It was New Year’s Eve and finally he had to say it. “There’s a ghost in this house.” He saw the cords in her neck rise and she gripped her mug of green tea tighter but she didn’t look round at him, wouldn’t acknowledge it. He wanted to say more but felt stifled by her silence, exiled by her stoic refusal to accept the presence that filled their home and had done every night since. The air was dry with central heating left on all day, but it was still spiked with a chill whatever they set on the thermostat and when they moved or spoke they stirred the air and the pall fell on them like snowflakes which slip through layers of scarves and jumpers to hit the back of your neck. They sat on the same sofa, separated by the same terror. Everything they shared kept them apart.
Last year had been so different, the house had been filled with the relaxed chatter and laughter of friends. He remembers kissing her as bells chimed midnight, her chestnut hair shining in the twinkling fairy lights. She tasted of champagne, filled his senses with the vanilla of her perfume and the happiness they’d believed was cemented into the bricks of their home. They’d flung the front door wide and led their friends into the street to greet the new year, whooping at the stars and holding hands to watch the distant fireworks and look back at their open front door and the light and warmth they’d built into their home.
This year, no one came, no one invited them over and they barred their front door against the festivities. He’d bought a Christmas Tree, had thought the aroma of fresh pine would bring some life back into the house but instead the needles dropped unscented and the lights which last year had crowned her radiance this year looked like a cheap mockery of Christmas joy. The ghost ate all their small gestures towards future contentment, hissing like damp logs in a fireplace, shooting white hot sparks in their eyes until they stopped looking for it.
“I said –“ he tried again.
“I know what you said,” she replied, but still wouldn’t turn to look at him. She’d been gripping her mug for the last half an hour and her tea must be cold but she wouldn’t let it go.
“I think you’re being stupid, I mean, it’s not as if –“
Fury overtook him, and he stood.
“As if what? Don’t pretend you don’t feel it too. You won’t talk about it, you refuse to move and all this, all this... death seeps into our walls and into our bones.” Slamming his whiskey glass on the table – unlike her, he wasn’t afraid of the oblivion alcohol could provide, he sometimes thought it was his only insulation against the horror – he stalked across the hallway and up the stairs to stand by the closed, locked door. From his pocket he pulled out the key he’d been carrying for three months, nearly three months to the day since he’d locked it. Tonight he returned the key to the lock.
“Simon no, it’s...”
He noticed then how much the ghost had taken from her. At first she hadn’t spoken at all, and even after he locked the door she could only ever manage scraps of a sentence, so often she trailed off as it took her breath away and only now he noticed. Alone in the same haunting.
It started with the smallest things. As they sat together in the evening, lights dimmed and the house seemed darker, filled with shadows and shapes. From the first night it seemed that way, the change so small he had thought it was just his darkened imagination picking up the noises of the house. It was an alarm clock ringing in an empty room or a discarded sweet wrapper unfurling on a table, eerie but not a cause for concern, or even comment.
He can’t remember when he locked the room, or what had prompted him to do it. The face, open mouthed and grinning as a shadow from behind a lamp shade, or caught in the reflection on the tv.
Sunday, 27 December 2009
Friday, 23 October 2009
Take Two - edited version...
Search Engine
Fuck.
I’ve lost my keys, I need to get to work and there’s no one here to shout at. I keep going back to the telephone table with the key hook. Why aren’t they there? I put them there every night on my way in. Why, when I’m running late for work, aren’t they there? Why? I glare accusing at the empty hook, but the keys don’t materialise. Bastards.
He always kept his keys on a hook, and I always resisted his calm orderly ways. Did I do that just to spite him – start a fight, light a spark - and was that the beginning of the end? These days I’ve started using the hook. He’s not around to say I told you so. My brain creaks into motion, probing the edges of my silent evening, trying to see the picture of my last-night world. Where, where, where did I put my keys down?
