At my mother’s funeral, we stood in a circle and sang nursery rhymes.
None of the toddlers she worked with at the pre-school could come to the funeral, of course – that would have been inappropriate. But working with those kids was her life, so singing nursery rhymes was the perfect way to honour that.
The priest had blanched a bit when we told him we’d rather sing ‘Humpty Dumpty’ than ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. But, of course, he honoured our request, though he looked rather pasty again when my Uncle Jeremy started to warble ‘Mary Had A Little Lamb’ in a voice caterwauling cats would have been proud of.
Once the service was over and we had buried my mother in a lovely ceremony in the churchyard, my great aunt came up to me and told me how disappointed she had been in the lack of ‘The Grand Old Duke of York’. I told her my mother had hated that rhyme, but she said it didn’t matter, it was one of her favourites.
Some people, it’s all about them.
Friday, 1 June 2012
Thursday, 31 May 2012
Nursery Rhyme by Lesley Whyte
"You know, when I have kids, I'm never gonna sing them nursery rhymes."
"Why?" I asked, dreading the answer. She's always been like this.
"Because they're dangerous."
"How exactly are they dangerous?"
"They give us unrealistic expectations. I mean, think about it, every guy you've ever gone out with, you've dumped because he wasn't perfect. Right?"
"Well...yeah."
"And that would be fine, except nobody's perfect."
"Okay, I don't dump guys because they're not perfect. I dump them because they're no good. I don't freak out over little things like he only wants two kids and I'm having three, regardless of what my husband wants. You remember Scott? He was gay. That's a perfectly legitimate reason to break up with a guy."
"And Ben?"
"Can we please not talk about Ben?"
"Fine, whatever," she said, waving her hands dismissively. "The thing is, nursery rhymes give you unrealistic expectations and then you don't know how to function in a real relationship. You don't know how to compromise, you expect Mr Perfect to stroll right into your life and then be perfect forever. And it's not healthy."
"What about Luke?"
"We're not talking about me."
"We're always talking about you," I said. "Didn't you break up with Luke because he wore odd socks? They were both black, but one was a slightly different black to the other? And when you told him you couldn't see him anymore because of the odd socks, he pointed out that he only did it because you'd previously said that you couldn't spend time with a man who wore shoes without socks."
"It's gross."
"But it was a ridiculous reason to dump him."
"Whatever. So I'm the perfect example of my point. Nursery rhymes are dangerous."
"Yeah, I think maybe you mean fairy-tales," I said, and that shut her up.
"Why?" I asked, dreading the answer. She's always been like this.
"Because they're dangerous."
"How exactly are they dangerous?"
"They give us unrealistic expectations. I mean, think about it, every guy you've ever gone out with, you've dumped because he wasn't perfect. Right?"
"Well...yeah."
"And that would be fine, except nobody's perfect."
"Okay, I don't dump guys because they're not perfect. I dump them because they're no good. I don't freak out over little things like he only wants two kids and I'm having three, regardless of what my husband wants. You remember Scott? He was gay. That's a perfectly legitimate reason to break up with a guy."
"And Ben?"
"Can we please not talk about Ben?"
"Fine, whatever," she said, waving her hands dismissively. "The thing is, nursery rhymes give you unrealistic expectations and then you don't know how to function in a real relationship. You don't know how to compromise, you expect Mr Perfect to stroll right into your life and then be perfect forever. And it's not healthy."
"What about Luke?"
"We're not talking about me."
"We're always talking about you," I said. "Didn't you break up with Luke because he wore odd socks? They were both black, but one was a slightly different black to the other? And when you told him you couldn't see him anymore because of the odd socks, he pointed out that he only did it because you'd previously said that you couldn't spend time with a man who wore shoes without socks."
"It's gross."
"But it was a ridiculous reason to dump him."
"Whatever. So I'm the perfect example of my point. Nursery rhymes are dangerous."
"Yeah, I think maybe you mean fairy-tales," I said, and that shut her up.
