Bedside table

You are a mess.

A copy of the 'The complete plain words' is buried-
At the bottom of a pile. A distant memory of a person I want to be but-
I am not that person.

You wear paper everywhere but there are 2 pink post-it notes
which always make me smile.
'Wake me up. Time. 7:58 am. on Friday 18th Dec'.
'Remember its non uniform on Friday 18th December'.
A nudge from a little brother who worries like his older sister.

I saw them too late. You should have told me.

You hide my bank statements, and letters from friends.
My address book which is getting full of addresses
Of people I don't speak to much anymore.

Receipts and old student ID cards.
Invalid student oyster.
Passport.
A deodorant I never use.
Pins and pens and pencils.
Bottle of water.
Lamp.
Glasses case.

Books on top of books.
A copy of  'Slouching towards Bethlehem'. 
Tucked away.

You are a mess.
We are a mess.

Things fall apart;
The centre is trying to hold.

Miscommunication and Missed communication

When I tell you everything

I am telling you nothing



When I tell you nothing

That is telling you something



everything is nothing

nothing is something



what is everything anyway?

'the' 16 questions

1. What is stopping you?
2. How do you feel right now?
3. What book have you read that you hated and everyone else loved?
4. Have you ever run out of toilet roll? If so, what did you do?
5. If you were given the best news of your life right now, who would you tell first?
6. Who do you pretend to like and why?
7. Why did you do that thing that you don't want people to know about?
8. Where do you go to cry?
9. How often do you avoid questions?
10. Do you know how to avoid questions?
11. What is the last thing you lied about?
12. What do you never tell people?
13. Why?
14. What do you not trust yourself with?
15. Who is your best friend?
16. Where is your favourite place?

10 things I know to be true

1.
People are capable of change

but they aren't always willing to.

2.

The past, whether good, bad or neutral is always best left where it once was......The past is never ever ever easy to leave where it once was.

Ever.

3.

Some of us have to try more than others.

Some of us 'can' more than others.

4.
Changing yourself for the better is the one of the hardest things to do.

5.
I am never enough for myself.

6.
The future can sometimes seem full of something better. But sometimes 'better' is in the now.

7.
People are good. We are all good. Once we lose belief in that we lose everything that is important.

8.
Being able to argue with someone is the best way of knowing that you have a friend for life.

9.
Austen is the bestest bestest bestest.

10.
Imaan fluctuates. Such is life. We can always be better. Don't lose heart.

Surviving and not surviving the first term.

One of the things about the PGCE course is that it goes by slowly. Every moment seems to be protracted. And yet time whizzes past. I have completed an entire term at my first placement. Already. I can still remember walking into reception the first day. I remember the nerves. The anxiety. The awkwardness. I still feel those feelings now.

But something changes.

Everyone around me is being offered a job. How did we get here? How did we arrive at this strange place? I want to get to the end. Reach the finish line. I want to get through this year in one piece. I don't want to think about the future.
I want to be selfish.
I want to be a child.
I want to be unrealistic.
I don't want to face reality.
The thought of applying for a job terrifies me.

It's hard to explain, but it's not just the teaching part that scares me.

It's the department meetings, team briefings and other x, y, z meetings
It's being a part of an entire staff of teachers.
It's having a form class and being responsible for them.
It's teaching GCSE students and having an impact on their future careers and job prospects.
It's having to liaise with others on a daily basis.

It's being a part of a large group of people and not knowing where to fit in. It's the feeling of really wanting to be the best possible version of myself but always second-guessing myself.

I know it sounds silly. I feel like this is a given by now. I only ever seem to write when I am at odds with something (most of the time I am at odds with something or another).

This year is more than just me learning about teaching. I feel like this year I need to develop my confidence. I need to become everything that I have the potential to become. I need to stop belittling myself.

Of course, that is easier said than done.

Ode to Nostalgia

You are salty tears;

Nail polish in my mouth.

A scab

I unpick again

and again.

Blood that tastes of metal.

Bitter aftertaste.

December blues and other worried colours

So it's December. 

There's one more week until the end of term. 

My previous update on my PGCE was almost a month ago, when I first began teaching. I began with starters and small activities. I have since taught whole hour lessons. 

It's been hard and, well, just insert any synonym for difficult here.

I have noticed a few things:

I am constantly pretending. 

Constantly pretending. 

And I don't mean that in the sense that I feel like I have lost myself or that I am pretending to be someone else. It's more nuanced than that. I'm realising more and more that I have to feign confidence in order to have confidence. A teacher told me this week that I seem to be sharper and more direct in tone but I don't feel different. I still feel nervous. I still feel anxious. I am always worried. And I still feel inadequate. I suppose the hard part is that even when it may seem like I have had a good lesson, it never feels like it. So I find it hard to tell if I've made progress. This is a wider issue I have. You would expect compliments and positive feedback to gear me up a notch, encourage me. Instead, I feel like I am still trying to convince myself.

How does one do that? How do I convince myself?

Another issue I have is the planning and the understanding of teaching as a profession. As much as I love uni, in the real world, as a teacher, I need to prepare kids for GCSEs. That is an enormous responsibility. I'm terrified that I won't be able to give pupils what they deserve. There is so much to consider in the planning of a lesson that I worry that I am merely going through the motions and that once I am on my own, I won't be able to do it. I am absolutely terrified about being a member of staff and having to interact with so many teacher on a day to day basis. I am good at pretending that I am confident but I hate feeling anxious all the time, especially in staff rooms. I still feel out of place sometimes.

It's like I am a muggle, entering Hogwarts for the first time. I am excited and I know that I could fit in. I know that I do fit in. I have been invited. I got the letter. I went to buy my books. I have a pet owl. I have the robes.

But I don't have the language. 

There are places in the castle that other people know about.

I always forget the password to the common room.

I feel weird when sitting in the Great Hall. I talk to lots of people but I don't have my Ron, Harry or Hermione. 

I am adrift. 

If I was advising someone else I would say, 

               "Don't worry. You will learn about secret places in the castles. You will find a Hermione.                      She will help you with your exams. You will get better at remembering the passwords."

but life sucks and like most people, I ignore my own advice.

It's silly to worry, I know. But I am constantly second guessing myself. 

We shall see how I feel in January.

x

T

Affect: The 'Now'

In Semester 1 of my final year of university- from September 2014 to January 2015- I took a module in 21st American Fiction. As part of the module we studied Don Delilo's novel The Body Artist. Alongside the novel, we studied the theory of affect.

Eric Shouse describes affect as 'prepersonal intensity'. This is what we experience before feelings and emotions. Our lecturer described it as the experience you have when you walk into a room and you just have this inkling that there is tension in the room. Or when you just know that someone has been talking about you. Or when you just have this instinct that you like someone. It is an involuntary intensity. It is not something that you have made sense of. It is instinctive. Feelings and emotions occur when we make sense of affect. Feelings, as opposed to affect, are based on prior experiences. To be sad is to have experienced sadness in the past, and to recognise in the present moment what being sad means. Affect occurs in the space before this. It is not codified or understood. It is outside of time or culture or society. It is abstract. It is non-conscious.