I tip my handbag out on the coffee table, pens clattering out like a game of pick-up-sticks. Where do they go when I need one? I frisk coats I’ve not worn in months, lift up magazines, probe the folds of drawn curtains, scan my small studio flat and see nothing but a small and cluttered life. I pull the sofa apart and take out my frustration on the cushions, stack things in new piles, open drawers; make more mess. The faster I move, the more often I check my watch, the further away I am from getting to work on time. Finally I sit down on my demolished sofa, on the verge of tears. I’m all alone now, only I can fix this and I can’t do it, can’t cope alone, can’t even do a simple thing like get myself out the front door now he’s gone.
A-ha. Got it. I open the fridge door, and there they are, right in the centre of the otherwise empty top shelf like a winning entry in the Turner Prize. I’d come home last night via Sainsbury’s, unloaded my meagre bounty and put my keys on the shelf while I was doing it.
After the tears and silent tantrums, I’m only five minutes late and I power walk to work. So many searches in life. These days, we trust Google to find anything we need - a new job or a washing machine, the latest book or relationship. Take the dating website I signed up for last month, all those tick boxes and criteria, the logical search, the structured way to find a man. Should searching for something abstract and intangible, like love be approached the same way as finding keys, plodding, methodical and still littered with tantrums.
A lot of my friends are in positive relationships and I used to hope that their luck in love will rub off on me, but looking there is just staring at an empty key hook. All my friends have keys too, but that didn’t help me this morning, none of them fit my front door. I think about how things hide other things, all those pens somewhere under the accumulated rubble in my handbag and wonder if all my loving friendships are holding me back from finding a man like a soft comfortable haystack.
Even when keys are lost you know they exist out there somewhere waiting for you to find them, but the same is not true of love, whatever dating agencies and websites would like you to believe - pay just £30 a month and we’ll put you in touch with the man of your dreams, he’s here, really he is...Those websites are like the pockets of coats you’ve not worn in months, nothing you really need could possibly be found there.
I turn the corner and see the office building I work in loom on the other side of the road. I wait for the traffic to subside and my day to start; I need to screw on my professional head and rein in these rambling thoughts the same way I wrestle my tangled hair into a smart clip each morning. Lost love is not like lost keys, it is no use retracing your steps, going back to where you last remember having it. All this searching could go on even though there’s nothing really to find because maybe, unlike my keys, he’s not out there somewhere waiting to be found and I’ll just spend my days frantically upending my life like a loosely built sofa.
Even if he is out there, he’ll be sitting in an empty fridge.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I’ve lost my keys, I need to get to work and there’s no one here to shout at. I keep going back to the telephone table with the key hook. Why aren’t they there? I put them there every night on my way in. Why, when I’m running late for work, aren’t they there? Why? I glare accusing at the empty hook, but the keys don’t materialise. Bastards.
He always kept his keys on a hook, and I always resisted his calm orderly ways. Did I do that just to spite him – start a fight, light a spark - and was that the beginning of the end? These days I’ve started using the hook. He’s not around to say I told you so. My brain creaks into motion, probing the edges of my silent evening, trying to see the picture of my last-night world. Where, where, where did I put my keys down?
I tip my handbag out on the coffee table, pens clattering out like a game of pick-up-sticks. Where do they go when I need one? I frisk coats I’ve not worn in months, lift up magazines, probe the folds of drawn curtains, scan my small studio flat and see nothing but a small and cluttered life. I pull the sofa apart and take out my frustration on the cushions, stack things in new piles, open drawers; make more mess. The faster I move, the more often I check my watch, the further away I am from getting to work on time. Finally I sit down on my demolished sofa, on the verge of tears. I’m all alone now, only I can fix this and I can’t do it, can’t cope alone, can’t even do a simple thing like get myself out the front door now he’s gone.
A-ha. Got it. I open the fridge door, and there they are, right in the centre of the otherwise empty top shelf like a winning entry in the Turner Prize. I’d come home last night via Sainsbury’s, unloaded my meagre bounty and put my keys on the shelf while I was doing it.
