him, alone in his flat with the little black and white cat and those memories of war.

White Bleeding

The tears I cry for my late father are unlike any I have cried before; fat, full and frequent, they stream down my face soaking clothes and tissues alike. They arrive unbidden from some deep unconscious place in my chest and even as they fall, I wonder at their form.

I remember my first yoga teacher telling me that tears are 'white bleeding', that shedding them is healing for they carry cortisone from the body. But these tears catch me unawares; they are an embarrassment to those around me when the sight of one of my father's favourite foods confronts me in the supermarket, or I open a letter in a waiting room to find his new bus pass complete with frail, faintly smiling picture. 

The tears are a marvel, unlike any I have shed before, but the pain they bring with them is overwhelming and I long for an end to these days of sorrow.

History Lesson

Finally, after seven years of saving, work begins on the house. The builders strip the walls revealing dark blue wallpaper, resplendent with a late 50's geometric design, and in the back room, under layers of woodchip wallpaper, vibrant orange paint shouts its 70's heritage. The cream and dusty pink preferred by the previous owner is now a memory. And not a pleasant one. The plaster is horsehair and lime; the dust horrendous, but as I sit in the midst of this mess, I see this house's past through the decorative choices made by those, probably long dead, who used to live here.

Loss

The room is still but for hum of the radiator. My back aches but I can't bring myself to move. After midday and still in bed, my mother's scolding disapproval rattles round my head. I'm too sad to move. I'm too sad to do very much at all these days, for grief is a relentless thief of time, energy and colour.

Since my father's death I watch the world, my world, as if on a cinema screen - it is flat, an illusion, and definitely make-believe. They all say 'it's a process', 'it will pass', and I suppose they are right, but the primal scream of loss in my head continues nonetheless.

Window Shopping

It's late; a long day in the office. As ever, I turn left out of the train station and hurry past the little parade of shops, keen to get home, get warm, get some supper. The window of the charity shop is full of bric-a-brac that I scan habitually, always on the look out for something deemed superfluous, redundant in one life that might come in handy in mine. I spot it, sitting back from the glare of the street lamps, on the left hand side of the main window and its presence strikes me as so very sad; a primary-coloured mug with the words 'World's Best Dad' filling its exterior surface.

As I make my way up the hill, I consider what might have led to that mug being discarded, and I feel a keen sense of loss.

Mercer Street

‘Surely,’ I think to myself, ‘If you walk down the same street enough times, the memory fades, supplanted by new experiences, new moments to treasure, memories that don’t tug at my heart and remind me of him.’ But it hasn’t happened yet. This morning I passed an old lady, stepping out of my path so she didn’t have to. She looked up at me from under her headscarf and smiled a smile that was no bribe to sweeten a lonely, unspoken request for conversation. Neither did her eyes contain surreptitious need, in fact she asked nothing, just acknowledged my courtesy and in the smile I returned, our eyes met and a simple connection briefly formed.

I continued walking and hoped, when I reached her age, that I, also, would have managed my needs and lived a life that left me free to meet the gaze of strangers benevolently.

I recall that smile, that train of thought, as I walk down the street later that day but at the end of it, there he is, his memory constant in a way our relationship never was. ‘Surely,’ I think to myself, ‘If I walk down this street enough times…’

Handbag

I see the same woman on the train every morning. Her hair is greying, cut in a style, I suspect, she has worn since the 1980's, a 'Lady Diana' it used to be called. She doesn't wear make-up. Her clothes are plain; navy or black jacket and a series of inoffensive, pastel-coloured tops. I can't see the bottom half of her as she sits in her train seat, but I expect her shoes are sensible and her skirts fall below the knee. She often wears a garish brooch - a bright gold and diamanté affair with a cat sitting in a crescent moon. It is kitsch, vulgar even.

The woman's pale eyes are kind. Sometimes she reads a book. Other times, she listens to an old-fashioned CD Walkman and stares out of the window. But her handbag is always on her lap. The handbag is extraordinary; a black leather confection of shiny buckles and leather tassels almost entirely covered in metal studs. It looks so out of place on her lap, a beacon of dark, fetishistic style. I wonder if it was a present, or if she bought it herself, and if she did, what thought process, what desire led her to choose that bag. Is it her totem, is it her truth, is it her aspiration? Nothing in her impassive face offers any clue, but every morning, I wonder.

Statement

St. Martin's Lane is a one-way street. I'm walking in the same direction as the traffic, hurrying along the gutter, keen to get home. I feel the loud, heavy bass as much as hear it pumping from the stereo of a car behind me. The music is aggressive - overtly masculine, hip-hop - and I turn to look behind me, expecting a large black SUV with tinted windows and personalised number plates. Instead of the cliché, a small silver Smart car pulls into a parking space, a bespectacled white guy behind the wheel, and I laugh out loud at the disparity.

Again

I've started a new blog; The Pole Affair II.

You can click through to it from my profile. In the wake of the current court case, I'm going to leave the original offline for a while.

Job Centre

After four months of unemployment, I go to sign on for the last time. The woman who calls me to her desk is new and full of bright, apologetic smiles that try to convey in the brief five-minute time slot her empathy and that I am a person in this system designed to shame me back to work. I let her go through the motions of checking my job search record book and asking about my Jobseekers' Agreement but when she pauses, I tell her I have been offered and have accepted a job. Her enthusiasm is embarrassing as she tells me what wonderful news that is and I squirm, but it's when she asks me if I'm looking forward to it that I have to fight back the tears because there's no place here for me to confess my terror of returning to work, or to admit how useless I feel and how worried I am that I will not cope. That's what unemployment and an infantilising system does for you. She goes off to ask a colleague about some aspect of the process that follows my news and I am left in the busy job centre, staring at the ceiling, trying to compose myself. I get a picture of myself and how ridiculous I must look. People rush about, in and out, processing the jobless, trying to remain positive in the face of their inertia, ineptitude and, as in my case, hopelessness. I've played the game and the system has supported me in that. I'm grateful - grateful for the benefits and grateful I won't have to go there again. But I still leave with a heavy heart.

Lifting

After two days of steel skies so heavy with relentless rain, I awake to sunshine. At first, I can't quite believe it or shake off the dark, compressed mood that settled, bedded in and held my head down. Driving under the bright blue sky, past a carnival of autumn foliage, I still can't bring myself to feel anything but crushing sadness and disappointment at the path life has taken. Eventually, the hot sun fills the car and I open the windows, am forced to breathe in fresh air laced with sunshine and hope in the midst of this kaleidoscope of decay. My chest expands and lets in air and light. I sing along to the music on the radio and cry painful tears, tears of loss and tears of fear. And when I arrive, park, and step out of the car I realise, for the first time in many days, that I am aware of the world around me. My skin registers the warm sun, my lungs register the fresh air, the breeze caresses and I feel pleasure, my stiff muscles ask to be stretched and smile at the long strides I take. The enervating greyness gone, sunshine lifts me and I understand why the birds sing.

Homecoming

My little yellow car comes home. A man with a round belly in a tight, red polo shirt and a puffing smile lowers her from the back of a large truck, a grumbling but good-natured commentary his soundtrack. As he hands over the keys he asks me if I've broken a window recently. 'No.' I reply, puzzled. He thinks for a moment and then asks me if I use a lot of glitter. What can I answer but 'yes'? Giggling, I tell him he should see my bath, and go on to explain that I'm a performer. He looks pleased that the mystery has been solved, hands me paperwork and climbs back in the truck. I'm still laughing.