114. You Got The Love

Photo by Krista Bagnell

“Mummy’s going to pick you up from nursery today,” said Violet, as she smoothed down her niece’s hair. Gently cupping the child’s face, she turned it upwards towards her own, and smiled. “Ooh. how I want to eat these little cheeks!” she said. The girl squealed with delight, as her face was showered with “mwah, mwah, mwahs and nom, nom, noms”.

The moment the front door closed, Rosemary burst into tears. Her sister, Violet was leaving today, so she couldn’t put it off any longer. She clapped her hands together, then raised her clasped hands to her mouth, pausing as if in contemplation or prayer. Breathing in deeply, she sighed then walked over to look out of the window. She could see her daughter skipping down the street hand-in-hand with her Aunt. They stopped as the girl pointed to a rainbow in the sky. It’s true what people said. Children were so resilient and a great comfort at times like these. Rosemary pressed play for the company of the radio, then began to busy herself.

It took over four hours to shower, dress, change the master bed, and put on two loads of washing.

Picking out the remaining flowers from several wilting bunches, she created smaller posies that fitted perfectly into two children’s drinking glasses. One for each bedside. She took a picture of one of these floral arrangements, with a slightly blurred family photograph deliberately in view behind. Then she posted it to all of her social media accounts and added the caption “Taking it one day at a time.” There was no way she could reply to all of the well-wishers and notifications right now, but if people saw this picture, at least they’d know she was doing ok.

Rosemary poured the cloudy water from the vases down the kitchen sink, picked out the slimy leaf debris from the plughole and looked at the grubby kitchen sponge. It needed to be thrown away but it was something he’d touched. Was it too soon to get rid of his toothbrush? Then she remembered she’d just washed some of his clothes. She went back into the bathroom and picked up his deodorant, shaving cream, razor, moisturiser and toothbrush and put them in his underwear drawer. There was still so much to do.

At around two o’clock, Rosemary decided to go to the Convenience Store down the road to get something easy and nice for tea. Pizza and ice-cream. Her sister had been so good to stay with them, but she had to go to work tomorrow and life had to get back into some sort of routine. The thought of speaking to her own colleagues made her clutch her stomach. ‘Not fit for work’ was written in spidery Dr handwriting on the sick note, so why did her boss keep ringing her on the pretence of checking whether she was ok, as a cover to ask her work questions? She’d had enough of people saying “how are you coping” and the endless platitudes of “let me know if there’s anything I can do,” without anyone actually offering something tangible that might make her life easier. Like the ironing or cooking a meal. This tired and angry person she was right now would be unprofessional at work, but it was too soon to fake it until she made it. No, a few more weeks away from people was what she needed. She had to face the parents and staff at nursery today. That was enough for now.

Living inside her own head, Rosemary had forgotten just how loud and busy this street was. Double glazing really does dampen down the noise. Hopefully, she wouldn’t see anyone she knew at this time of day. She approached the Convenience Store at the same time as a woman wearing a yellow jacket, who seemed to be in a hurry. “After you,” Rosemary said, then stepped back. The other woman nodded a thanks and walked through the sliding doors. Just then, Rosemary noticed a tiny white feather floating from the sky, right in front of her face.

photo-1577476934895-b53cc31134d4

Photo by Steven Lasry on Unsplash

A few minutes earlier, Patricia (the woman in the yellow coat) was leaving an almost-identical block of flats on the other side of the same street. She too was preoccupied with troubles of her own. Her phone buzzed and there was a brief flicker of hope that this call was from her boyfriend – her ex-boyfriend – but it was her mother. She double-pressed the button at the side of her phone and lowered her arm. Stepping down onto the pavement, a man on a bicycle whizzed past, missing her by millimetres. She shouted “Oy you! Watch where you’re going!” Further along the pavement, the same cyclist grabbed a phone from a woman’s hand then rode away. Patricia stared as the woman tried to run after him, then she faltered when she realised it was futile.