After the tears and silent tantrums, I’m only five minutes late and I power walk to work. So many searches in life. These days, we trust Google to find anything we need - a new job or a washing machine, the latest book or relationship. Take the dating website I signed up for last month, all those tick boxes and criteria, the logical search, the structured way to find a man. Should searching for something abstract and intangible, like love be approached the same way as finding keys, plodding, methodical and still littered with tantrums.
A lot of my friends are in positive relationships and I used to hope that their luck in love will rub off on me, but looking there is just staring at an empty key hook. All my friends have keys too, but that didn’t help me this morning, none of them fit my front door. I think about how things hide other things, all those pens somewhere under the accumulated rubble in my handbag and wonder if all my loving friendships are holding me back from finding a man like a soft comfortable haystack.
Even when keys are lost you know they exist out there somewhere waiting for you to find them, but the same is not true of love, whatever dating agencies and websites would like you to believe - pay just £30 a month and we’ll put you in touch with the man of your dreams, he’s here, really he is...Those websites are like the pockets of coats you’ve not worn in months, nothing you really need could possibly be found there.
I turn the corner and see the office building I work in loom on the other side of the road. I wait for the traffic to subside and my day to start; I need to screw on my professional head and rein in these rambling thoughts the same way I wrestle my tangled hair into a smart clip each morning. Lost love is not like lost keys, it is no use retracing your steps, going back to where you last remember having it. All this searching could go on even though there’s nothing really to find because maybe, unlike my keys, he’s not out there somewhere waiting to be found and I’ll just spend my days frantically upending my life like a loosely built sofa.
Even if he is out there, he’ll be sitting in an empty fridge.
Fuck.
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
OU Search DRAFT
Fuck.
I’ve lost my keys, I need to get to work and there’s no one here to shout at. I keep going back to the telephone table with the key hook; they’re always there, why aren’t they there, I put them there every night on my way in, why, when I’m running late for work, aren’t they there? I glare accusing at the empty hook, but the keys don’t materialise. Bastards.
He always used to keep his keys on a hook, and I always resisted his calm orderly ways, and could always remember where I’d left them so I’d defiantly not hang mine next to his. Now I wonder if I always remembered just to spite him, and if that was the beginning of the end, because these days I’ve started using the hook, he wasn’t around to say I told you so and I was trying to build a new compact, self sufficient and organised life alone. But in getting more organised, I’ve lost that part of my mind that remembers these things, like the epic poets embracing the written word and losing stories round the camp fire. My brain creaks into motion, probing the edges of my silent evening last night, trying to see the picture of my last night world where I put my keys down. Where, where, where did I put my keys down?
I tip my handbag out on the coffee table, absently wondering where all those pens clattering out like a game of pick-up-sticks go when I reach in my bag to get one. I frisk coats I’ve not worn in months, lift up magazines, probe the folds of drawn curtains, stand in the middle of my living room urgently scanning the small area and see nothing. I start pulling the sofa apart and take out my frustration on the cushions, I stack things in new piles, open drawers, making more mess which will surely hide my keys all the more.. I’m moving quicker and quicker, and yet seem to be just slowing myself down. I check and recheck, look at the clock, and finally sit down on my demolished sofa, on the verge of tears, overwhelmed with the realisation that I’m all alone now, only I can fix this and I can’t do it, can’t cope alone, can’t even do a simple thing like get myself out the front door now he’s gone. Suddenly lost keys are like lost loves, irretrievable, enigmatic, twinkling in the grown up world I’ve failed to join. I need him, I want him back.
A-ha. Got it. Walk to the fridge, open the door, and there they are, right in the centre of an empty top shelf like the winning entry in the Turner Prize. I’d come home last night via Sainsbury’s, unloaded my meagre bounty into an empty fridge and put my keys on the shelf while I was doing it.