It may seem like a strange topic to write a blogpost about and I doubt I've explained it adequately, but during the summer, I thought about affect a lot.

As a university student, summer is not just a regular holiday. It is an extended holiday. When uni ended in May, even though I had experienced the long months of holiday, it was a strange feeling. I was faced with this stretch of time where there was nothing really after it. Graduating is a surreal experience. It is the culmination of 3 years' work and the beginning of the end. I know that sounds pessimistic but that's what it felt like to me.

I sound ungrateful. Unlike many of my peers, I had decided to do a PGCE. I had a place at a university. I knew what I was doing in September.

You would think that this would give me perspective. That it would focus me. Surely, there would be no reason to panic?

I think it freaked me out.

Up until that point, school, college, university were abstract places. You went to learn. There was a freedom in that. But to follow a career path. That's the adult world. The real world. The scary world.

So summer for me, became a space where I was swinging between a life which offered me dozens of paths without the pressure to choose one and a life which involved a career. I love teaching and I am glad that I chose it. But during the summer, the prospect of starting the course terrified me.

I entered, like Lauren from The Body Artist, into a state of affect. The more worried and anxious I got, the more I entered into this state of pre-personal experience. The post I wrote about the Rothko murals for instance, is an example of how I became so attuned to moments. Staring not only at the murals but into them was like entering into this state of affect, the 'now'. You become submerged in the present. It's liberating but at the same time, it can be lonely. I'd really suggest reading The Body Artist. It really brings highlights how affect works and it explores grief in a wonderfully tentative, sensitive and poignant way.

I see affect as being in a long, blank space. You encounter moments. But they are small.

Minute.

Mostly mundane.

Small moments.

For me, during the summer, I became acutely aware of the most minutest of things. Spiders crawling across my wall in the early hours of the morning. Babies and young kids out in public, talking and giggling. Snippets of conversation from TV shows. Everything seemed to be going at lightning speed, and yet it slowed down. Time seemed to be emptying out and I got closer and closer to affect.

I spent a lot of time in this limbo. This period of affect. Of intensity. It was not easy.

I read Didion's Slouching Towards Bethlehem again and enjoyed it so much more, now that I was in a moment of involuntary experience.

Anyway, I realise that this all sounds utterly bizarre and strange but it's something that I have been meaning to write about for some time now.

If you have ever felt in limbo, or experienced a time where you were thinking a lot and reflecting constantly, I think it would make sense.

T

x

There is life beyond you.

standing on the platform
i watch the train drift away

you flitter through my mind

a vague memory

i realise-

i have not thought about you for a while.



there is life beyond you
without you
there is life beyond
you
don't need to exist here
anymore

Dipping my toes in-

For the past month or so, I have been hovering around the back of various classes. These are the classes which I will eventually be taking over. So far, however, I have been mainly observing and walking around the classroom. 

This week, I ventured to the front of the class for the first time. 

Classrooms are strange spaces. There are so many dynamics to it. I didn't notice until I began my placement how many different spaces there are in one classroom. There's the back and the front of the class but there's the space amongst the students also. Sitting at the back feels the most safest. Walking around the class, speaking to kids at different tables is slightly more difficult, but it still feels relatively safe. Moving to the front of the class, however, is a whole other kettle of fish. It's a scary place. It's terrifying. This is the space where all eyes are on you. This is the space which theoretically is mine- MY space. 

It doesn't feel that way though. I taught for only 10/15 minutes at the beginning of a lesson but I felt exhausted afterwards. And numb. I felt so numb. As if I wasn't actually there when I was teaching. Like an out of body experience. I couldn't remember anything about my part of the lesson after I was done. I immediately tried to rid myself of the memory. But I know this is stupid. Rationally, I know that it wasn't terrible. But I still lack so much confidence. 

Each day is a challenge for me. I consider often, the possibility of leaving the course. Of giving up. I know I can't give up. I know that I need to keep going. But I can't imagine the end right now. It feels like it won't happen. Like I won't get there. So I tell myself to not think that far ahead. To take it all one step at a time. One day at a time. One lesson at a time.

So, I have dipped my toes into murky waters... We shall see how I fare...

Short Story 5- "Memo: Dr James Spratt is not in favour of homeopathic medicine".

Dr James Spratt leads a solitary existence. He has decided this is the best way to live one’s life and to keep one’s sanity. Dr Spratt’s patients at his GP practice disagree. They would argue his solitary existence has the counter effect he was hoping for and he is actually stark raving mad and an overall miserable old man. It is for this reason that Dr Spratt has had an influx of older women on his patient list over the last few years. Dr Spratt to this day does not understand the reason. He mentioned it to Martha the receptionist once but she shrugged her shoulders and suggested it was a coincidence. Strange, she said, I wonder why that is. And they’re such lovely women too. Dr Spratt grunted and left as confused as he came.

At sixty years old, Dr Spratt is in denial about his impending retirement. He is the only GP at the practice over fifty who is still currently in full time employment. Gradually, the older practitioners at Dr Spratt’s practice have gone through the motions of getting married, having children, getting divorced, watching their children go to university and have now packed up their lives to live in the countryside where no one complains of clinical depression, mental health, obesity and most importantly Wi-Fi is non-existent. Dr Spratt however, is unmarried, childless and living in the city.

The Chatfield Health Care Centre has five full time GPs. Gemma Paisley is Dr Spratt’s worst nightmare. She has been at the practice for ten years now and insists on wearing this old yellow gaudy sweater which smells of moth balls that Dr Spratt despises. He has told her on many occasions that yellow is most definitely not her colour but Gemma always laughs and shoves his shoulder affectionately. Oh, you are hilarious, she guffaws. Harold, the newest recruit at thirty years old, is the youngest of Dr Spratt’s colleagues. Like Spratt, Harold detests Gemma’s sweater, but decides communicating with her would waste valuable time he could spend scowling at her instead. Dr Spratt won’t admit it but he is envious of Harold’s youth and suspects that Harold is secretly waiting for him to ‘cross over’. Chrissie is the peacemaker in the practice who never actually achieves peace. Bobby Patel is the most recent addition, the token ethnic minority. The board instructed Dr Spratt to employ more ‘ethnically diverse’ staff. When Dr Spratt first met Bobby and shook his hand, he was surprised at how un-ethnic he looked.