Nursery Rhyme by Sam Smith
‘Ring a Ring o’ Roses’: A Critical Essay, by Dr. Samuel Smith
‘It’s not the words that give a nursery rhyme a purpose, it’s the lyrics,’ said Daniel Batinski in his seminal essay on the subject of connotations and hidden meanings in nursery rhymes, titled ‘The Songs We Sang As Kids Were All Actually About Totally Dumb Stuff’ (New York: Idle Press, 1986). In the essay, he discussed the tale of the ‘Three Blind Mice’ as being an allegory about the songwriter developing a fear of unknowingly eating mice tails when having spaghetti bolognese for dinner and ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’ obviously being a metaphor for performance enhancing drugs in 10-pin bowling tournaments, among others. However, there was one nursery rhyme missing from Batinski’s essay which I felt has some hidden meanings that are worth discussing; that nursery rhyme is ‘Ring a Ring o’ Roses.’
It is a deceptively short nursery rhyme, only one stanza long, although this does not stop it from being completely full of connotations intended by the author, whom has asked to remain anonymous due to reasons that will become evident further into this essay.
The focus on flowers throughout ‘Ring…’ suggests a positive atmosphere for the piece, but these are metaphors for a darker, disturbing topic, that of hoarding. The Oxford English Dictionary defines hoarding as ‘…The act of stockpiling a large number of items, to the point of being kind of ridiculous,’ (England: Oxford University Press, 2004). It has recently gained attention from major television networks and many shows have been made about the subject, but ‘Ring…’ is the first recorded reference to hoarding in popular media. The roses and posies mentioned shows that a collection is growing in the author’s house, probably including other well known flowers, such as daisies and stinging nettles. We can tell that the hoarding has become a problem, as the author points out that he has… ‘a pocketful of posies.’ He has run out of room in his house and is forced to carry around the collection in his trousers. Whether or not ‘Ring…’ is meant as a cautionary tale, a warning against hoarding, or as a small tip about finding space for more items, is still up in the air.
The last line of ‘Ring…’ is perhaps the most controversial for it’s time. ‘We all fall down.’ There are many interpretations of this, but the only one that is backed up by my intense research is that this refers to 1997, when our friendly neighbouring star, the Sun, decided to stop shining for us everyday. On the 31st of May, 1997, we were plunged into darkness as the Sun threw a small, interstellar tantrum and became selfish with the light emanating from its gargantuan mass for five months. This was a big subject in most newspapers for at least three weeks, inspiring incredibly creative headlines, such as ‘Dis-SUN-peared!’ from The Daily Mail (England: News Corp., 1997). Because there was no light, many people found falling over becoming a regular part of their day, so much so that in a survey carried out by The News of the World documented over 80% of people carried plasters around with them wherever they went (England: News Corp., 1997). The author wanted to reference this in ‘Ring…’ because falling over must have been a big part of his life in those five months.
Honestly, no matter how much research I did, I could find no interpretations for the third line, which consists of one repeated word; ‘Atishoo! Atishoo!’ While the repetition is obviously meant to emphasise the phrase, the meaning has obviously been lost to the ages. It is probably about having a cold or the Plague.
As we can see, ‘Ring…’ is an incredibly deep and complex nursery rhyme with many different ways to interpret every line, although the ones within this essay are more than likely the correct interpretations. It is a complete mystery as to why Batinski did not include it in ‘The Songs We Sang As Kids Were All Actually About Totally Dumb Stuff’. It is as if he thought that it was about something quite obvious and just ignored it. I suppose it is lucky that some of us cannot get out of an analytical mind frame when reading, no matter what it is. We are programmed that way. It is a blessing and a curse.
‘It’s not the words that give a nursery rhyme a purpose, it’s the lyrics,’ said Daniel Batinski in his seminal essay on the subject of connotations and hidden meanings in nursery rhymes, titled ‘The Songs We Sang As Kids Were All Actually About Totally Dumb Stuff’ (New York: Idle Press, 1986). In the essay, he discussed the tale of the ‘Three Blind Mice’ as being an allegory about the songwriter developing a fear of unknowingly eating mice tails when having spaghetti bolognese for dinner and ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’ obviously being a metaphor for performance enhancing drugs in 10-pin bowling tournaments, among others. However, there was one nursery rhyme missing from Batinski’s essay which I felt has some hidden meanings that are worth discussing; that nursery rhyme is ‘Ring a Ring o’ Roses.’
It is a deceptively short nursery rhyme, only one stanza long, although this does not stop it from being completely full of connotations intended by the author, whom has asked to remain anonymous due to reasons that will become evident further into this essay.