I’m only five minutes late but that time searching for my keys felt like a lifetime, and as I power walk to work, I start to think about life’s searches, trusting Google to find anything we need, a new job or a washing machine, the latest book or relationship. I think about the dating website I signed up for last month, all those tick boxes and criteria, the logical search, the structured way to find a man, and I wonder if searching for something abstract and intangible, like love, should be approached the same way as finding keys and I can’t decide.
A lot of my friends are in positive relationships and I think that if I am with them often enough, the glow of their happiness, their luck in love, will rub off on me, but now I’m starting to think that’s just a red herring. All my friends have keys too, but that didn’t help me this morning, none of them fit my front door. I think about how things hide other things, all those pens somewhere under the accumulated rubble in my handbag and wonder if all my loving friendships are holding me back from finding a man like a soft comfortable haystack.
Not to mention that even when keys are lost you know they exist, they’re not in an existential crisis, they’re out there somewhere waiting for you to find them, but the same is not true of love, whatever dating agencies and websites would like you to believe - sign up here, pay just £30 a month and we’ll put you in touch with the man of your dreams, he’s waiting for you, he’s here, really he is... In truth, those websites are like the pockets of coats you’ve not worn in months, nothing you really need could possibly be found there.
I turn the corner and see the office building I work in loom on the other side of the road. I wait for the traffic to subside and my day to start, I need to screw my professional office head on, draw this meandering to a close. Lost love is not like lost keys, it is no use going back to where you last remember having it, and a logical methodical search of the world through dating sites will not work because love does not fit the rules of Boolean logic. All this searching could go on even though there’s nothing really to look for because maybe, unlike my keys, he’s not out there somewhere waiting to be found, or even looking for me and I’ll just spend my days frantically upending my life like a loosely built sofa to no avail, and even he is out there, he’ll be sitting in an empty fridge.
Fuck.
I’ve lost my keys, I need to get to work and there’s no one here to shout at. I keep going back to the telephone table with the key hook; they’re always there, why aren’t they there, I put them there every night on my way in, why, when I’m running late for work, aren’t they there? I glare accusing at the empty hook, but the keys don’t materialise. Bastards.
He always used to keep his keys on a hook, and I always resisted his calm orderly ways, and could always remember where I’d left them so I’d defiantly not hang mine next to his. Now I wonder if I always remembered just to spite him, and if that was the beginning of the end, because these days I’ve started using the hook, he wasn’t around to say I told you so and I was trying to build a new compact, self sufficient and organised life alone. But in getting more organised, I’ve lost that part of my mind that remembers these things, like the epic poets embracing the written word and losing stories round the camp fire. My brain creaks into motion, probing the edges of my silent evening last night, trying to see the picture of my last night world where I put my keys down. Where, where, where did I put my keys down?
I tip my handbag out on the coffee table, absently wondering where all those pens clattering out like a game of pick-up-sticks go when I reach in my bag to get one. I frisk coats I’ve not worn in months, lift up magazines, probe the folds of drawn curtains, stand in the middle of my living room urgently scanning the small area and see nothing. I start pulling the sofa apart and take out my frustration on the cushions, I stack things in new piles, open drawers, making more mess which will surely hide my keys all the more.. I’m moving quicker and quicker, and yet seem to be just slowing myself down. I check and recheck, look at the clock, and finally sit down on my demolished sofa, on the verge of tears, overwhelmed with the realisation that I’m all alone now, only I can fix this and I can’t do it, can’t cope alone, can’t even do a simple thing like get myself out the front door now he’s gone. Suddenly lost keys are like lost loves, irretrievable, enigmatic, twinkling in the grown up world I’ve failed to join. I need him, I want him back.
A-ha. Got it. Walk to the fridge, open the door, and there they are, right in the centre of an empty top shelf like the winning entry in the Turner Prize. I’d come home last night via Sainsbury’s, unloaded my meagre bounty into an empty fridge and put my keys on the shelf while I was doing it.
