'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.

Reasons I love 'The West Wing'

• The script is incredibly witty and sophisticated. Brilliant one-liners. Great connection between cast members. Amazing amazing amazing writing...... Did I say amazing?

• Although the show deals with American politics (which as a British person I definitely am not familiar with), the storylines always feel accessible. I think this is partly due to the way information is communicated between the White House Staffers. As news travels around the West Wing, the audience is given the opportunity to understand the plot more.

• Nowadays, Hollywood seems to glamorise politics. 'The West Wing' definitely does NOT do this. Glamorise is perhaps the wrong word. What I mean is this: politics and elections are always enveloped in scandal, intrigue and conspiracy. In 'Scandal' for instance, there is a top-secret government organisation, the President of the United States is unfaithful to his wife, the President's Chief of Staff is embroiled in questionable activity, there is an instance of election-rigging and secrets are constantly being dug up then buried again. It's an endless cycle of shock and awe. With 'The West Wing', the mundane running of the country is enough to drive the show along. The show doesn't rely on shady backroom deals and grand plots to overthrow the government. I can't tell you how many times I've been watching an episode, expecting a characters will reveal that he/ she has been bugging an office or has secret footage capturing the enemy in the act. It is extremely refreshing to watch a show and experience the nitty gritty of running a country. That's not to say I'm naiive. I realise that the show is in many ways overly optimistic about politics, but generally the show feels authentic. It reminds me of 'The Office' in that the humdrum nature of life allows for more focus on human relationships.

• As a continuation of the previous point, I love that romantic relationships in 'The West Wing' are not reduced to random romps in the Rose Garden. For instance, I loved the way C.J handled her relationship with Danny. If it was a Hollywood romance, in the first season there would have been a moment with them standing in the rain, and one of them would be giving the other one an ultimatum. Generally, shows make romantic relationships the be all and end all. It would be incredibly reductive and unrealistic. Another great relationship has to be Donna and Josh. If their relationship was written in traditional Hollywood fashion, their relationship would have progressed further a lot quicker and there would have been a lot more heartbreak. Instead, I really appreciated how much their friendship seemed always to come before anything else. And the fact that Donna was not Josh's assistant when they finally got together was important because it meant they were equals and I love that she points that out to him. I love that Donna is the one that takes the reins after being his assistant for so long. Otherwise I think there would be a real danger of imbalance. And how can I forget the President and the First Lady- a great example of a turbulent but strong and fulfilling marriage. There are so many moments where their ability to work together whilst being independent and true to themselves is inspiring and moving. There is an equality in their relationship that is humbling and beautiful to watch.

• As well as the romantic relationships. friendships in 'The West Wing' are incredibly varied and complex- in the best way. Toby, Josh and Sam are a great example. There is brotherly tough love with the most brutal honesty. That scene where Toby confronts Sam about Laurie is so well constructed. I love how the characters are all so unflinchingly themselves. Leo and Jed are the epitome of bromance. I love that the first time we hear Leo call POTUS by his name is when he reminds the President of their aim in getting into the White House, just after Mandy's report becomes public. It was extremely powerful and as a viewer I could feel that honesty coming from Leo in that scene. And finally, the napkin- 'Bartlett for President'- is an amazing motif throughout the show. It doesn't get more symbolic than that!

• Speaking of Leo, I have so much respect for Sorkin for not glamorising (yes, I've used that word again) his alcohol and valium addiction. The show gave viewers insight into the difficulties of being an addict but I appreciate how the addiction is just a part or element of Leo's life- it's not his entire life. Leo's line 'I don't understand people who have just one drink' hit me hard when I heard it the first time. It's so incredibly honest and it made addiction easier for me to understand. Sorkin's writing just does that for you!

• The minor characters. I don't mean to use the word minor in a way that diminishes the characters I'm referring to. I think Sorkin is the king of the minor character. Margaret is the best example of this. Her randomness and oh my god, that moment when Margaret breaks the internet by sending out an email to the entire White House. That sums it up. TV gold.

There are soooooo many other reasons why the show is amazing but these were a few of my personal favourites!

T

Third Year.

This post is not groundbreaking. It will not reveal anything the internet has not encountered before. But I have been thinking these things for a while and writing this all somewhere feels necessary somehow.

That was a very long-winded way of saying university has ended. It is cliche, so utterly cliche that I am going to say that third year is (was- I must use the past tense now) hard. I knew going into this year that it was my last year of university. I spoke to a tutor at the beginning of the year about the fact that the first semester was sort of tough, knowing in my head that this was something everyone was whining about. I sat there telling her that third year was harder than I thought it would be- which was true in a way, because I can generally rationalise things and recognise that if things are a bit difficult it's because I am procrastinating and not doing the work; the work is not necessarily difficult in itself. But despite saying all this to her, I sat there exasperated with myself. I felt this feeling of stupidity because I was just another twenty-something in her last year of uni, talking about how it was 'slightly difficult'.

