I am a man/boy blessed with large ears. Large pointy ears. This hat that I am wearing in this picture was sent from my nan on her cruise, I think she sent it from Madeira, (Pretty sure that's a wrong spelling). I love the hat and proceeded to show each of my flatmates, they loved it, I am determined to wear it on a themed night out, whether it be hats or funky clothes or presents that your nan buys you. Also, tomorrow is a workshop for my creative writing whereby we write a piece and it is peer assessed, kind of useful because it forces us to write, kind of not useful because it's scary having other people reading my writing. Talking of which I will include in today's post a piece of writing I did for my first assignment two weeks ago. The writing really has no reflection on me or anyone else mentioned in the writing. The theme we had to write about was a break up, somebody waiting and we had to show the themes without directly saying them.
"Thickly cut tea cups
sat on the counter, semi stuck with the various seasonally promoted
hot drinks that this branch of Costa coffee offered. I stirred my
flat white with the action that was required, a slow, careful,
considerate one, as if time would speed up the faster my hand
rotated. Looking around, I saw the faces of paper pushers,
caffinating up for the day of making deals and screwing people over.
In came two lovers, high on life and seemingly in the first few
months of their relationship, they were hand holding and laughing, I
just about caught a flitter of conversation, 'and then he says
“that's my ___ you ____”.' She laughs as if it is ground breaking
comedy, but I take it as a benign inside joke. Tabby used to laugh at
my jokes, especially the unfunny ones, it was one of her many charms.
She would reveal, with blinding enamel, a laugh that would make one
forget about the world and its problems. These days, she would pass
it off with a grunt or a “don't be so childish”. Times change.
The barrista walked
over, gliding on his charisma, swooped down and took away the
porcelain that was left by the previous inhabitants in my two seater
table. Side on to the window, in the perfect position to gather the
draft, but not too full on (After all, it was winter), the table was
hidden away just enough not to be stumbled over by people trying to
reach the counter. This was our spot, we used to watch people go by
and make up stories about their lives. There would be the postman who
was secretly a multimillionaire or the old man who was, by night, a
high class escort. The stories always took a weird, abstract turn,
but that's what we loved about it, living in our own little bubble
looking out into a society dictated to by rules and regulations.
Recently we've
lived as the clichéd bridge metaphor, worn down, aged by too many
bad birthday presents and fake “nothing's up”s. Too much water
had not only flowed underneath the bridge but also washed over it
and, due to the porous brickwork, had seeped into every tiny gap and
crevice. Figures moved hurriedly the other side of the glass, trying
desperately to escape the pain that the cold caused and avoiding one
another down the busy North London high street. Shops had downed the
drink of Christmas and were now dealing with a crippling hangover
which was complete with 'Everything must go' signs. We now hung in
limbo, the period between Christmas and Spring. Winter is here but
snow is only needed on the birthday of Jesus.
At the point of
meeting my family, Tabby's pearly teeth had turned a faded grey,
smoking that we did for fun years ago had turned our skin leathery
and our lungs into half filled balloons and it was clear my family
thought of her not as a beacon of beauty to hold up to the world, but
as a dying ember, desperately trying to re-ignite youth.
Her laugh these
days did not belong to me, it belonged in the ears of real men in
bars. Men that lifted weights and talked about football. Men that
could handle their alcohol and held sexism as a tool for bonding with
other alpha-males. I knew I was paranoid, I knew I was jealous of
every man that ever caught her smile, past, present or future and I
knew that I forever would be. I knew I was in that coffee shop on
this day because it was make or break, stand or fall. At that moment
the clattering of saucers and mugs stopped, the door slowly nudged
open and in walked my mother.
'Steven!' The
shrill voice cut through the mumbled ambience of the room. 'Still
dressing like a youth?' She had noticed the Nikes on my feet and the
Arctic Monkeys hoodie on my back.
'Mum, please be a
little less embarrassing for once.' No reply came to this as this
grand woman sat before me, studying meticulously the menu, despite
ordering the same thing every time.
'A flat white for
me, Steven, with a shortbread biscuit,' she said. I peered over from
the counter, flicking a laptop open she smiled at me, but there was
more to her smile, something hidden behind it, a-
'Can I help at all
sir?'
'A coffee, with some
milk in please'
'Americano?'
'Sure, I guess,
thanks'
'About time,' my
mother said, in a tone that always resonated disappointment.
'Why am I here?' I
asked
'Not going to ask me
how I am? What I've been up to? A tad rude Steven'
'After what you did
to dad and me, I have no time for you, I'm sorry but I can't'
'That was in the
past, forgive and forget. As to why I wanted you here, I wanted you
to see this'
My whole body and
soul dropped, the LCD screen held a picture of what appeared to be
Tabby kissing another man. I felt sick. I needed air. I needed space,
I needed to leave.
My mother's follow
up comments were white noise, her smile had not faded and it held the
subtext of “I told you so”. I stumbled across the floor, falling
through the door and onto the street. The cold hit me but not hard
enough to stop me. I ran, like a pinball bouncing off of every
'excuse me mate' and 'watch where you're going'.
In an alleyway
behind HMV I slumped down and remembered meeting Tabby at a party, we
danced, drunk and I asked for her number. When she gave it to me, my
crap, useless Nokia became my most valuable possession. For eight
years we laughed, joked and loved, it seems like the mirror
reflecting our happiness had shattered. I, like the mirror, lay in
pieces. Hit hard by the realities of a failed relationship."
Until tomorrow
Will :)