I’m only five minutes late but that time searching for my keys felt like a lifetime, and as I power walk to work, I start to think about life’s searches, trusting Google to find anything we need, a new job or a washing machine, the latest book or relationship. I think about the dating website I signed up for last month, all those tick boxes and criteria, the logical search, the structured way to find a man, and I wonder if searching for something abstract and intangible, like love, should be approached the same way as finding keys and I can’t decide.
A lot of my friends are in positive relationships and I think that if I am with them often enough, the glow of their happiness, their luck in love, will rub off on me, but now I’m starting to think that’s just a red herring. All my friends have keys too, but that didn’t help me this morning, none of them fit my front door. I think about how things hide other things, all those pens somewhere under the accumulated rubble in my handbag and wonder if all my loving friendships are holding me back from finding a man like a soft comfortable haystack.
Not to mention that even when keys are lost you know they exist, they’re not in an existential crisis, they’re out there somewhere waiting for you to find them, but the same is not true of love, whatever dating agencies and websites would like you to believe - sign up here, pay just £30 a month and we’ll put you in touch with the man of your dreams, he’s waiting for you, he’s here, really he is... In truth, those websites are like the pockets of coats you’ve not worn in months, nothing you really need could possibly be found there.
I turn the corner and see the office building I work in loom on the other side of the road. I wait for the traffic to subside and my day to start, I need to screw my professional office head on, draw this meandering to a close. Lost love is not like lost keys, it is no use going back to where you last remember having it, and a logical methodical search of the world through dating sites will not work because love does not fit the rules of Boolean logic. All this searching could go on even though there’s nothing really to look for because maybe, unlike my keys, he’s not out there somewhere waiting to be found, or even looking for me and I’ll just spend my days frantically upending my life like a loosely built sofa to no avail, and even he is out there, he’ll be sitting in an empty fridge.
Fuck.
Thursday, 1 October 2009
Jack
You’re golden; blonde-haired and boisterous
A bouncy castle, fizzy penny sweets and floating bubbles
Everyone will join in.
You’re a chocolate ice cream grin, an infectious giggle
A Lego tower built for adventure stretching into a bright sky
Everyone wants to play.
You’re a football in the garden, a sunny park runabout
Tripping the light fantastic in too-large shorts and wellies
Everyone starts to dance.
You’re a tiny car pushed around the patterns of a carpet
An unexpected cuddle, a blessing, a lesson on what really counts:
Everyone is a child.
A bouncy castle, fizzy penny sweets and floating bubbles
Everyone will join in.
You’re a chocolate ice cream grin, an infectious giggle
A Lego tower built for adventure stretching into a bright sky
Everyone wants to play.
You’re a football in the garden, a sunny park runabout
Tripping the light fantastic in too-large shorts and wellies
Everyone starts to dance.
You’re a tiny car pushed around the patterns of a carpet
An unexpected cuddle, a blessing, a lesson on what really counts:
Everyone is a child.
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
Silver Medals
I have a row of silver medals round my neck, close to my heart and they shine
Engraved indelible second place, polished brilliance. Never risk
Breaking the tape for a loss - no contest - I don’t dare to win.
Your laughter a combined victory and first loser
You’re larger than life in the distance, golden
World record standard, impossible
Because I can't ever say
>Insert your name here<
I love you.
Me.
Engraved indelible second place, polished brilliance. Never risk
Breaking the tape for a loss - no contest - I don’t dare to win.
Your laughter a combined victory and first loser
You’re larger than life in the distance, golden
World record standard, impossible
Because I can't ever say
>Insert your name here<
I love you.
Me.
Sunday, 23 August 2009
Time Wasting
Staring at a blue sky through cheap sunglasses
We squint and smile into the bright sun
Half watching cricket as the afternoon eases into evening.
We talk important nonsense, drink wine from plastic tumblers
And lie back, quiet and easy, free from chores and clocks.