All four of the Chatfield staff have been enquiring about Dr Spratt’s plans for the future. Harold has been leaving travel brochures on the kitchen counter- ‘Pensioner’s Paradise’ and ‘The Final Voyage’. If it didn’t take him five minutes to raise his hand, Dr Spratt is convinced that he could punch Harold on the nose. Chrissie, the do-gooder that she is, pops into his office regularly to see that he’s okay or if he needs anything. Sometimes he’ll hear the sound of her heels pad across the carpet as she approaches the door of his office and he’ll shout out, I’m alright, Dr Ward. There is always a sigh of relief and the sound of hurried footsteps as she retreats.

Today, Dr Spratt is feeling especially cranky. He has been seeing patients since ten in the morning and his legs feel so numb that he has to look down at them constantly to see if they’re still there. The patient he is seeing now is being particularly tiresome. Mrs Pritchard has high blood pressure and despite explaining to her very clearly that she may be at the risk of hypertension and needs further tests done, Mrs Pritchard doesn’t believe him.

‘But I visited Dr Rudy at the Wellness Centre-’

‘This Rudy fellow, is not a doctor, Mrs Pritchard. As I have told you before, he is a homeopath. There is a difference.’

‘Yes, well, Dr Rudy at the Chatfield Wellness Centre tells me that if I drink hibiscus tea every morning and evening for a fortnight, my blood pressure will right itself. It’s just a blip you see.’

‘Mrs Pritchard, I really must advise you to follow up on these tests. An ECG will allow us to trace your heart and some blood tests will help us to identify how your kidneys are functioning. Homeopathy on the other hand, is not a certified science.’

‘Well, I’ll think about it Dr Spratt-’

‘I must insist Mrs Pritchard. This is your health we are talking about-’

 ‘Yes yes- I was wondering if we could discuss my knees now. I’ve been suffering from-’

‘I’m terribly sorry Mrs Pritchard but I’m afraid you’ll need to book a new appointment to discuss your knees. If you see Martha, she’ll book you in at your earliest convenience.’

‘But I don’t understand-’

‘Yes, it’s extremely unfortunate but it’s regulation I’m afraid. We have too many patients to see and not enough time-’

‘First I’m told I have ten minutes. A mere ten minutes to discuss my problems.’ Mrs Pritchard’s voice becomes shrill and high pitched. ‘Then you tell me I need to book an appointment for each of them! Is it any wonder I visit the bloody homeopath!’

‘Mrs Pritchard-’

‘The NHS is going to the dogs I tell you! Am I supposed to fall down the stairs and break my legs before someone takes me seriously?’ Mrs Pritchard starts to hurl obscenities at Dr Spratt. Dr Spratt sits there and nods at her. Finally, Mrs Pritchard stops.

‘So, what do you have to say for yourself Dr Spratt?’

‘I can only apologise Mrs Pritchard, but you really must leave-’ He sighs. ‘It’s been ten minutes. I have other patients I must see.’ Mrs Pritchard curses loudly and glowers as she grabs her shopping bags and hobbles to the door. She tries to slam it behind her but the bags get caught. Dr Spratt moves to help but she gives him a death-stare and he retreats. The door finally slams and Mrs Pritchard's determined footsteps can be heard moving away, down the corridor. Dr Spratt stands up and walks slowly to the coffee machine. 

He lied. He has a twenty minute break before the next patient. 

He says to himself, "I need it it".

Beginnings and worries and fears and anxieties and..... I don't know if I can do it.

I have tried to write this post so many times.

Here goes- 

I've started my PGCE course. 

I've been at uni for a few weeks and now I'm starting my first placement. I'm absolutely terrified. TERRIFIED. 

I keep going through these highs and lows. At first my brain tells me I'll be fine. That I can do it. But then I picture myself standing in front of a class and I just have this image of water passing through my fingers and the kids not listening to me. Then my brain shuts itself down and I retreat. A bit like how a hedgehog turns back into itself. And then my rational self tells me that I'll have to confront the fear. 

I have these constant thoughts about quitting. I keep saying that I don't need to put myself through this. I tell myself that it'll be ok. But every time I think this, it gets slightly better. 

Of course, the moments are fleeting. Uni has become a haven. A safe place. The tutors are like a warm, comforting blanket on a cold day. I had two days at my new school and went back to uni feeling panicked. Being around the others in my group, however, made me feel less scared and more hopeful. Sitting here now though, the fear is creeping back. 

People always talk about how hard this year is. I'm seeing it already. The hard bit for me is trying to identify if I can do it. Can I do it? 

I'm worried about the teaching element. I'm nervous about having to find a place in a school where I'm the 'new' one. I have to navigate the staff room and other places in the school where I'm not already someone who belongs. In general, I'm having to create spaces for myself and assert myself. This isn't something that I'm used to. In fact, it goes against my entire being. It freaks me out.

The hardest part is deep down I know I can do it. I know that I could be a good teacher. But that's not enough. Knowing it isn't enough. I have to learn how to be a great teacher. I have to figure out how to manage a class so that I can teach. 

In summary:

Level of hope-           1%

Level of fear-          99%

Gulp.

There's this feeling.

When you're about to tell someone something and you can almost taste the anticipation.

Like smog.

Polluting the atmosphere.

But then you buckle,.

You can't bring yourself to say what it is. And you gulp it all back in.

I have been experiencing those moments often recently.

There is a lot of gulping and a lot of hiding.

It's all too foggy and I can't seem to wave it away quickly enough before another gust overwhelms me.

The Seagram Murals.

Whenever I'm watching something, I'm doodling at the same time. I'm not quite sure how and when I developed this habit. I always keep a notebook nearby and I just doodle.

A week or so ago I began drawing random squares and colouring them in.  After the first time, I ended up with a page covered in small blue squares. Looking at them all immediately after, I recalled Rothko's paintings- "The Seagram Murals". Although- I didn't know them by name at the time. 

Let's go back in time. 

About four years ago, a few friends and I visited the Tate Modern in London. We went on a few guided tours and browsed for a bit, and then we came to the Rothko paintings. The "Seagram Murals" are in a smaller gallery that is lighted dimly. The room immediately has a sombre and almost heavy atmosphere. I remember walking in there for the first time and being hit by this wave of feeling. 

Art is difficult. I am no expert on art and what makes it good or bad. Walking around the Tate that day, following a lady who provided insight into all these wonderful paintings and their history, I felt the importance of art, but I definitely needed some basic knowledge to access the paintings she described. For example, she gave such a good background of some of Picasso's paintings which helped when I looked at his works. My point here is that getting to an initial response was hard for me. I had to look and think deeply at the paintings and installations I came across. 

Walking into Room 3 and being confronted by those deep reds was a completely different experience. I remember that room as being empty, although I'm sure it can't have been. According to my memory, I entered that room alone. My friends probably came in after me. I stared at the murals for a long time. The first ones I looked at were"Section 74" and "Section 5". Hanging together, these two murals evoked the strongest feeling I have ever had towards art. The colour, the ambience of the room, the scale and the beauty of the murals made me feel overwhelmed.With sadness, heaviness, memory. Everything. I remember that moment because the feeling surprised me. I didn't realise I could react to art so immediately. I didn't realise how much it could make me feel. 