I'm not sure if that all makes sense.

Essentially, I knew of the cliche, I had watched the cliche unravel before me, amongst friends of mine who graduated last year. I knew and expected that this year I would encounter the cliche. But I think deep down I thought it would be an external encounter. I didn't think it'd be an internal encounter, a personal one. I didn't think it would affect me. I never realised that I would become privy to this cliche, that I would hop on that train to loony town. It's a confusing and momentous time all at once. You feel like you're moving on and moving backward which only stops you from moving at all.

I never expected it.

Truly.

But then I experienced my first all-nighter. I think that's when I knew. I don't do all-nighters. I don't pretend to be amazing at organising myself, but I am good at getting things done. When I know there's a deadline, I make sure I meet it. But this time, something changed. I had things done, but it felt different. I entered the cliche. I jumped on the train to loony town. I stayed awake all night finishing my essays and watched the sky change from night to day outside the attic window. I heard the gentle breathing (and violent snoring) of my family fill the house as I typed frantically and hopelessly. When embarking on an all-nighter, darkness surrounds you. Literally and metaphorically. It's all dark and foggy. It's hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Eventually, when I finished the essay, I remember being too tired to even cry. That's when third year hit me.

Now I'm getting emails about booking graduation and buying tickets and hiring gowns. There are emails about possible internships and jobs in companies x, y and z. There are emails about post-graduate courses and random-I-didn't-know-they-existed courses. Then there are emails that I should definitely be paying attention to, about preparing for my PGCE course next year. But I've just finished my degree- I'm not ready to prepare just yet. Then there are emails about things running out- like library memberships.

Everything is running out.

And there are just too many emails.



This is (was) third year. It (is) was hard. I knew third year was supposed to be hard but I didn't know it would be hard for me. It sounds arrogant, as if I think I am above it all. It's true. I was arrogant. I misunderstood. I was wrong.

Third year sucked.

It's a cliche for a reason.

x

T.

Looking backwards.

When I was 16/17, I thought that when I was a few years older, at university, I'd worry less about the things that were giving me crippling anxiety. At 16/17 I thought my older self would be braver, less troubled and her opportunities would be broadened. I thought getting older meant getting better. I thought it meant that everything that was awkward and cringe-worthy would disappear and I would forget it all. It wouldn't matter. None of it would matter. And that's what people say isn't it-'you'll look back on this period in your life and think you were crazy, there was nothing to worry about. Trust me, it gets better'. 

In some ways it's true. If I could go back I would tell my 16 year old self that things get easier. They aren't less painful but they get easier. The things I worried about back then, eventually dwindled. But life doesn't allow the blips to disappear into a void. The bloody blips keep returning. And I look back at my younger self and think, crap, that's where everything began. Emotions and feelings you thought had disappeared merely buried themselves like ants that scuttle away back under their rock when they see a shadow loom above. Events I thought would stay hidden beneath those rocks began to creep out in different forms and startle me. I did not expect the past to return. And I most certainly did not expect the past to return during a time when I was supposed to be getting older, wiser and more mature.

I suppose I am realising more and more that growing up means constantly returning to the beginning. As I move forwards I look backwards and that makes it harder to keep moving. I keep getting stuck as I remember my younger self who in many ways I envy and miss. I feel so naive and I wish I was 16 again so people could expect that of me. On the days I remember specific past versions of myself I grow melancholic and deeply sad. I want so badly to hug my past self because my present self knows how difficult the past was. My present self knows that all those experiences left residual mess behind and that the present self is still cleaning up the debris. It seems as though that is what growing up is all about- coming to terms with the past and cleaning it up, time after time. 

All I wish is that these times grow fewer. I hope that I'm not still cleaning up my old mess. I hope that I learn to lift the rock and let the ants scuttle free. I hope that I give myself room to make new mess. 

But until then I am still cleaning, still re-organising and still struggling to make the steps forward.