My broken dreams take flight on wisps of white cloud
The world goes by and I let it go, I let them all go -
Aspirations abandoned for a picnic blanket.
An unplanned and unrehearsed afternoon with you,
No jostling for opportunities, just sun cream and sandwiches.
You can work so hard at happiness, it darts and dances
Around corners into exclusive parties and plane tickets
But the short walk to the park, the lack of a better idea
An absence of better opportunities can be a solution, its own discovery.
We pour another drink and I rest, right where I want to be.
We squint and smile into the bright sun
Half watching cricket as the afternoon eases into evening.
We talk important nonsense, drink wine from plastic tumblers
And lie back, quiet and easy, free from chores and clocks.
My broken dreams take flight on wisps of white cloud
The world goes by and I let it go, I let them all go -
Aspirations abandoned for a picnic blanket.
An unplanned and unrehearsed afternoon with you,
No jostling for opportunities, just sun cream and sandwiches.
You can work so hard at happiness, it darts and dances
Around corners into exclusive parties and plane tickets
But the short walk to the park, the lack of a better idea
An absence of better opportunities can be a solution, its own discovery.
We pour another drink and I rest, right where I want to be.
Thursday, 16 July 2009
Down the local - A Response
Down the local
You know what mate, you do your best
But those fucking women never give it a rest
You take her round a nice bunch of flowers
And she’ll sit and dissect the reasons for hours.
Oh yeah it’s always so cool at the start
She’ll do anything you want to win your heart
So it starts out she’s happy to suck on your cock
But soon comes the muttering about some stray sock
She’ll say she’s happy with the footie, says she likes your mates
But that won’t last longer than the first few dates
Then she’ll sulk and pout and act all hurt
That you won’t cut your hair or get rid of that shirt.
So I’m giving it all up, for stuff I understand
That’s me, my mates and my trusty right hand.
You know what mate, you do your best
But those fucking women never give it a rest
You take her round a nice bunch of flowers
And she’ll sit and dissect the reasons for hours.
Oh yeah it’s always so cool at the start
She’ll do anything you want to win your heart
So it starts out she’s happy to suck on your cock
But soon comes the muttering about some stray sock
She’ll say she’s happy with the footie, says she likes your mates
But that won’t last longer than the first few dates
Then she’ll sulk and pout and act all hurt
That you won’t cut your hair or get rid of that shirt.
So I’m giving it all up, for stuff I understand
That’s me, my mates and my trusty right hand.
Girls' Night In
Men. We’re talking about bloody useless men -
I’m quite certain, I’m not going there again.
I put on my best dress, primp and comb my hair
All to start a love story that ends in despair
It starts with held hands, him waxing poetic
Ends in tears, me feeling fucking pathetic.
All that time waiting for a call or a text
Just for some disappointing drunken sex
Surely I’d be better off with an expensive vibrator
Than an emotionally stunted premature ejaculator.
They want what they want, but if you want a chat
You won’t see them for dust, what’s up with that?
I’d rather be here , in your house with some wine
And as a single girl I am doing just fine
I’m happy, fulfilled, and even feeling fitter
I won’t let some man send it all down the shitter
Yep, for me, I’ve just decided, there will be no more
I don’t want to pick up his socks from the floor
And no cute smile, broad shoulders, twinkling eyes,
No sweet gestures or warm feeling of butterflies
No, nothing will sway me from my decision
Even if he can find the G Spot with exact precision
Not even those kisses, that start soft and gentle
And arouse feelings hot fierce elemental
That warm, slow shiver, his hand on your spine
Oh my god, this man in mine –
Hang on what was it I was saying?
Oh yeah, if that’s their game then I’m not playing.
I’m quite certain, I’m not going there again.
I put on my best dress, primp and comb my hair
All to start a love story that ends in despair
It starts with held hands, him waxing poetic
Ends in tears, me feeling fucking pathetic.
All that time waiting for a call or a text
Just for some disappointing drunken sex
Surely I’d be better off with an expensive vibrator
Than an emotionally stunted premature ejaculator.