Patricia turned to hear a woman swearing at a man who was trying to stifle a laugh. Apparently a bird had pooped down the back of the collar of the woman’s blouse, between the fabric and her skin. “I can feel it sliding down my back!” That poor woman was stood in the exact spot where Patricia would have been if she’d not spent the last ten seconds watching a brazen daylight robbery. Reaching into her pocket she felt for a couple of coffee shop napkins and handed them to the couple, saying “there you go. Sorry. It’s not much.”

She briefly considered joining the group of people who were hurriedly crossing the road but thought better of it as the green man was flashing. What did her dad used to say? “First in this queue instead of last in that.” She pressed the button and waited for the cars to pass and the green man to appear again. Just as she put a foot forward into the road, a man grabbed her and pulled her backwards away from the kerb, out of the path of a speeding van that had jumped the lights.

A homeless man sat on the ground a few meters away from the shop doorway. “Spare any change please, Miss?” he asked hopefully. “Sorry, mate, no,” she said, then changed her mind and fumbled around in her bag. She brought out half a packet of cigarettes and offered them to him. “You can have these. I’ve given up.”

“Thank you Miss. Good luck to you, Miss,” he replied. Here was a man with nothing, who was kinder to her than her own boyfriend – her ex-boyfriend. Strangers cared more about her than her ex boyfriend did. Her arm suddenly prickled with goosebumps as if someone had lightly stroked it, but there was no-one there. It was exactly like the secret pang of joy when you think of a new lover. Her eye caught sight of a white feather slowly zig-zagging down, then it gently settled on her right shoulder.

Hurrying into the Convenience Store, Patricia asked for a lottery ticket but changed her mind at the last moment and spent the money on a scratchcard. In a nearby coffee shop toilet, she rubbed off the silver coating on the instant win ticket with a 2p coin.  One four-leaf clover emerged. Two. Three. Four.

No way! She’d only won ten thousand pounds!

She put her hand out onto the wall to steady herself as she felt her knees buckle. Brushing the bits of silver, then blowing them away, she checked the card again. She tried to read the back of the card for details of how to claim, but it was difficult because of the low-level lighting in there, designed to discourage drug-taking.

The woman in the post office seemed genuinely pleased for her and wished her well. Patricia noticed that the woman’s hand was shaking as she slid the cheque through the little window slot. In the bank, she was taken into a side room, which made Patricia feel special, until she realised it was a sales talk about investments and upgrading her account. She made her excuses and left. Next was coffee – although what she really wanted was a proper drink to steady her nerves. Caffeine wasn’t going to help her racing heart. Her apologies for using the loo without buying anything weren’t necessary, as the barista claimed not have noticed her earlier. While she sipped her perfect coffee, Patricia made an appointment to view a flat the next morning, and booked a hotel room for two nights. She needed time to think. This was a second chance so she literally couldn’t blow it.

A few days later, the local paper ran a story about a young widow who’d scooped the double rollover lottery jackpot. “I’ve always felt that I had a guardian angel watching over me. My husband said he’d always look after us. When I saw that white feather, I knew it was a sign from him. We might have lost him but he’s still with us in spirit and in our hearts. I feel so blessed.”

Meanwhile, the occupants of one of the flats above the branch of Tesco that sold the winning tickets, were still finding tiny feathers from a split pillow. Duck down was so light and impossible to catch, clogging up the vacuum cleaner. Even opening a door in the flat was enough to puff up the delicate feathers into the air where they would drift out of the window into the street below.

photo-1573655695613-004614d4366b

Photo by Evie S. on Unsplash

97. Mid-Season Finale

pexels-photo-545058

At 12.01 precisely, I enter the staff room, hoping it will be empty. Referred to officially as the ‘Staff Lounge’, it implies it is a comfortable area where one could relax, which is far from the truth. More of a dumping ground for archive boxes, the ancient celebrity gossip magazines give any Drs waiting room a run for their money. Thank you cards from ex-colleagues who left years ago are still on the noticeboard, as well as a flyer for a theatre production from Halloween 2015. This room appears to get cleaned about once a year, but although it is grotty, at least we have somewhere to go.