At least I am trying.

x

T

'Tis the season. Everyone is going back to school. There's something about the move from August to September that signals a new year for me. It's the time when many of us re-learn what it means to be a student. And more specifically, we re-programme ourselves to write because let's face it, we've used our fingers to tweet, post instagram pictures, blog, scour Netflix and search YouTube. Writing seems almost archaic. Even though I am an avid letter writer, I have felt almost disallusioned with my penmanship over the past summer. I have forgotten how my pen fits into my hand and what it's like to physically hold it to paper. With typing, the words rush from you and swiftly appear on your screen but with writing in real time I feel as if my brain is moving quicker than my hands and words are eluding me. Cutting and pasting is so much easier than TipExing or striking through an ill-fitting word. And yet for some reason I have only ever used my laptop at university once over the past few years. It may be archaic and fewer people may use it as often as they did centuries ago, but there is something about the act of writing that intrigues me.  I don't know. Maybe this struggle with writing is a pscyhological barrier that represents coming to terms with the new year. Maybe it's the same reason why as a child I used to love going back to school just to be able to write the date on the immaculate first page of my exercise book. It was always bittersweet because I knew that the first moment I unleashed ink onto that page, however delicately, was the most important. It set the tone for the rest of the book (and the rest of my school year) but it was at a moment when I'd just returned from the holidays. I could never get my handwriting right despite my continued efforts over the years, so in the end I would make the intention of finishing the book early so I could start over. Writing in the summer is like that. Starting over. What will your font be in the next year? What size font? I prefer small. What type of pen? Fountain or biro? I prefer the fountain. How will you underline the date- single or double? I'd go for the double. Black or blue ink? Definitely blue.

It seems inane and perhaps it is. But as I began to pen a letter to my friend today I thought about how my hands seemed so uncomfortable. I tried writing with a black ink pen and it seemed so unfamiliar I had to change to my regular store-bought blue ink fountain pen. It felt better but I wasn't completely there yet. I think my transition from August to September is slow moving. But I think that's the point. I can't barge into my last year of university. I need to enter it slowly and I feel (in a very corny way, I know) that re-learning how to write is my metaphor for entering back into the 'Academic Sphere'. It will be a gentle transition albeit a messy one. It's not something I can force, but something I must settle into naturally. I have to go through that process of entering all my classes with a clean slate, a chance to start off well. Even though I've been so out of practice that I will inevitably forget the month and have to cross out something, it's something I need to go through.

This will be the last year that I am a student.

I hope I write it well.


T

15 year old Amelia from No. 56

It happened at the same time every day. And each time, I berated myself for my cowardice.

For the last few weeks builders had been working in the house opposite. Since the moment they arrived in their dreary, grey overalls, they’d spent half the working day smoking and belching in a repeating cycle. But it wasn’t this that annoyed me. Every day around 8:30, fifteen year old Amelia from number fifty six would leave her house and walk to the bus stop at the end of the road. Along the way, Amelia would walk past the dreary builders who would without fail taunt her. They would eye up her skirt and ask her what colour panties she was wearing. They would puff smoke into her face as she tried to pass them hurriedly. Once they even tried to brush against her by “accident”. Each time I saw this, clouds of smoke and dust trailed behind her. Each time I saw this I remembered the first time.

The first time, I was leaving my house when I noticed Amelia walking past the house opposite. I raised my hand to wave at her and say hi as I usually did but she hadn’t seen me. Instead she was walking at a faster pace than usual because the brawny, beefy builders at the house opposite had started whistling. “Nice legs”, one of them shouted. My instinct was to swear and hurl profanities at them but being a coward I backed down. I didn’t defend her. I knew that I should have. As soon as I walked away in the opposite direction to go to work I knew that I’d regret my decision but I still never walked back. And every day afterwards, I saw Amelia gradually walk faster. I never did anything. The first day she wore a skirt, on the second day she wore tights and on the third day she wore trousers. On the fourth day she tried wearing a skirt again but she never did after that. As for me, I still never did anything. I never told anyone. I knew that shouting or even talking to them wouldn’t make them feel guilty. But it would have made a difference to Amelia. Every day I would watch her walk past and I'd walk in the other direction, trying to ignore what I heard them say. I still never did anything.

Finally the builders completed their job and they left. Amelia seemed to be more cheery and started saying hello to the neighbours again. Even I stopped to chat to her a few times. I wanted to ask her if she was okay. I wanted to apologise for never saying anything about what I saw. But again I was a coward and I pretended that we'd been missing each other in the mornings for the past few weeks. Once the builders had left, I noticed that Amelia’s walk became more relaxed. I noticed her smile reappear. I pretended when I spoke to her that I hadn’t witnessed her being sexually harassed for two weeks. I pretended that I hadn’t seen her switch skirts for trousers and a fast pace for a slow one. I never asked her why she started to look closely into the windows of cars as she walked past them or why she would walk quickly past large groups of people. I never asked her why on warmer days she never wore that cute floral skirt she used to love so much.

These were the things I couldn’t ask her and the things I wished I didn’t have to.