The focus on flowers throughout ‘Ring…’ suggests a positive atmosphere for the piece, but these are metaphors for a darker, disturbing topic, that of hoarding. The Oxford English Dictionary defines hoarding as ‘…The act of stockpiling a large number of items, to the point of being kind of ridiculous,’ (England: Oxford University Press, 2004). It has recently gained attention from major television networks and many shows have been made about the subject, but ‘Ring…’ is the first recorded reference to hoarding in popular media. The roses and posies mentioned shows that a collection is growing in the author’s house, probably including other well known flowers, such as daisies and stinging nettles. We can tell that the hoarding has become a problem, as the author points out that he has… ‘a pocketful of posies.’ He has run out of room in his house and is forced to carry around the collection in his trousers. Whether or not ‘Ring…’ is meant as a cautionary tale, a warning against hoarding, or as a small tip about finding space for more items, is still up in the air.
The last line of ‘Ring…’ is perhaps the most controversial for it’s time. ‘We all fall down.’ There are many interpretations of this, but the only one that is backed up by my intense research is that this refers to 1997, when our friendly neighbouring star, the Sun, decided to stop shining for us everyday. On the 31st of May, 1997, we were plunged into darkness as the Sun threw a small, interstellar tantrum and became selfish with the light emanating from its gargantuan mass for five months. This was a big subject in most newspapers for at least three weeks, inspiring incredibly creative headlines, such as ‘Dis-SUN-peared!’ from The Daily Mail (England: News Corp., 1997). Because there was no light, many people found falling over becoming a regular part of their day, so much so that in a survey carried out by The News of the World documented over 80% of people carried plasters around with them wherever they went (England: News Corp., 1997). The author wanted to reference this in ‘Ring…’ because falling over must have been a big part of his life in those five months.
Honestly, no matter how much research I did, I could find no interpretations for the third line, which consists of one repeated word; ‘Atishoo! Atishoo!’ While the repetition is obviously meant to emphasise the phrase, the meaning has obviously been lost to the ages. It is probably about having a cold or the Plague.
As we can see, ‘Ring…’ is an incredibly deep and complex nursery rhyme with many different ways to interpret every line, although the ones within this essay are more than likely the correct interpretations. It is a complete mystery as to why Batinski did not include it in ‘The Songs We Sang As Kids Were All Actually About Totally Dumb Stuff’. It is as if he thought that it was about something quite obvious and just ignored it. I suppose it is lucky that some of us cannot get out of an analytical mind frame when reading, no matter what it is. We are programmed that way. It is a blessing and a curse.
Wednesday, 30 May 2012
Cuban Heat by Emily Chadwick
They say there comes a day in every man’s life when he deserves to smoke a Cuban cigar. A rite of passage, if you will.
My time came a short while after I had turned fifteen.
I was mowing Mr Henderson’s lawn. Now, that doesn’t really sound like a promising start to a story, but I swear it gets better. He came out into the garden to oversee my work, like he always did, standing on the decking like a general and smoking one of his fine Cuban cigars. A curl of dark smoke rose into the summer sky (that’s as poetic as you’re going to get, you know).
As I turned at the bottom of the garden, Mr Henderson fell to the ground. This wasn’t as dramatic as it seems, as he just kind of slumped as opposed to tumbled from the decking. But still, I was pretty shaken up. I abandoned the lawn mower (after switching it off, of course) and ran back up the garden, shouting, “Mr Henderson! Are you all right?”
There was no response.
I wasn’t really sure what to do – my lawn mowing expertise didn’t really cover elderly collapse – so I just rushed inside, grabbed the phone off the wall and called 999.
Once the ambulance was on its way and I had moved Mr Henderson into the recovery position (at the instruction of the nice lady on the phone), I noticed that Mr Henderson’s Cuban cigar was still smouldering on the decking. I was curious, which overrode any apprehension I might have felt about pilfering the half-smoked cigar. Was it really as magical and life-changing as my friends had made it out to be?
I scooped it up off the ground and took a long drag.
Then I coughed, choked, spat and tossed the cigar onto the ground.
Disgusting.
My time came a short while after I had turned fifteen.
I was mowing Mr Henderson’s lawn. Now, that doesn’t really sound like a promising start to a story, but I swear it gets better. He came out into the garden to oversee my work, like he always did, standing on the decking like a general and smoking one of his fine Cuban cigars. A curl of dark smoke rose into the summer sky (that’s as poetic as you’re going to get, you know).