I’m not an al-desko person because it doesn’t feel like I’ve had a break. My colleagues  will interrupt me, (breaks are unpaid) even though I’m clearly not working if I’m looking at clothes online or reading a book. That’s the culture there, so I always try to get away from my desk whenever I can. If I don’t, I know I’ll be climbing the walls or exhausted by 3pm, finding any excuse to go outside for a breath of fresh air, aka a cigarette.

So yes, an early lunch, before the crowd. If I can establish that I’m busy with my book, maybe no-one will disturb me. Annoyingly, I’m not the first one in here. Still, I’m hoping for a polite nod, an understanding. We’ve worked in the same building for fifteen years, so by now there should be no such thing as an awkward silence between us. Our reading materials, indicate (to me, anyway) that we would like to be left alone. She’s got a pile of holiday brochures, I’ve got the new Robert Galbraith, so I might be in luck.

It’s Tuesday, so I already know her sandwich will be ham, and that she will also be on her second packet of cheese and onion crisps of the day. A creature of habit. Monday is cheese. Tuesday is ham. Wednesday is cheese. Thursday is ham again. Friday is slim pickings because she goes to the supermarket straight from work, so she’s probably got dairylea or tuna mayo on white bread. Always white, plastic bread.

I say “Hi.” and sit diagonally across the long table from her. Far enough away for my personal space, but close enough to not be rude about wanting some room to myself.

Lunchbox out. Swig of pop. Not too much at once, even though I’m really thirsty. It’s fizzy and spicy so if the bubbles go up my nose, or I need to burp, it will draw unwanted attention to me. Hand sanitiser, napkin, fork, book.

The obligatory, usual fiddle with the phone. Press the screen a few times, double tap, swipe, double tap, quick index finger thumb combo tapping, chuckle to myself, swipe, swipe, double tap. Phone down. I really need to do something about my stiff fingers. I’m losing out more and more in this game of muscle memory vs arthritis.

There’s about ten pages left to go, which is always the crucial point of resolution in any detective story, so I crack the spine and put my train ticket bookmark on the table. It occurs to me that there’s a definitely a market for spiral bound books, and also why tablets could be so popular with older people for reading. They lie flat, so no aches from trying to hold the pages open, and you can change the size of the font.

Barely five sentences in and my colleague speaks.

“Have you ever been to Egypt?” she asks.

“No. Not really my thing. Too hot. My ankles swell up in the heat.” I reply.

“It’s just that we’re thinking of going there this year. It’s a bit different, isn’t it? The all-inclusive prices look good.”

“Mmmm.”

A beat of silence.

“Ooh, that looks nice. What have you got?”

I hold up my sandwich to show her, chew more quickly than I’d like to, swallow, clear my throat with an ahem, then say,

“Tuna and horseradish mayo with baby gem lettuce and a little tub of radish, celery, apple and cucumber salad. Rice pudding and a can of ginger beer.”

Then I take another bite of my overstuffed, slightly soggy but still crunchy sandwich. My sinuses will thank me today. More nose-tingling deliciousness.

“I had wafer thin ham salad. No horseradish though. That’s like mustard isn’t it? I don’t think I’d like horseradish. Don’t you have it with roast beef? I don’t like hot food. Gives me heartburn. I only like roast beef when it’s well done. I hate meat that’s not cooked.”

She didn’t pause between statements long enough for me to respond. I’m guessing she was just thinking aloud and wasn’t really expecting me to reply, so I hope she interprets my pause as the end of the conversation. Alas, it is not to be.

“Are you going on holiday this year?” She asks.

“Mmm.” I chew slowly, deliberately. Take another sip from my can and wipe my mouth on my napkin. I pretend thump and pat my chest, as a gesture that I’m waiting for my food to go down. Then, I sigh and slip the train ticket back in between the pages. The unveiling of the baddie can wait. I decide to give in and fully engage. That’s what mindfulness says to do. I don’t really have any choice, but I know she means well.

“Vegas” I say.

“You a bit of a gambler then?”

“No, we go for the food.”