Staring at my doodles of random squares, that experience is what I recalled. Now, I am not saying I am a budding Rothko-esque artist (is that even a thing?), but being hit by blocks colour reminded me of being at the Tate. 

I have been thinking about those murals ever since. 

So today, I visited the Tate again. 

Oh man, walking into that room. 

I cried. 

Not in a passionate, dramatic way. It was quiet, subtle. I brushed the tears away quickly before anyone could see. But seeing those murals again just filled me with so many feelings. According to Rothko, the best way to experience the murals is to sit and look at them, almost meditatively. I did that, and it was beautiful. 

Staring at these large mural, I was confronted by everything not in front of me. There is no drawing, no landscape, no figure. The murals give you a shape, almost like a frame, almost like windows. That's the way I see it anyway. The simplest (and probably extremely reductive) way of viewing the murals for me was to see them as windows or entrances into yourself- myself. The soul, if you will. Sitting there, staring at those murals, I would see certain strokes bleed into others. I would feel calm and scared all at once. 

For this one above- "Section 4"- I remember all the colours blurring in and changing almost. The longer I gazed at them, the more I grew to love and see the murals.

They have given me the most profound experience of art that I have ever had.

Murals in order:

Mark Rothko

Red on Maroon Mural, Section 74 1959

Tate. Presented by the artist through the American Federation of Arts 1969 

© Kate Rothko Prizel and Christopher Rothko/DACS 1998

Red on Maroon Mural, Section 5 1959

Red on Maroon Mural, Section 4 1959

"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold"

The Second Coming- William Butler Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

    The best lack all conviction, while the worst

    Are full of passionate intensity.

    Surely some revelation is at hand;

    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

    Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;

    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

    Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

    The darkness drops again but now I know

    That twenty centuries of stony sleep

    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Confession- I haven't read or analysed this poem properly. I provide it merely for context. That makes it sound like I don't like the poem or that I don't feel like it deserves to be read or analysed. This is not the case. I just really wanted to make this post.

I had never read or heard of this poem before I heard the phrase "Things Fall Apart". I read Chinua Achebe's novel for a class in my second year of uni. I wrote an essay on the book and I learned that the book's title was from the poem, but I never read the poem. I realise that this makes me a sort of poor English student, but as we have established from practically all of my other posts this month, I have little confidence on this front so why beat myself any more?

Fast forward to third year and I took a class in criticism and theory (one of the hardest classes I have ever taken). One of the critics we read was Joan Didion. She wrote a collection of essays entitled 'Slouching towards Bethlehem' and in her foreword she included Yeats' poem. I found Didion strange to read at first. I didn't really understand her writing until the seminar and until I re-read certain essays. Then, writing about her and Virginia Woolf for an essay at the end of the semester, I started to feel a sense of kinship with her writing and the place/s from which she wrote.

I suddenly found myself being drawn to this line- "Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold". I can't express in full how much this line has come to mean for me.

It makes me think of anxiety, hopelessness, despair, loss, longing, helplessness, loneliness, desperation, exhaustion and generally, my third year. I have developed a love for this line and it's strange because I have heard people talk about their favourite poems and their favourite lines and I have never understood that type of collecting and treasuring of art. But now, I feel like this line is a piece of art that I am adding to a library or catalogue in my brain of emotions and feelings that I need to remember.

Throughout this year I have always come back to this line and it has become a sort of mantra- in a weird and morbid sense. A mantra is something one says to encourage oneself or psych oneself up but I have been recalling this line whenever I have felt anxious and confused- which has been practically my default setting this year.

I would like to read this poem and figure it our properly in my head but as I have been thinking about that one line, I needed to write this post. Something tells me I will come back to this poem.

Until then,

T 

Creatures on the prowl-

As it's the summer and I have no real need to wake up early, I have been staying awake until the early hours of the morning. This has introduced to the world of night-time creatures. 

I have spent too much time than might be deemed rational, thinking about mosquitoes, spiders, and other large I-don't-know-what-they-are-called insects. 

Every night, as my family slowly lulls into sleep, and lights are switched off around the house, I am attacked by buzzing flies and mosquitoes which lurk. Now, I keep old Asos magazines next to my bed so that I can swat them. Then I rip off the page and bin it,with the dead insects smudged against last season's finest fashion. Writing that down, I realise how morbid that sounds. What makes it worse, is that I have used several magazines by this stage. 

On a more existential and pretentious level, witnessing this influx of insects during the night/early morning has made me think of the nature of space and place. I have seen how these random flies, these tiny, seemingly insignificant things, find a little nook or corner, and settle, as if they have a right. 

I think that's why we humans are so terrified- irrationally maybe- of spiders and such like. As humans, we are constantly fighting to have our voices heard, to insert ourselves into the abyss that is life, to make our lives count, to make ourselves purposeful- to find a space. But these tiny creatures who we could crush with a small poke, a small step of the shoe, manage to determinedly settle and dominate a space. Spiders happily crawl over the bath, and you can't help but wonder at how they spin their webs, defying dusters and microfiber cloths. They don't care that we are larger and more powerful. 

They don't care about hierarchy. They just are. They just be. They plod along.

I saw a moth on the wall as I walked up the stairs to my room. It was so still. It completely caught me off guard. I stared at it. It was speckled black and white. It looked like it was trying to camouflage but at the same time demanding my attention. In that precise moment, I am sure I felt something akin to jealousy. This moth had found a spot and made it his/her own. It made it look so easy. Isn't that something to admire. In a world where we are forever trying to forge a way for ourselves, insects do not ask. They take it and damn the consequences.

If I had half the gumption of these insects which harass me at 3 am in the morning, I wonder what I would have achieved already?

To share or not to share?

As is evident from this blog, as much as I share, I hide a lot. I am the mistress of feigning openness and frankness whilst not actually telling people things.

Example:

Uni friend tweets- "essay deadlines.can't even".
My response-         *retweet* 

Friend messages- "Are you excited to start uni again?"
My response-       "Yup! :)"


I don't think it's lying. I just feel like a lot of the time, people aren't able to empathise. Why tell them?
The truth is overrated most of the time. And sympathy is not enough for me. I don't want pity or people knowing I'm stressed or worried. This makes me more anxious. I am always slightly jealous when people are able to casually divulge their biggest worries and insecurities.

I have been thinking about this because I recently (15 minutes ago) re-read an old story I wrote. I started it when I was 11. It was a story I developed from an English homework piece. I was in year 5 or 6 then. For some reason, I could never let go of that story. I finished it five or six years later. I didn't write constantly all those years. It was sporadic.There was a time when I even shared it with people-with friends and family. I was nervous but I did it.