As I turned at the bottom of the garden, Mr Henderson fell to the ground. This wasn’t as dramatic as it seems, as he just kind of slumped as opposed to tumbled from the decking. But still, I was pretty shaken up. I abandoned the lawn mower (after switching it off, of course) and ran back up the garden, shouting, “Mr Henderson! Are you all right?”
There was no response.
I wasn’t really sure what to do – my lawn mowing expertise didn’t really cover elderly collapse – so I just rushed inside, grabbed the phone off the wall and called 999.
Once the ambulance was on its way and I had moved Mr Henderson into the recovery position (at the instruction of the nice lady on the phone), I noticed that Mr Henderson’s Cuban cigar was still smouldering on the decking. I was curious, which overrode any apprehension I might have felt about pilfering the half-smoked cigar. Was it really as magical and life-changing as my friends had made it out to be?
I scooped it up off the ground and took a long drag.
Then I coughed, choked, spat and tossed the cigar onto the ground.
Disgusting.
Cuban Heat by Lesley Whyte
The air was thick and muggy. The sky was red streaked with orange. We sat on his balcony, looking out over the ocean. Watching the figures walking along the shore, silhouetted against the bright sky.
He smoked a cigar. I tried not to choke on cigar smoke.
The sweat crept along my collarbone. A gunshot rang out in the distance. The wind rustled through the trees. Our skin stuck to the warm, metal chairs.
The sweat crept along my collarbone. A gunshot rang out in the distance. The wind rustled through the trees. Our skin stuck to the warm, metal chairs.
He smoked a cigar. I tried not to choke on the smoke.
Cuban Heat by Sam Smith
There was a three month period in my life where I would put something odd in the microwave once a day. I had just moved into my first place by myself, so I felt pretty free from rules. Mum would have never let me use the microwave for entertainment purposes. It was for cooking in her house. I used it to warm up my socks on a cold day a couple of times. I did the same with my pants once, but it’s quite hard to know how long pants need to be in the microwave to get them warm but not so hot that they burn some sensitive areas of my body. I have the scars to prove it.
Finding things to put in a microwave wasn’t too difficult. At first, I just looked around my flat, picking up old books and toys from boxes that Mum forced me to take because they were taking up room in her house. Books don’t really do much unless you leave them in there for a long time, then they start burning in a weird way. All the pages curl up and darken. When you take it out, the middle pages are sort of soggy. Toys just melt if they’re made of plastic. Not as dramatic as I thought it would be as a child.
Soon, I started to run out of stuff and I started to steal things just to microwave them. Beer mats, potted plants, sandwiches, fancy Cuban cigars from some prick at a club, hats, oranges. All sorts of rubbish. It taught me a valuable lesson. Everything reacts when it’s exposed to enough heat. I started to apply this theory to situations in life. I argued more with people, stared at them until they felt uncomfortable, shouted every once in a while to see what would happen. It was a strange time in my life.
The novelty of putting things in the microwave eventually wore off when someone complained about the smell of burning plastic coming from my flat. I guess they thought I was making bombs or something because they rang the police, whom swiftly turned up at my door. They shouted at me to get on the ground. I reacted. Currently I am serving a five year sentence for throwing molten plastic at a police officer. Prison is no fun.
Finding things to put in a microwave wasn’t too difficult. At first, I just looked around my flat, picking up old books and toys from boxes that Mum forced me to take because they were taking up room in her house. Books don’t really do much unless you leave them in there for a long time, then they start burning in a weird way. All the pages curl up and darken. When you take it out, the middle pages are sort of soggy. Toys just melt if they’re made of plastic. Not as dramatic as I thought it would be as a child.
Soon, I started to run out of stuff and I started to steal things just to microwave them. Beer mats, potted plants, sandwiches, fancy Cuban cigars from some prick at a club, hats, oranges. All sorts of rubbish. It taught me a valuable lesson. Everything reacts when it’s exposed to enough heat. I started to apply this theory to situations in life. I argued more with people, stared at them until they felt uncomfortable, shouted every once in a while to see what would happen. It was a strange time in my life.
The novelty of putting things in the microwave eventually wore off when someone complained about the smell of burning plastic coming from my flat. I guess they thought I was making bombs or something because they rang the police, whom swiftly turned up at my door. They shouted at me to get on the ground. I reacted. Currently I am serving a five year sentence for throwing molten plastic at a police officer. Prison is no fun.