“What? You go to Las Vegas for the food? Really? “Her brow furrows and she looks right at me, mouth slightly open. I think she’s trying to decide whether she believes me. “I’ve never heard of anyone going on holiday for the food before. Each to their own I suppose. Mind you my brother went to Las Vegas on a stag do, and he said that drinks were free and that everything was massive, so he went for a buffet every day. He had lobster and steak and everything. Have you been to a buffet there?”

“Nah. We thought about it, but the queue to the place we wanted to go to was too big. The food really is amazing there. I love going out for dinner to a different restaurant every night. There are some really good ones, you know, proper Michelin Starred restaurants just a taxi ride or walk from the hotel.”

“Oh yeah, I remember now when you said that you had to book a year in advance to go to that posh pub run by that big bloke off the telly.” She holds out the blue packet towards me. “Crisp?”

“No thanks. God, I love crisps you know. Every year for New Year, I have a resolution and try to ban myself from eating them because I’m so greedy. I can’t just have a few. I can eat a whole family pack in one day. I don’t even like knowing they’re in the house. I’ve got no willpower. Have you had those sweet chilli ones?”

“Yeah, they’re nice they are. That’s about the right amount of spicy for me.”

I can predict the next question and I was right. It’s always the next question. Guaranteed. I’d put money on it.

What’s the best restaurant you’ve ever been to?”

“Well, there was this one in Denmark. It’s closed down now, but it was voted best in the world once, and so to get a table you had to be online at exactly a certain time and date to book three months ahead. It used to sell out in minutes.”

I take another bite of my sandwich and take the plastic lid off my salad.

“I can’t believe you booked a restaurant before you booked your holiday. That’s crazy. Sorry! I didn’t mean you’re crazy. I meant that’s … er… dedication. Why was it so good?”

I pretend to think whilst I’m chewing, but really I just want to eat my lunch. I’ve said a version of this schpiel a few times before.

“I know what you mean. You’re not the first person to think it’s a bit weird actually. That restaurant in Copenhagen, well, I’ve thought about it, and, for me, it was the endless combinations of flavours and textures. Even though some of the ingredients separately seemed a bit strange, they all went together so well. I think the restaurant had loads of chefs from all over the world all working on their own unique little obsessive projects, so when the individual courses were put together the results were just amazing. Not like anything else I’ve ever had before. Rene sparked a whole new style of cooking. Nordic cuisine is really popular now, but it was confined to that part of Europe before. A lot of the food was wild or foraged or local to the area. So it was basically the same as your ancestors would have eaten but not exactly to that same recipe. So the chefs in this restaurant wouldn’t use lemon, for example because lemons don’t grow in Denmark.”

“What do they use instead?”

“You’re not going to believe me.”

“Go on.”

“Ants.”

“Ants? Like the insects?”

“Exactly like the insects.”

She puts her hand up to cover her mouth. I don’t think she quite believes what I’ve just said.

“No way. For real? Are they still alive?”

“Not usually. Ant paste tastes just like sharp citrus.”

“I’d never eat ants.” She shudders. “I feel all creepy now.”

I’m actually starting to enjoy this conversation.

“I thought that too, but then I’d gone all that way to the best restaurant in the world, so I thought I might as well try them.” I said

“Is all the food weird in Denmark? I thought it was all fish and pickles.”

“Well, I did eat bulls testicles and cod’s cheek at another restaurant there. It was one of those nose-to-tail places, where you pay a fixed amount for whatever chef cooks you. Everyone at each table gets something slightly different. They don’t waste anything”

“Testicles? Balls? You’re joking?”

“No. Seriously. I really didn’t want to try them, but they looked like chicken nuggets and I dared myself. I think we were into our second bottle of wine by then anyway. I couldn’t eat the fish eye though.”

She makes a fake vomit gesture.

I smile and stab my fork into my salad.

“Why would your eat bulls balls?” She’s baffled and a little disgusted.