Looking back on it, I think it's interesting how that is the longest I have ever spent on writing something. Not only that, but I continued it across a time period in which I changed so drastically. I think I felt this sense of urgency with that story. It had to be completed.

Looking back on it, I feel a sense of embarrassment. I'm proud of finishing the story, but- it's a strange feeling. I realise how vulnerable I made myself in my writing. I doubt other people noticed, but me being me, I see how in my characters, I was writing about myself. I think that's why I couldn't not finish it. Reading certain parts of the story, certain conversations between my characters, I say to myself,"why?". I berate myself and the characters in the story, but I am not sure in which order I do this? Did the characters come first or did I?

Looking back on it, I don't agree at all with some of my sentiments in the story, but I think that is just me growing up and learning. The biggest thing I have learned is that I have never written that way before. Never so honestly. I never realised that I was writing about myself, so I don't think I hid anything.

And thus, I realise, that in hiding things, I will never be able to continue writing a story past 100 words.

I never thought honesty was something you had to work on, but I'm learning that it's a skill, like riding a bike or making a cup of tea. Trivial and commonplace, you think it's easy.

But it is so easy to do it wrong.

And when done wrong, you feel its absence.

The Problem-

I don't want to tell you.

And I do.

I am close, all the time.

I begin, and then I sto-

-p. 

               mid-way

If I tell you I will regret it.

A problem shared is not a problem halved.

The greatest lie.

It only means that now two people know and 

one person is more vulnerable.

trust. the greatest lie.

I definitely don't want to tell you-

but I really do.

Please- 

do you see the problem?

I-

I-

I

.

'Throwing it all away'

"Don't throw it away".

Josh jumped slightly and turned around. It was his neighbour. A young boy was sitting on the doorstep. Josh remembered- a new family had recently moved in.

"Seriously, dude. You've been staring at that thing for ages".

"You've been watching me?" asked Josh, peeved.

"Yes".

"Why?"

"Why what?" The boy got up and leaned casually on the fence which separated them. He was dishevelled and unkempt. Josh suspected that was why his parents hadn't invited them over.

"Why have you been watching me? That's weird".

"Look, I'm waiting for someone to pick me up- I'm not being nosy if that's what you're getting it. It's just- you've been standing out here for the past ten minutes with that stupid bag, putting it into the bin and then taking it out again. You clearly don't want to throw it away. Why don't you just keep it?".

"Sorry, who are you?"

"I didn't say".

"Okayyy".

Josh put the bag down on the ground. It was heavy. A battered Fiat approached and parked abruptly.

"That's me", said the boy. He locked his front door then walked towards the car. As he opened the car door, he turned. "Hey, whatever is in that bag, must be important to you. Don't do anything you'll regret".

He climbed into the car and the Fiat crawled away.

Shaking his head, Josh reached down and picked up the bag. He lifted the bin lid, threw the bag inside and walked back into his house.

Things to tell my younger self

Keep reading. Don't use school as an excuse to stop. It may take time away but you are organised. You can fit it in. The best part of reading is learning something new. Don't lose that.

Keep writing. Yes, most of what you write is terrible. But why is that so bad? Keep trying. Keep doing. Keep on.

It's okay to have an opinion. Some things swim in a grey area. Some things are black or white. If it's the latter, it's okay to choose. Being compassionate and open is good, but don't let that stop you from being definitive and exact in your expectations and principles.

Some people will not like you. This is life. Deal with it.

It's okay to be vulnerable. Try it now please, it'll make it easier for future you.... Future you is struggling a bit with this. 

Be kind. Be honest. Be open. This is important to you. 

Things get better..... They get worse too. But you get better at it. 

It's good to be witty. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. 

Be creative. No project is stupid. Follow through and completing it will be enough. Don't worry so much about whether it's good or not. Fear of failure is a poor excuse. You can do it. I believe in you.

"That moment"

It's been a tough few days.

Yesterday, I had a conversation with someone and I feel like it has changed everything.

It has changed the way I see myself with respect to others.

It has made me angry, hurt and sad all at once.

It has made me feel like there is no going back.

There are certain things said, things done and conversations had, that you can't return from. That's what I've experienced. I feel like my world has changed.

I don't like it. I don't like not being in control of my life. It's debilitating and painful.

I am in one of those moments which I think I'm going to remember as "that moment". You know, that feeling when you are experiencing something epic, life-changing, heart-wrenching, moving.... anything big, really..... and then you recall this memory that you randomly have of something once insignificant but now so essential. The past few days, the process of me writing this blog post, they will both be something I look back on. I will be thinking one of three things:

You didn't know it then, but things were going to get a lot worse. 

You didn't know it then, but things were just about to get better.

Nothing has changed.


I don't know which one it'll be. I don't know which one I want it to be. All I know, is that right now, I feel like the earth beneath me isn't as steady, and I'm slowly losing my balance.


Here's to not falling over.


T

x=

Safe spaces and train stations.

Shuttling through London, deep underground, I know that others find it stuffy, hot and uncomfortable. For me though, it's home. 

I went into the city today, and as the train pulled into the station, I saw the sign outside the tube window wipe into view- Chancery Lane. I always find it amazing that there are these stations dotted around London, signifying a place and yet we are always whooshing past them. I have gone past so many stations on the central line and yet I have never seen most of them. Most stations on the London Underground Map we won't ever see above the miles of concrete we travel through when commuting in London. But there are some stations which we know. Which I know. Stations like the one near where I live. But also stations which I have grown to live in and live with.

When I first started uni, it felt strange. For anyone who has ventured into the city, you will understand. It's scary and intimidating. There are people everywhere rushing places. I always worry that I am inconveniencing someone if I walk too slow or stop randomly in the street, so navigating my way around uni was hard for me. I felt like everyone else knew this strange and new environment whilst I relied on other people's directions to places to eat and the library and where the nearest stationers was. Today, as I saw the sign staring at me, I remembered my feelings of discomfort and being out of place when I first used the station. My university library is off Chancery Lane. I can still feel that sense of everyone looking at me and being under surveillance almost, as I walked out of the station and to the library. I have this need almost, in those situations, to remind myself that I am a smart, independent woman. I think it's my defence-mechanism. I would walk past people, knowing that most of them would make certain assumptions about me, not even considering that I was a university student. As a young, female Muslim, I'm sure I experienced what many others were feeling in similar situations. Over time, although the discomfort lingered, I began to feel a sense of place. Like the bankers and lawyers in their pinstripe suits and briefcases, walking down Fleet Street, I started to feel like London was my city, my turf.(I know, it's childish!).

That was the feeling I had today. I never got off the train at Chancery Lane, but I felt a connection to it. More and more I am realising that there are certain elements of leaving uni that I will miss. The city, or the small corners I have inhabited- Russell Square, Holborn, Chancery Lane, The Strand- are like my second home. I have a favourite lunch place. I have a particular route I use. I know which buses can take me where, without looking at the map at the bus stop. I'm not a tourist anymore. The area isn't made up of random spots on a tube map anymore. These places are now my home.