Tuesday, 29 May 2012
Grey Lace by Emily Chadwick
“You can’t get married in grey lace!”
I paused in my perusal of the wedding dresses on the rack. “Whyever not?”
“It… well, it makes you seem like…” My mother lowered her voice, in case someone might hear. “Used goods.”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to the dresses. “Mum, no one’s a virgin on their wedding night anymore. It’s 2012.”
My mother uttered a little shriek and stared around as though the world was eavesdropping. Her dreams of a huge white wedding for me seemed to be crumbling around her ears.
Just to see her reaction, I pulled out a gothic dress hidden at the back of the rack, a huge black monstrosity shot with red ribbons.
“What about this?”
My mother fainted.
I paused in my perusal of the wedding dresses on the rack. “Whyever not?”
“It… well, it makes you seem like…” My mother lowered her voice, in case someone might hear. “Used goods.”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to the dresses. “Mum, no one’s a virgin on their wedding night anymore. It’s 2012.”
My mother uttered a little shriek and stared around as though the world was eavesdropping. Her dreams of a huge white wedding for me seemed to be crumbling around her ears.
Just to see her reaction, I pulled out a gothic dress hidden at the back of the rack, a huge black monstrosity shot with red ribbons.
“What about this?”
My mother fainted.
Grey Lace by Sam Smith
‘Great lakes?’
‘What?
‘You want me to wear great lakes?’
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘Oh. Did you tell me I had great legs?’
‘No, I didn’t say that either. But, that’s not to say that-’
‘How rude! I take great pride in my legs!’
‘I didn’t mean to offend you, it just wasn’t what I said!’
‘Fine. Did you tell me about a race? Someone called Ray is running a race?’
‘That’s not even near what I said.’
‘Fine. What did you say?’
‘I asked if you had got your hair done recently.’
‘Oh. I did go to the salon last week.’
‘It looks very nice.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You should probably get your hearing checked or something.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘What?
‘You want me to wear great lakes?’
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘Oh. Did you tell me I had great legs?’
‘No, I didn’t say that either. But, that’s not to say that-’
‘How rude! I take great pride in my legs!’
‘I didn’t mean to offend you, it just wasn’t what I said!’
‘Fine. Did you tell me about a race? Someone called Ray is running a race?’
‘That’s not even near what I said.’
‘Fine. What did you say?’
‘I asked if you had got your hair done recently.’
‘Oh. I did go to the salon last week.’
‘It looks very nice.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You should probably get your hearing checked or something.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
Grey Lace by Lesley Whyte
"I like the yellow one," six-year-old me said, pointing.
"No, no, no. The yellow one used to be white."
"So?"
"So it's no good."
"Why not?" I remember pouting. My grandmother pulled a similar expression, though she wasn't mocking me. We were picking out doilies, she had some ladies coming for tea that afternoon, and had spent the morning at the beautiful black piano in the drawing room. When my mother had dropped me off, my grandmother had looked me up and down with her lips pursed, judging me. Once she'd had me change into one of my mother's childhood dresses - it had ruffles, the less said the better - she'd plunked me down at the piano and instructed me to play.
I remember staring up at her, mouth agape. I didn't know what she wanted me to do. My life hadn't exactly featured a lot of pianos prior to that point, and she was livid. Her watery grey eyes bulged out of her head, but she sat down beside me on the bench and started to play, ordering me to watch closely. I couldn't take my eyes off her fingers as they flew across the ivory keys, the most wonderful sound I had ever heard seeming to pour out from under the grey lace cuffs of her dress.
I thought about nothing else all afternoon. The ladies, all of them ancient and wiry and as judgmental as my grandmother, thought me simple. I just stood there, slack-jawed, with no real sense of what was going on. When my mother returned for me, not coming up to the house but honking the car horn from the bottom of the drive, I was dismissed with a command uttered through those pursed lips.
I didn't see my grandmother for many years after that. She and my mother had fallen out about something years earlier, and the latter's refusal to explain what it was convinced me that it was my fault. I was about fifteen the next time I went to the house. It no longer seemed huge and majestic, it had lost its magic, but I couldn't believe the same would have happened to the piano. I let myself in using the key hidden inside the casing of the porch light and called out to my grandmother. No response. Unable to stop myself, I headed for the drawing room.
