Among all the things that made up my flat and peaceful north country life, there’s almost nothing I regret leaving. However, things happen at double the speed, here in London, and sometimes it’s just so difficult to keep up with everything. I, myself, feel as if I could collapse at any moment now; and I have always been so good at endurance tests.
My flatmate and I could write a whole novel about all the crazy and dodgy people we shared houses with, and still the past two months can't be described as other than reality overcoming fantasy.
Now that things look almost on the right track, I can unveil the mystery: the Problem I mentioned in my last post was a person: a tacky orange-haired drama student, double-faced as a rattlesnake and dirty as fuck…ok, ok, no more spite, I promise. But here’s some advice, if you are keen on taking it: should you ever meet someone who fits the description, just stay away.
On Saturday she vacated her room and ran away in a rush, stealing our modem in a pathetic attempt of a last laugh. Well, honey, hope you enjoyed it: it was a nice try, but see, we’re all still here.
That during the very next half hour we were utterly and literally upset, it’s a fact that I won’t deny. But how come, then, that hardly one hour later we were already sitting in the kitchen, laughing out loud while we were restoring the civil appearance it had lacked for so long and pulling jokes about the amount of junk food she left behind? (yes, if you ask, we have also eaten tons of pizza and drank white wine. But that came later…)
Memory, you’re a bitch as few others. But let me grant you some credit, here: as if it hadn’t been for your power of erasing bad sensations and keeping the good ones, I would have shot myself not too long after discovering that the whore left us without the modem that’s in my name.
That during the very next half hour we were utterly and literally upset, it’s a fact that I won’t deny. But how come, then, that hardly one hour later we were already sitting in the kitchen, laughing out loud while we were restoring the civil appearance it had lacked for so long and pulling jokes about the amount of junk food she left behind? (yes, if you ask, we have also eaten tons of pizza and drank white wine. But that came later…)
Memory, you’re a bitch as few others. But let me grant you some credit, here: as if it hadn’t been for your power of erasing bad sensations and keeping the good ones, I would have shot myself not too long after discovering that the whore left us without the modem that’s in my name.
So here I am, now: enjoying a moment of pure peace, looking at the sunny day that’s shining outside my window, inviting me to a liberating stroll. Mrs. Guilty Conscience warns me, and the dialogue is quite surreal:- Come on, girl, you really shouldn’t, how about your studies then?
- Come on, Mrs. C., it's Sunday.I dare you to find an open library now, and as you probably know I can’t work from home…
- Huh, so what’s your plan? Dressing up and going shopping in town? With a presentation due in two weeks, that you haven’t even started yet?
- Exactly, I’ll treat myself to a pair of shoes. To your face, to the face of the modem thief - and yeah, of the business teacher as well.
- Come on, Mrs. C., it's Sunday.I dare you to find an open library now, and as you probably know I can’t work from home…
- Huh, so what’s your plan? Dressing up and going shopping in town? With a presentation due in two weeks, that you haven’t even started yet?
- Exactly, I’ll treat myself to a pair of shoes. To your face, to the face of the modem thief - and yeah, of the business teacher as well.
It’s as if I had forgotten that I’m only 23, and forced myself into an adult shape in which I don’t fit at all. I cannot count for how long I have been waking up in the morning, repeating to myself no more weight of the world on these shoulders, please, not today…and at the end of the evening, there it was, again.
Well, it’s over – alright, it’s not, it never is; but everything looks clearer, without the mask of Gloom on my face. And today, this week, I want to spoil my child inside.
Well, it’s over – alright, it’s not, it never is; but everything looks clearer, without the mask of Gloom on my face. And today, this week, I want to spoil my child inside.
I’d like to have endless runs in the fields, have rides at the fun-fair, walk in the sun eating a frozen yogurt topped with huge amounts of candy – as England’s no land for proper ice cream, alas.
I miss my mother’s hugs, light-hearted promises, plans for holidays, feeling free. Just like when I was a child, I think – and here she comes again, the traitress: for I can tell you my childhood was everything but that.
Sure, it had its delightful moments, but I should be aware that for most of the time it was about being called drag and fat geek by other children, and being chosen last at team games because I was the one who ran the slowest. Not to mention the fact that, if I asked my mother for a frozen yogurt while walking in a park, she would reply with a glaring look and a harsh keep quiet, I’m surely not going to waste money on that. I’m not sure she even had the time to take me to parks, for that matter.
Memory, who else. She did a damn good job with me, that’s sure.
I must thank memory if I keep writing, and if I don’t break down even when I’m sure that I have reached the lowest of lows. If I’m here, patiently waiting for lunchtime in a room that hadn’t felt so reassuring for months, going through all the wonderful times I had here in London and yes, those I had in the past as well. I miss my mother’s hugs, light-hearted promises, plans for holidays, feeling free. Just like when I was a child, I think – and here she comes again, the traitress: for I can tell you my childhood was everything but that.
Sure, it had its delightful moments, but I should be aware that for most of the time it was about being called drag and fat geek by other children, and being chosen last at team games because I was the one who ran the slowest. Not to mention the fact that, if I asked my mother for a frozen yogurt while walking in a park, she would reply with a glaring look and a harsh keep quiet, I’m surely not going to waste money on that. I’m not sure she even had the time to take me to parks, for that matter.
Memory, who else. She did a damn good job with me, that’s sure.
I’ll thank memories if I get my beloved shoes today, and if I come back home with the feeling that I have to celebrate the end of the hardest of times rather than sitting down and creating a new modem from scratch as if I was called McGyver. Eventually, I’ll thank memory if I’ll ever get my frozen yogurt, because I hadn’t been thinking about that for ages, before it came out of nothing the other day.
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