I think that's why I love the London Underground so much. I always find myself experiencing these profound realisations. Like today, I saw this random, bookish-looking, middle-aged man with glasses and he reminded me of one of my seminar leaders. Then I thought to myself- this man could be a lecturer. Of course, he could have any other profession, and most likely I am projecting, but I can't discount my theory. Then there is the reality that at some point in time, I may have travelled on a train, with someone I know in another carriage. Maybe I have sat on a train with someone I haven't met yet. The possibilities are endless. Everyone is a stranger and yet so familiar. 

Despite what people say about the tube being full of ghastly office workers, builders and bankers, I always find myself feeling relaxed and isolated, as if I am in a safe place.

Being on the train today reminded me of that feeling. And it felt good.

T

Self-Image 2015

I am:

A daughter

A grand-daughter

A cousin

A neice

A sister

A friend

A graduate

A writer

A worrier

A teacher

A student

Sometimes I am confident, but mostly I'm not.

I know I am not alone, but I don't often feel that way.

I am constantly worrying about the future.

I am a good friend, but also a terrible one.

I have read a lot, but not enough.

I would like to be more politically aware but politics makes me anxious. I know that this is a cop-out, but it's how I feel.

I would like to be more present. Instead, I am nostalgic. Always.

I know that other people think I have achieved a lot, but I am slowly learning that I need to internalise this for myself.

I am content, yet constantly yearning. 

Despite all my complaints, I know that I am privileged.

*inspired by the self-image tag that I've seen floating around YouTube. I'm not sure who started it, but it's a fantastic idea.

Haphazard

Today I mostly lounged around the house. I was home alone with my two brothers (which is as close to being alone as actually being alone). They spent most of the day watching TV or Minecraft videos. Side note- I really don't get Minecraft, it just *whooooosh* goes over my head. 

I spent the day with Netflix, doodling, getting a bit (a tiny bit) of some work done. I cooked dinner and did a bit of cleaning. I caught up on my YouTube subscriptions. And now somehow it's 22:54 and I'm writing this crappy post. Not much to say today. 

Here are some of my thoughts from yesterday that I recorded on my notepad on my phone.

3:42am

How do I have a degree? I never even got to the end of Crime and Punishment.

4:03am

I've been trying to connect my uni email account to my phone mail. I have just realised that I doesn't matter anymore.

21:33pm

I feel like keeping a diary on behalf of someone else- maybe a fictional character- the way that it happens in "Jill". (That's the book I'm reading at the moment)

Also, randomly I had this thought. I'm a big Sherlock Holmes fan and I wondered to myself, if I was to meet him, what would he deduce or not deduce about me? It's an interesting question to ask about oneself, right?

T

Stop what you're doing, I have a thought-

A lot of us would say- "only do something if you want to", "don't do anything unless it's what you want", "is that what you want though?"- or something along those lines. This often applies to when we discuss body-image and weight. 

I watched a video just now, in which Maddie discusses exercising for herself. It's a great message and a completely relevant and apt one. But it made me wonder, when a person decides to lose weight or get fit, is it always easy to separate doing it for yourself and doing it for others? 

I would love to get fit right now, and exercise. I would definitely be doing it for myself. But I would also be doing it so that I can feel comfortable in my body, rather than feeling uncomfortable. And that discomfort is surely just a response to other people's views or perceptions of bodies and how bodies should look. Then there is the real, undeniable fact that as humans, our bodies change shape as we grow older. If we get bigger or smaller, is that merely growth and a coming into our adult or newer selves, or should we try to maintain our past shape or size? What if you were healthier when you were smaller/ bigger? 

It seems to me that the line is more blurred than it might seem, especially when it comes to our bodies. I'm not sure if I was to exercise and lose weight that it would be entirely to make myself feel better. A part of me says that it would be so that I could look at people and feel confident about my body. 

Arghhhhhhhhh.

Journal. Entry 1.

Isn't it weird how we stop talking to people? I find it so strange that there are people who I've grown up and gone through huge life-changing things with, who then move on and become other people, other versions of themselves. I've been thinking about this recently. As it's graduation season, I've seen photos of old friends with their cap and gown and I've been realising how estranged I have become from so many people- not in an unkind or deliberate way, but in a human, 'that's life' kind of way. It's made me explore the nature of human relationships and how we share experiences with one another. There are people who have been a part of my life, and I have been a part of theirs. The unsettling part for me has been seeing people who I knew at a certain stage of their life, who have grown up and entered into a new phase, without me being there. It's not a jealous or envious perspective. Rather, it's the realisation of the instability and frailty of human relationships. Does that make sense? It's realising that I may bump into a once close friend, person A, on the street, they will be with a new friend, person B, and when we catch up, person B will not know who I am and what I've been through with person A. It's an awkwardness, a discomfort. It's accepting that relationships are always fleeting. How do you know, how on earth are you supposed to determine that a friendship you have will last and continue?

I know that this is how life works. People forge relationships and some survive while others fizzle out. 

I've realised as I've gotten older that most people around me have small groups of friends. I think, with age, everyone seems to have less tolerance for people who they aren't deeply connected to. It's one of the qualities I wish I had. While everyone seems to be cultivating long-lasting and intimate friendships, I've sort of kept myself behind. It's not because I think I'm better than that. It's simply because I'm uncapable of it. I don't know how to build that type of friendship with someone. 

I know friends who message each other all the time and constantly throughout the day. I'm completely the opposite. The friends I have from school, I see rarely. I have a close friend who I haven't seen in probably a year. We may occasionally interact over twitter or send each other a brief Whatsapp message, but I don't keep in regular contact with her. I don't know what's wrong with me. I hate texting. If I get a message, I'll deliberately reply later instead of immediately, just so that the person doesn't think I'm free to keep a conversation going. Sometimes I will receive a message and I'll have the time to respond but I'll end up over-thinking the message and won't reply until the next day. It's so silly of me, I know, and yet that is who I am. I hate speaking to people by text or even having conversations on the phone. I always feel paranoid about people not being interested in what I have to say, and if that's not the issue then I feel anxious about when the appropriate time to end the conversation is. Recently, a good friend of mine (I have no best friends- not sure if that's a good thing anymore) called me up and she asked me if I was free to talk because she knew that I didn't like speaking on the phone. Surprisingly, that phone call didn't give me any anxiety. It was nice. It was a glimpse into a type of interaction that previously I shied away from. That being said, I don't think I could initiate a phone call myself. It would be so unlike me, my friends would think something had gone wrong. Also, I would be paranoid (see the theme here?) about whether or not they were speaking to me because they wanted to or they felt they had to.

