How hard can it be?
Throughout my working life I’ve had emails addressed to: Clare, Clair, Clara, Cara, Kate, Louise, Catherine, Carol, Cleo, Caroline and Derek.
Canal
A lunchtime walk down by the canal, which lies flat and still as glass. There is no one around and for one tiny second I consider taking off into the water. The afternoon shivering as I’m swallowed up.
Lists
I’ve been keeping a list on my phone of business ideas, should I chance upon an adventurous millionaire. So far it reads:
1. Black milk (for goths?)
Local library
The standard-issue public-library smell — musty pages, instant coffee — still holds the promise of knowledge and new worlds, so I can’t be all that jaded yet. Besides me, there are three other users: a Rastafarian man poring over the bookies’ betting odds, a woman in a burka, shoulders shaking as she watches something on one of the computers, and a huge bearded white guy wearing long shorts, cruising the shelves with plastic bags bunched hemorrhoidally from both fists.
While waiting for my ancient laptop to load, I pick out a title from the shelf next to me called Surviving in the 21st Century, a compendium of disorders and syndromes, which range alphabetically from ADHD to schizophrenia, via depression, Internet addiction, IBS and perfectionism. I open it and read from the chapter on hoarding:
Early signs include a tendency to group things into piles, with the intention of coming back to them later. These can often be a manifestation of emotional blockages: sadness, defeat, confusion or sometimes even ambition or hope. The Hoarder often struggles to distinguish between what is important or useful and what is not.
My computer’s labored whimpering has given way to a grinding gurgle, which means it’s ready to use, so I slap the book shut and slot it back on the shelf.
Communication breakdown
“Darren, it’s Clive,” the librarian is saying into the phone. “I wanted to check if Michelle knew whether Jeff Jones had left his new mobile number with Angus? We’ve lost a digit, so we’re a bit stuffed.”
Four a.m
The evening’s wine has left my bladder full, my mouth dry, a thump in my temples. There is a pain, like something turning, in what might be my liver — possibly it’s paranoia, or it could be my appendix. My heart is going a little too fast, and I am suddenly beyond certain that I have carbon-monoxide poisoning. My father was right: we should have bought a detector. I didn’t listen all these years, and now it’s too late.
This week — if I survive the night — will be different. No wine, except maybe a glass, or two, absolute tops, at the weekend. Cut back on the coffee. Start taking some care, I think, gripping the covers. Really, properly start looking for a job. Get past this thing with my mother once and for all.
I turn onto my side and make out Luke’s dark shape beside me. I love him, and one day he’ll be dead. He starts to snore.
“Stop. Snoring,” I say firmly, and he does, without waking.
Tube
A family of Orthodox Jews gets on: improbably young parents with seven — seven! — children. In the dingy, yellow-lit crush their clothes are a fabulous anachronism amid all the hoodies and jeans. In the middle of the carriage, the father stands, hands clasped behind his back, keeping himself upright with core strength alone, while beneath the wide felt brim of his hat his ringlets bounce and drift. His wife, boosting a child on her hip, in glossy wig, thick tights, dark skirt, white shirt, makes me almost nostalgic for school uniform: the tribal day-in-day-out safety of it. When after a few stops the family file off, the space left behind is quickly absorbed; but their presence lingers, like incense.
News
“Which bits of this do you want?” Luke asks of the paper.
“Crossword,” I say, pen already poised.
“Never any interest in the main section. Don’t you want to know what’s going on in the world?” He holds up the front page, which looks full of blood and flames.
“I know what’s going on: terrorist threats, terrorist attacks, shootings, food shortages, drought, floods, women being raped and killed. No, thank you.” I shake my head. “Don’t you know the expression? No news is good news.”
“Not what that means.”
“And yet true,” I say.
Liquid meal
Ever since someone told me milk is technically a food, I’ve all but abandoned my latte habit.
No change
The doorbell sounds while I’m still in my pajamas; retiree-style, I peer out of the window to see if I need to answer it. There are two children standing there, floppy-haired boys, maybe eleven years old.
“Yes?” I say when I open the door.
“I was hoping to speak with your mum if she’s in?” says the freckle-faced redhead, with such supreme confidence I wonder for a second how he knows my mother.
“She doesn’t live here.”
“Oh,” he says. “Then may I speak with the person in charge?”
“That would be me. How can I help you?” I fold my arms and lean against the doorframe. “Young man,” I add, fooling no one.
“We’re raising money for charity. I’m doing sponsored stand-up, and Liam’s doing a sponsored swim.” He’s well spoken, a nice-seeming kid, but I wouldn’t have pegged him for funny.
“Good for you,” I say. “Tell me a joke.”
He shakes his head firmly. “I’m still working on my material.”
Liam is hanging off the railings, suspended forward like a diver ready to jump.
“And how far are you swimming?” I call over to him.
He shrugs.
“So will you sponsor us, then?” the redhead asks. “It’s for a good cause.” From his pocket he hands me a wad of slightly damp, grubby paper.
I unfold it. Tom and Liam are raising money for the Humane Society is written across the top. There’s quite a good sketch of a dog in one corner. Underneath are a series of names, and to my mind, staggeringly generous donations: someone named Pippa Jackson has promised thirty pounds; the de Courcy-Pitt family fifty pounds. In my day, fifty pence was considered generous.
“You know, I don’t generally give money to animal charities,” I say. “I’d rather the money went to scientific research—”
“Animal testing?” interrupts Liam, disgusted.
“You didn’t let me finish. Scientific research into cancer and other illnesses.”
“My dog had cancer,” says Liam. “That’s him in the picture.”
“Human illnesses,” I say.
“Are you sick?” asks the redhead, who must be Tom.
“No. Why?” I say, slightly alarmed that he’s sensed something, in that eerie way children in films have of seeing right to the quick of things.
“Pajamas,” he says, pointing, and fair enough — it’s four in the afternoon. “Are you not going to sponsor us, then?” he demands. Liam, meanwhile, has hopped off the railing ledge, preparing to move on to more munificent households.