The smell hit me from several paces away. I frowned and pushed the door open fully. Someone was slumped at the piano. Someone who, judging by the stench, had been dead for quite some time. I couldn't go near her. I couldn't bear to look at the tainted piano, but I caught a glimpse of grey lace cuffs.
White lace turns yellow with age. Grey lace stays grey.
"No, no, no. The yellow one used to be white."
"So?"
"So it's no good."
"Why not?" I remember pouting. My grandmother pulled a similar expression, though she wasn't mocking me. We were picking out doilies, she had some ladies coming for tea that afternoon, and had spent the morning at the beautiful black piano in the drawing room. When my mother had dropped me off, my grandmother had looked me up and down with her lips pursed, judging me. Once she'd had me change into one of my mother's childhood dresses - it had ruffles, the less said the better - she'd plunked me down at the piano and instructed me to play.
I remember staring up at her, mouth agape. I didn't know what she wanted me to do. My life hadn't exactly featured a lot of pianos prior to that point, and she was livid. Her watery grey eyes bulged out of her head, but she sat down beside me on the bench and started to play, ordering me to watch closely. I couldn't take my eyes off her fingers as they flew across the ivory keys, the most wonderful sound I had ever heard seeming to pour out from under the grey lace cuffs of her dress.
I thought about nothing else all afternoon. The ladies, all of them ancient and wiry and as judgmental as my grandmother, thought me simple. I just stood there, slack-jawed, with no real sense of what was going on. When my mother returned for me, not coming up to the house but honking the car horn from the bottom of the drive, I was dismissed with a command uttered through those pursed lips.
I didn't see my grandmother for many years after that. She and my mother had fallen out about something years earlier, and the latter's refusal to explain what it was convinced me that it was my fault. I was about fifteen the next time I went to the house. It no longer seemed huge and majestic, it had lost its magic, but I couldn't believe the same would have happened to the piano. I let myself in using the key hidden inside the casing of the porch light and called out to my grandmother. No response. Unable to stop myself, I headed for the drawing room.
The smell hit me from several paces away. I frowned and pushed the door open fully. Someone was slumped at the piano. Someone who, judging by the stench, had been dead for quite some time. I couldn't go near her. I couldn't bear to look at the tainted piano, but I caught a glimpse of grey lace cuffs.
White lace turns yellow with age. Grey lace stays grey.
Monday, 28 May 2012
Moonlight Bay by Emily Chadwick
The sound of gunfire cracked across the bay.
Before the fighting had started, it had been a quiet evening. The water was unusually calm, waves lapping gently at the shore as they glistened in the moonlight. The sky was a clear, inky blue, and the stars were scattered like glitter over the dome of the heavens.
It was a still night, a perfect night.
And then the guns shattered the silence.
The gunfire was followed by screams, panicked, frightened screams that rose in number. Every so often, there was another burst of gunfire, and the screams spread.
Then the docks caught ablaze. Dark smoke filled the sky, blocking out the stars, and the light from the fires swelled hungrily.
It seemed as though the whole world was falling apart.
Before the fighting had started, it had been a quiet evening. The water was unusually calm, waves lapping gently at the shore as they glistened in the moonlight. The sky was a clear, inky blue, and the stars were scattered like glitter over the dome of the heavens.
It was a still night, a perfect night.
And then the guns shattered the silence.
The gunfire was followed by screams, panicked, frightened screams that rose in number. Every so often, there was another burst of gunfire, and the screams spread.
Then the docks caught ablaze. Dark smoke filled the sky, blocking out the stars, and the light from the fires swelled hungrily.
It seemed as though the whole world was falling apart.
Moonlight Bay by Sam Smith
Whenever I get scared or worried or anxious or depressed or tired or uncomfortable or ill or feel emotions that I do not want to feel at all, I remind myself of things that I enjoy but can’t have at the moment, as it reminds me that I am only human and sometimes humans will not always be happy and want things that we are not allowed to have all the time. Being reminded that I am human makes me feel better. Two days ago I was sat on a bus and it was a very hot day and the bus was very busy because it was late and everyone had finished work and was going home and suddenly there was a wasp on the bus and people started to panic because of the little bug, especially one woman who said loudly that she was allergic to wasps and it was very loud and I was anxious so I started to make a list again. Here is the list.