I should mention here that a friend messaged me a minute or so ago, and I already felt myself getting nervous. I haven't looked at the message because I don't want to respond straight away. It's so silly. I don't know why I'm like this! 

Anyway, I seem to have digressed. I was talking about long-lost friends/ acquaintances. What do you call them- people who you were once close with, who are now strangers? There should be a name for them. 

I have many friends. I have groups of friends who I meet at random moments, every so often. I have a group of uni friends and work friends. 

But I have yet to have a friend who I will text every day, see every week or tell everything too. 

I'm not sure if that's normal or not. 

But I think that may be why I'm blogging and not texting people back. 

T

Not so bad after all...

I set my alarm for 10:45 but by 10:30 I was awake. My stomach had butterflies the minute I saw the date and time and I just wanted to sleep. I always feel like if I sleep, while my eyes are closed I won't worry. Of course..... I am always wrong.

I stumbled out of bed and blundered along. Showered, dressed, had breakfast and met my friend at Liverpool Street Station. I waited near Costa and staring towards the ticket barriers, watching to see if the train had come, it occurred to me that everything had become a metaphor. I kept looking at doorways and exit signs as signals for beginnings and endings.

I didn't want to go through with graduation. 

In fact, I kept telling my friend as we walked to the hall, that we could just turn back. When we entered the hall, I panicked inwardly. I saw people in gowns everywhere. Families. Lots of cameras. Lots of posing. Lots of people smiling. What surprised me most of all, was how emotional I felt. 

It's weird because I'd seen pictures on Facebook and Twitter of other departments' graduation ceremonies and I knew what the gowns looked like. But to see a swarm of graduating students and to recognise that I was one of them, to be able to insert and position myself among all these other students, was scary and emotional- in a good way. I thought that I'd be too nervous to feel anything else but actually, the ceremony was heart-warming. There was a sense of humour and tenderness in the presentations. There was a strong feeling of camaraderie, even though I didn't know most of the people personally. I was struck by this intense realisation that I was a part of everyone else's experiences, just like they were a part of mine. I was and have been, so worried about feeling distanced from graduating, but actually, I think I just needed to realise that actually, I knew more people that I thought. I had made more connections than I thought. And I was less nervous than I thought. So many of my classmates came to say hi to myself and my friends. It was touching to be embraced, literally (and I'm not even a hugging person), by people who were feeling joyful and wanted to share their glee.

Seeing my family too, when they came to collect their tickets, made me realise that this was a special occasion. For all that I was worried and anxious about, I was right to go. I would have definitely regretted it had I stayed away. 

I just feel like I faced something today. Not a fear as such, but something overwhelming.

Looking back on it, I think the reason I found graduation so stressful was because I didn't want to deal with the broader picture. I am now a graduate. I am a degree holder. I have a certificate that says it all. I don't feel any different, but to the world, I am a different person. Or at least, I have a new side of myself to embrace.

It's not been an easy ride so far, and I don't think it's going to get easier. But I'm learning to embrace the curve balls and see where they take me.


T

*FYI- Turns out graduation doesn't suck after all. In fact, I highly recommend it.

Reluctantly

I write this post reluctantly. 

I feel like something is lodged deep inside me. Almost like something is wedged in between my organs, keeping everything held tightly together, albeit temporarily. I have been feeling anxious throughout the day. It's been bubbling under the surface but every so often I feel like there's a jolt and that thing, that unidentifiable thing which is keeping everything together, feels as if it's shifted slightly. It makes me feel queasy and unsettled, like I need to take in deep breaths or vomit or cry. 

Then I'll force myself to think about something else and the anxiety becomes a gentle simmer. 

Writing this post reminds me of what awaits me in mere hours. 

Whenever I'm nervous I tell myself that this time tomorrow, it'll all be over. I'm telling myself that now and even though from past experience I know that things are never as bad as I anticipate, something always niggles at me. Something tells me that there is still the possibility of something going wrong.

Life just seems to be following this very pattern. So many things have the potential to go wrong. It's a terrifying thought. I just pray that there are few occurences of this and that if all hell breaks loose I am able to keep moving. 

Graduation sucks.

T

Pre-Graduation Jitters/Doubts/Worries/Apathy?

Graduating feels so different from leaving secondary school and sixth form. It's so much more lonely. Usually when you leave school, there is a last day, a finale. Uni isn't like that. There's no closure. It's just a long process of being in limbo.

You come to the end of your final semester, the last seminar, but you're still yet to face exams or coursework. Then you embark on a month of horrid exam preparation or coursework all-nighters. Then you have another month of waiting for results. After that, you wait for your final award to be ratified. Then you are bombarded by e-mails about graduation and you're ultimately just confused. Apart from the few friends you have on your course, there's no collective moment where you know everything has come to end.

I remember leaving primary and secondary school. There were hugs and lingering goodbyes. Right now, I haven't experienced any of that. I feel numb. I know there are things I should be feeling- nervous, excited, sad about endings, hopeful etc- but I'm more anxious than anything. I just want it to be over. I don't feel sure about anything.

I know that this is all in my head. I know that if I told people what I am feeling, they would tell me it's normal. Everyone is scared. Everyone is anxious. No one knows what they are doing.

But I'm not sure that it's enough.

It's not enough to know everyone is finding it hard.

I want to stop finding things hard.

And I think that's what makes it all the more difficult. Graduating is another milestone achieved and yet I feel like nothing has changed for me. I can see posts on Facebook where distant acquaintances and friends reminisce and ponder on the most rewarding and life-changing three years of their life. Instead, I look back and I find it hard to see where I've grown. I know that if anyone is reading this (who isn't me), they're thinking that I'm feeling sorry for myself.

"Of course in three years you've achieved something!".....you're probably shouting at me right now. You and the rational side of my brain are in agreement.

I think graduation for me is finding the ability to face the past three years and accept that I have changed.
It means being less hard on myself.
It means realising that there is time to make the progress I wanted to make, but haven't.
It means looking forward and not staying in a slump.

Of course, this is all easier said than done.

T

BEDJ/A*

*Blogging (sort of) everyday in July/ August

The aim for this blog was always to write. There was no specific writing goal. I just wanted to write things. Anything really. 

It's like Casey Neistat said recently in a video- "The only think between you and achieving your dreams is doing it". 

With uni and life and the usual excuses, I haven't been writing. On or offline. That makes me sad. So, I decided to just start writing. I've posted over the last few days but truthfully, they are pieces I wrote a while ago. I think I've been trying to ease myself into it. 

For the next few days I'm going to attempt journal-style posts. It may work. It may not. But I'm going to try. 

Right now, at the stage of life I'm in, trying seems to be the best foot forward. 

So....