“In some of those fine dining, white tablecloth places, where it’s like ten courses, you get served each course by the chef who cooked it. They bring it to your table, and explain all about it. Some of the chefs are so modest and sweet. All they think about is food twenty-four-seven. There must be dozens of incredible chefs in Copenhagen. I think they’re made to interact with customers though, because there are so many questions and compliments. Some of those chefs are definitely going places.  Like gonna be famous. Some of them are really anxious and worried whether you’ll like it. There was this one time, where he brought out a huge baked onion and cut it and served it right in front of us. There was no way that it could fail.”

“What, just like a massive onion?”

“Yeah, there was this beautiful, delicate broth with it. I’ll never forget it. In some restaurants, they treat the meal like it’s theatre, and there are amusing little jokes and gadgets from the chefs. Oh yeah, like, get this, you’ve definitely had pate as a starter before, right?”

“I haven’t because I don’t really like it, but yes, go on.”

“Well, in this one restaurant we went to, the pate was disguised to look like a little tangerine. This other time, the chef had made some little tiny balls of pops of flavour that looked like caviar. Another time at this Spanish restaurant, one course was tomato consomme poured from a teapot into little teacups. The waiter told us that there was a Spanish word for tomato that also meant ‘absent’ so the lack of colour in the consomme was a play on words”

“You’re braver than me. I bet you like all that sushi stuff too.”

“Now you’re talking. I love sushi, but it’s all about the rice really, not the fish.”

“What do you mean? The rice? How hard can it be to steam some rice? I don’t know how you can eat raw fish on purpose.”

I hope she’s enjoying these tales more than she’s letting on.

“Oh I really love it. Do you know it takes years to become a sushi master and for the first few years of training, you’re on cleaning up duties? If you prove yourself, then they might let you prepare the rice?”

I stab my fork into my salad and realise that I’m basically eating sushi but in a different format. Deconstructed sushi.

“I never know that. Really? Do you like raw fish then?”

“Sashimi? Yes, there’s some I don’t like much. Like we always trade – his mackerel for my tuna belly, but my favourite food is oysters. If they’re on the menu then I always order them. I can’t get enough. I went on an oyster shucking class once in this restaurant in London. They basically give you unlimited champagne and teach you how to open oysters. It was a great way to spend a couple of hours on a Saturday morning. The more we opened, the more we got to eat. It was brilliant. Dangerous though, with that little knife. You really have to go for it when you jam it into the side if the hinge of the shell. I’d love to go again. The Italian bloke who showed us how to open them was the champion of some contest in Galway. I forget which. He could do it really quickly. I forget how many he said he could shuck in an hour. I think I had about 20 of three different kinds. I’ve got a little oyster diary notebook to write down how each one tastes, you know, plumpness, size, rock, native, farmed, so I can learn which ones I like best.”

“Urgh. I don’t know how you can eat them. They look like snot.”

I ignore that comment. Everyone who never dares to eat shellfish always says that. Those who love oysters can’t quite put their finger on why they taste so good.

“I tell you what. One thing I have noticed over the years is how the cheap food that our grandparents would have eaten, has now become upmarket restaurant food. You know like oysters, rabbit, game. And food that used to be really expensive has now become everyday. Like chicken or ice-cream.”

“I get it now. I can see why you go on holiday for the food, like you say. If it’s your hobby and all. Bet you don’t eat Maccy Ds then?” She says.

“Course I do. I like a quarter pounder with cheese or a whopper or a KFC bucket as much as everyone else does. I pretty much love all food. I’m a bit of a snob about my fruit though. It’s gotta be ripe. I’d rather wait all year for two weeks of decent juicy peaches than have hard, sour ones.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

Her phone beeps and she plays with it for a minute. I finish my salad.

“So what’s the food like in Egypt then?” I ask.

I hold up my little pot of the childhood favourite rice pudding, to try to show her that I’m just like everyone else.

“Well, normal really. Like canteen or buffets. You know, fried breakfasts, pancakes. Soup, salads, pizzas, burgers, curry, roast dinners. What you get here really. They do have some Egyptian food like those sausages, so you can try them if you want to. It’s just great to be able to have an ice cream or a beer whoever you want and not have to worry about paying for it.”