The colour blue. Televisions. Plug sockets that look like faces. Books on tape. The sound of static. Hypothetical situations. Dogs wearing hats. Spiderman. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. Long movies about journeys to unknown lands. Icing sugar. Evaporation. New socks. When I smoked a cigarette. A moonlight bay that I visited once in Spain as a child with my mother and my big brother who said that he was bored and wanted to go exploring but I liked sitting near the end of the bay looking out at the sky the sky the sky and the sea and not being able to see a difference between the colour of the sky and the sea because it was so dark that they were the exact same colour even thought I tried very hard to explain this to him. Equal numbers of pens. Wolves. Myself. BLOCK CAPITALS. Right angles. Leaves. Two and a Half Men. Religious imagery from the 17th century. When magazines have CDs stuck to the front cover. Dice.
An old man hit the wasp with a rolled up copy of The Times and everyone had calmed down.
The colour blue. Televisions. Plug sockets that look like faces. Books on tape. The sound of static. Hypothetical situations. Dogs wearing hats. Spiderman. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. Long movies about journeys to unknown lands. Icing sugar. Evaporation. New socks. When I smoked a cigarette. A moonlight bay that I visited once in Spain as a child with my mother and my big brother who said that he was bored and wanted to go exploring but I liked sitting near the end of the bay looking out at the sky the sky the sky and the sea and not being able to see a difference between the colour of the sky and the sea because it was so dark that they were the exact same colour even thought I tried very hard to explain this to him. Equal numbers of pens. Wolves. Myself. BLOCK CAPITALS. Right angles. Leaves. Two and a Half Men. Religious imagery from the 17th century. When magazines have CDs stuck to the front cover. Dice.
An old man hit the wasp with a rolled up copy of The Times and everyone had calmed down.
Moonlight Bay by Lesley Whyte
This whole trip was a mistake. I knew that now, though it didn't really help me. I'd realised about four minutes after the plane left the ground that I was setting myself up for three miserable weeks. When we landed, I didn't even leave the airport, I went and found the airline's desk and tried to change my return ticket for the next flight home. They were happy to help, as long as I was prepared to pay $3000 for the privilege. Bastards.
So I came to the hotel, which actually turned out to be a bunch of little villas. Perfectly designed for honeymooning couples. Less so for men who had just been abandoned at the altar and were looking for some time to process the fact. Every evening, I'd sit outside, it was too hot to sit in the villa, and look out over the ocean. The moonlight glittered on the lilac water. I sipped a beer and wondered why the water was such a peculiar colour. Must be a trick of the light. As usual, the still night air was filled with the sound of lovemaking from the other villas. Have you ever noticed that sex actually sounds quite unpleasant?
It was worse during the day, when you'd go to the hotel restaurant to eat and they'd clear away the second place setting at your table. When you'd go to one of the activities and find out that it was designed for couples. When you'd wander down to the beach and say an awkward hello to a couple from the hotel and realise you knew exactly what they sounded like when they were fucking. The whole place was designed for couples. And I hated it. In fact, there was only one benefit to the whole thing. My father-in-law, well, he was supposed to be my father-in-law, paid for the whole thing. And encouraged me to go on the trip after his bitch of a daughter ditched me. Yeah, that was the only good thing about it.
That and all the drinks were included. That was pretty cool, too.
So I came to the hotel, which actually turned out to be a bunch of little villas. Perfectly designed for honeymooning couples. Less so for men who had just been abandoned at the altar and were looking for some time to process the fact. Every evening, I'd sit outside, it was too hot to sit in the villa, and look out over the ocean. The moonlight glittered on the lilac water. I sipped a beer and wondered why the water was such a peculiar colour. Must be a trick of the light. As usual, the still night air was filled with the sound of lovemaking from the other villas. Have you ever noticed that sex actually sounds quite unpleasant?
It was worse during the day, when you'd go to the hotel restaurant to eat and they'd clear away the second place setting at your table. When you'd go to one of the activities and find out that it was designed for couples. When you'd wander down to the beach and say an awkward hello to a couple from the hotel and realise you knew exactly what they sounded like when they were fucking. The whole place was designed for couples. And I hated it. In fact, there was only one benefit to the whole thing. My father-in-law, well, he was supposed to be my father-in-law, paid for the whole thing. And encouraged me to go on the trip after his bitch of a daughter ditched me. Yeah, that was the only good thing about it.
That and all the drinks were included. That was pretty cool, too.
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