Here are a few thoughts I've been having recently:

• I've just finished watching BBC's 'The Outcast'. It was a beautiful drama that made me think about trains and journeying. As someone who loves the London Underground I've always loved trains and the experience of movement. There's always this particular feeling I have when standing on a platform. It's like you're simultaneously significant and integral to the crowds of people waiting for the next train, and yet you, like every one person in that crowd are no one. I'm not sure if that makes sense but I guess what I'm saying is that train stations are a place that always resonate metaphorically for me as places of progess or lagging, depending on your perspective that day. The show made me think about childhood, adulthood and the liminal space in between. It made me think about the complex relationship between being okay and being good at hiding you're okay. It made me think about how much when we are children, we change in so many ways, and yet in other ways, we never change at all. 
  
  
  *deep breath* 

• I'm graduating next week and I haven't really been able to look someone in the face and say the words- 'I'm graduating'. 

• I have so much love for 'The West Wing'.... re-watching series one at the moment.

• I can't tell if me being a private person is just another way of saying I'm a coward. 

• How are we supposed to keep up with news from around the world and live as functional human beings? I recognise this is a problematic point, that it allows for complacency, and that it is a pathetic excuse for being willfully ignorant but it's something I think about anyway...

Until tomorrow...

T

'Bouquet'

Mum gave birth today. But my new little brother or sister is dead. He/she was extracted as lumps of congealed flesh. 

In pieces. 

When mum found out a few days ago that the baby was coming eight months early, she said she wanted to be at home. “I’m not going to the hospital. I’d rather it happen naturally.”

Over the last few days we have been waiting. Today was the day. There wasn’t much we could do. Mum spent a lot of the time in the bath room. She called out every so often when she needed help. Her voice was fragile, but mostly she sounded the same. Firm. In control. She gave dad a list. 

Towels, sheets and towels. 

That’s when I knew the baby was coming.

Soon she bled so much that she passed in and out of consciousness. It was me who called the ambulance. They took ages coming. Mum kept bleeding. I don’t remember anything more vividly than the smell. It was the smell of rotting life. Now I know what death smells of. It’s rank.

Mum was rushed to hospital in the ambulance, whilst I scrubbed the bathroom clean. I could see a small sea of red liquid floating in the bottom of plastic bags that dad hadn’t moved yet. I looked in the opposite direction as I picked them up. I needed a big bag for disposal. Then I proceeded to disinfect.

As the smell of ‘’bouquet’ disinfectant overpowered the pungent smell of death I thought about the irony. People tend to deliver flowers to mothers when they deliver their baby. But mum didn’t deliver a baby today. She delivered fragmented limbs, flesh that wasn’t quite flesh, bits and pieces of a human being. What would they give her?

'Curtains'.

Every evening, at precisely 6pm, Mrs Rogers closes her curtains. She is an old woman who lives alone. No one on Argyll Street knows her history. She seems to have lived on the street forever. The residents of Argyll Street all agree that they do not like Mrs Rogers. She has a perpetually sour expression and scowls at little children. During the day, while the curtains are open, Mrs Rogers can be seen standing, peering through her window. She has a sharp and penetrating expression when she stares.  It is safe to say that everyone walks past 67 Argyll Street swiftly; avoiding eye contact with the petite old woman they can feel glaring at them. They’ve named her ‘The Suburban Mad Woman’. Children grow up on Argyll Street being taught that Mrs Rogers is a bad woman who they should not talk to. At 6pm every evening, the residents of Argyll Street exhale softly in relief. The children are allowed to play outside awhile if it’s not too dark, and the adults speculate about what she does when the curtains close.

Today, Mr Singh who lives to the left of Mrs Rogers, believes she’s a ghost who’s haunting the house.

‘She’s waiting to take her revenge. Once she has it she’ll be gone,’ says Mr Singh to Mr Roberts, his neighbour on his left.

 ‘Oh no, Gulpreet, she’s not a ghost. I think she’s working for MI5.’

‘MI5?’ Max, Mr Roberts’ son is a sceptic. He agrees Mrs Rogers is weird but that is where his assumption ends.

‘Come on son, she lives her life just standing by that window.’

‘I agree with your dad Max. There are days when I see her and I feel a sense of dread’. Gulpreet shivers. Max, who cannot believe these are two grown men sighs and walks off. The two neighbours continue speculating. As Max walks indoors, Mrs Porter who has been peering through her blinds in the house opposite strolls towards them. The two men hold back a sigh.

‘Hello chaps. Fine evening it is isn’t it?’

‘Oh yes, Marjorie. A very fine evening indeed.’

‘Extraordinarily fine,’ adds Mr Roberts.

‘I happened to see you both talking so thought I would come and join. Is this about the neighbourhood watch?’ 

‘Neighbourhood watch?’ Mr Singh, who is President of the Neighbourhood Watch Committee smiles to himself. ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken Marjorie, the committee meeting takes place next Thursday.’ Marjorie feigns surprise. 

‘Yes, next Thursday. In the town hall.’ adds Mr Roberts pointedly.  ‘You’ve just stumbled on some neighbourly conversation that’s all.’

‘Oh, how silly of me to forget! Yes yes, I do remember now. Next Thursday it is. Sorry to disturb you.’ Mrs Porter turns around with a grimace and totters back home. The two men agree to continue their conversation later and retreat into their respective homes. It is now 6:15 pm.

Paulina and Barry, two lawyers who also live on Argyll Street take the 5:30 train from Willingham Central every day after work. Their train arrives at West Argyll Station at 6:10pm. Their walk home takes them past Mrs Rogers’ home at the centre of the street.

‘Mrs Rogers has pulled the curtains then.’ Paulina takes a quick look as they walk past. She glances at the time.

‘Hmm. I suppose she needs to block out the light while she’s stirring her cauldron.’

‘Or stabbing her voodoo dolls.’

‘Or digging underground tunnels into each of our homes so she can murder us in our sleep.’

Both Paulina and Barry chuckle. They stop to cross the road.

‘I wonder if anyone really believes this stuff.’ Barry looks at Paulina and they both turn back. They stare at her window. It is almost as if they expect to hear the sound of drilling, the chanting of a curse or the stabbing of needles into cotton. There is no strange sound. Just the sound of trees rustling in the evening breeze and birds tweeting in the distance. The pair turn away from her window and cross the road. For the rest of their walk home they do not speak.

This is but a glimpse into the opinions of a few residents of Argyll Street. There are other rumours that spread every so often about Mrs Rogers too. Between the time of 6pm and 5am when the curtains are closed, the residents of Argyll Street speculate endlessly. It has become a community project. Mrs Rogers knows. She knows they gossip about her. She does not address their rumours or assumptions.

What is interesting is how wrong they all are. They are so very wrong about Mrs Rogers.  I am sure you are now curious about what happens behind the curtains between 6pm and 5am every day.

Well, I can say this much- if I was a resident of suburban Argyll Street, I would be more concerned with the goings on behind number 23.

Now, there’s a story.