“Tell me about it. I drink so much when I’m on holiday. At lunchtime I’ll have a glass of wine or a gin and tonic and then we’ll have a cocktail in the afternoon and then a bottle of wine at dinner. I dread to think how many units it is. Ice-cream every day. Pudding after every meal.”

“Yeah, but that’s why you go on holiday. To chillax. Everyone loses half a stone for their holidays and then puts it back on again while they’re there. And it’s not like you’re driving like you would be if you went to Florida.”

“Oh I’d love to go to Florida.” I say, wistfully. “I really want to go to Harry Potter world and I bet the aquarium is awesome. I’ve seen some pictures. it looks amazing.”

“Do you take photographs of your food for Instagram then?”

“I have done, but only to show people I know. I think it’s a bit rude to photograph everything you eat, especially if the restaurant is a bit posh. Like you’re trying to have a lovely birthday meal, that isn’t cheap, and someone is taking a photo every five minutes. A lot of those amateur bloggers are wankers in my opinion, and they don’t even know what they’re talking about. I read this one review about that wine bar in town and she kept saying how much she despised all red wines but loved rose, and never once said what the grape varieties were. She had no clue how rose is even made! They’re just chancers, playing at it for their “brand” and not doing it for the right reasons. I can’t see how someone can be impartial if the meal they’re reviewing is paid for by the restaurant.”

“I never even thought about that before.” She says.

“An don’t get me started about those who hashtag foodporn everything when it’s a flipping readymeal or a cake from the shop. I mean, how big must your ego be to call yourself an influencer? Isn’t that what other people call you, after the fact?”

I put my hands up and say “I’m gonna shut up now. You know what I’m like when I start ranting”

She does know me well enough to smile sympathetically and says “Good idea.”

“So.” I say after a few seconds. “Are you into Egyptian history then?”

Nah, not really. We thought it looked good value and people we know said it was lovely. The kids do love a pool. Guaranteed sun for a bonus. If we take them out of school, it’ll be cheaper and we won’t get fined because Egypt is educational. That’s what the headmaster agreed last year.”

“Sounds like a plan. Can’t fault you.” I say.

89. Sunset

I’ve had chance to think about it and it wasn’t the infidelity that upset me more. I am from an bohemian family after all. It was the secrecy and deceit. The lying. No one can ever know. There was absolutely no need for it. I think I handled it quite well really.

“That’s a nice mug.” Alison had said, as I carefully washed my cup in the sink. “I saw one of those in that craft shop in The Lanes. Don’t you work there on weekends?” The way she had said it sounded weird, like this was her best shot from 100 Instagram rehearsals. We both knew where she’d seen a mug like this one before because there was only one other of them in existence.

I instantly felt as if I’d been injected with some drug that made my body speed up but my mind slow down at the same time, like something in ‘The Matrix.’ My soupy fog brain felt completely separate and was lagging behind the electric energy racing through my body. I was upside-down. Not wanting to unravel in front of this person who had so calmly attempted to manipulate a reaction, I carefully unpicked what I knew to be true.

Monday night was Michael’s gig. A few people went from the office, including Alison. I could only stay for a quick drink, to say hello, show support. He never needed me when he was surrounded by his people.

Was this her way of letting me know that she didn’t actually “miss the last bus home so stayed on a friend’s sofa?”

Just how do adults navigate relationships in the real world? I barely knew. My experiences with men had been so unsatisfactory. I have no idea how I managed to get through the rest of the afternoon. I suppose, once you’ve decided, or rather, the decision has been made for you, the hard work is done.

When I said I needed to see him after work, he didn’t make an excuse. My patience had worn thin. I had already decided that if he was going to try to continue to ignore and avoid me, then I would just let him. I too would pretend he no longer existed. But, there would never be a good time for “the talk” so we might as well do the decent thing and get it over and done with. Although he refused to come clean and admit it, he knew that I knew what he’d done. Yeah he might very well have had “a hangover from hell” but that shouldn’t stop someone from sending a text to their girlfriend for almost a day after their gig, so was this behaviour sulky revenge? I had believed him when he said he was watching the Tour de France, the World Cup, Wimbledon, having a band practice or whatever it was, every night this week.

No. I knew I was being gently and politely pushed away in favour of the shiny new toy, but of course, he was far too cowardly to do it himself. I had to be the one who officially ended it, although he actually finished us on Monday night. He just never told me. Even someone else had to do that for him.

There wasn’t enough time to do the things I wanted to do, let alone waste it on stuff I didn’t. I’d barely sipped my coke and was playing with one of the few plastic bendy straws still in existence, when the conversation was over.

I had no idea how to break up with someone, because I’d never done it before, so I just said “This isn’t fun for me any more and it’s not really working out, so I think we should call it quits.” It was the second time in a week that I’d left him with a full pint but I didn’t care. He might play guitar hero in a local band but he was nothing to me. The pub was slowly filling up with the Friday night after-work crowd, so it would appear like he was just waiting for someone and they were running late. He looked genuinely shocked when I stood up, shook his hand, and said “There we are then. Good luck mate” then left.

My parents consoled and spoiled me all weekend. My father reminded me that “as an emerging artist” I should “use this experience as an opportunity to not resist what I’m feeling and to channel those emotions into my work”, and “that if we just stayed in our studios, where would we get our inspiration from?” He was right though. I had 72 bowls and mugs to glaze and fire this weekend, and I was already bursting with new ideas for the next batch.

A massive binge of ‘The XX’, ‘The Twilight Sad’ and ‘Arab Strap’ got me through the night, along with a whole family bag of Doritos, a jar of hot salsa, almost a whole sharing pack of Maltesers, and a bottle of Pinot Noir all to myself. I wallowed and grieved for what could have been until I realised I felt relief for getting out at the beginning of something before it got messy. My new sketches slowly got sloppier that night. By 2am Saturday morning , I was jumping up and down, swinging my arms, hair flailing, punching the air, cheerfully singing “I don’t want to be around you any more. I can’t stand to be around you any more.” Music therapy indeed. I still felt humiliated, but without shame.

On Monday, I went out for coffee with June, the receptionist from the office, purely, so by the end of the week, everyone would pretty much know I was single again, and why. It was a good deal. June got a juicy story straight from the horse’s mouth, and, with my blessing, everyone got to know some true office gossip. I got sympathy. Alison got, well, whatever.

I just kept my head down, and stayed busy, planning the window display and imagining how I’d feel if/when someone bought something I’d made. After my craft stall I was taking the rest of the stock to the shop on Sunday. Things I’d made! In an actual shop! Not my online etsy shop. A proper shop with a bell on the door. A till and real people browsing. If they sold well, then who knew what would happen?

I brought half a dozen pieces into work the next day and left them on the reception desk with a few flyers, business cards and a bowl of Werther’s Originals to encourage people to get closer. June, told me later that they’d caused quite a talking point, and that Alison had taken a special interest, probably to try to talk to her, the resident sage. June then told me that she’d said to Alison, that yes they were “beautifully made, so quite expensive, but that I would probably have some seconds on my stall if she was interested.” I nearly spat out my coffee with glee when she told me that she’d said, “Seconds are cheaper because they are imperfect.” The icing on the cake was that she advised Alison to get tested for an STD because I was going to.  “These things happen” when you get together drunk with a cheater who thinks he’s a rock star.

That disgusting, greasy kitchen in his shared house. Bicycles and amps in the hallway. Piles of post for previous residents. Pizza boxes and PS4. Record covers used as skinning-up boards. Torn rizla packets and magazines about guitars. Tacit agreements to never mention the (less often than they’d like) sight of a strange girl wandering round the kitchen at 4am in her knickers and a sweaty band t-shirt. Mismatched charity shop hand-me-down plates, chipped mugs with their fading logos. Those cloned vessels reminding the user of one-off, unmemorable events. Temporary items of no value with the expectation of being discarded after use. I only brought one of my own porcelain mugs round so I’d have something decent to drink out of. Well, he can keep it. I don’t want it back.