They want what they want, but if you want a chat
You won’t see them for dust, what’s up with that?
I’d rather be here , in your house with some wine
And as a single girl I am doing just fine
I’m happy, fulfilled, and even feeling fitter
I won’t let some man send it all down the shitter
Yep, for me, I’ve just decided, there will be no more
I don’t want to pick up his socks from the floor
And no cute smile, broad shoulders, twinkling eyes,
No sweet gestures or warm feeling of butterflies
No, nothing will sway me from my decision
Even if he can find the G Spot with exact precision
Not even those kisses, that start soft and gentle
And arouse feelings hot fierce elemental
That warm, slow shiver, his hand on your spine
Oh my god, this man in mine –
Hang on what was it I was saying?
Oh yeah, if that’s their game then I’m not playing.
Thursday, 25 June 2009
She She She Sign On
I woke up knowing it was the day to go to the job centre, an oppressive feeling which overshadowed the bright summer day. I knew I had to get up, things to do before the meeting with my “personal advisor” in that brightly coloured, heavily guarded place, but I put it off, hoping to waste the day into disappearing. When the sun beating through the curtains finally shamed me out from under the duvet, I threw on some clothes and moved to the next room and carried on my job hunting. Writing endless positive letters, tweaking my CV in infinitesimal ways in the hope that this final change will finally be the one that nets me a job and a way out of my empty days. I stay positive on the phone, I find new places online to discover that there are no jobs available, I do everything you’re supposed to and then, tired of my efforts at optimism in the face of reality, I give up and watch an old X Files on TV and pretend this is what I chose, that I wanted this freedom and a chance to rethink my career and watch re-runs on daytime TV. Pretend I wasn’t booted out of my last job with little more than a half hearted pretence that they cared whether or not the door hit me on the way out.
With things to do before the meeting, it finally reached the point where I could do nothing else to avoid the walk into town. I was everyone’s friend since I lost my job, having endless free time for favours and errands. I dropped off washing, posted letters and got kitchen knives sharpened, I picked up shampoo and something for dinner for the elderly couple next door. Finally, it was time and I walked towards the job centre, thinking about the last time I’d gone there, to make my unemployment official. That boy who called himself my personal advisor and who would have still been in primary school when I had started my career. He sat across from me looking self important yet uncomfortable in his cheap Burton suit and a tie only a mother could have bought him, his acne shining under the artificial light, telling me I might want to try the internet for job vacancies. I want to laugh in his face, but with each day that brings no news but failed interviews, polite rejections and deafening silence, I think the fear of this second meeting is that this makes it real, this is my life and it’s all I deserve.
Even before looking inside and seeing the crowds of the desperate and defiant unemployed - penned in together on deceptively uncomfortable, modern looking sofas - the people outside signalled what kind of place this was. Young men in tracksuits and cheap gold jewellery postured in a parody of manhood; tattooed, bleach-haired girls who don’t look old enough for a Saturday job pushing prams, smoking furiously before they head inside, swearing at their children to behave as Mummy needs to sign on, or there will be no Macdonalds later. I don’t want to look like I belong here, but I look down at my tatty t-shirt, cheap shorts and flip flops and fear that I probably don’t look any different to them. I keep my head down as I head through the doors and am excessively polite to the guards in the hope that they know, they can see it’s a mistake that brought me here. This is not my world.
I’m summarily ushered to a reception, which seems a grand title for an arrangement of three sofas and a rack of leaflets, and look around at my companions. Despite my best efforts at delay I’ve got here early, and immediately realise my mistake in not bringing a book. Next to me sits a young man so pale as to appear vampiric, an impression he does nothing to dispel with his dark heavy clothes and long hair swept across his forehead. He is obviously more seasoned than me, as he’s heavily into his book – American Psycho, by Bret Easton Ellis. Although cheered by this potential sign of intelligence, I do think that it’s no surprise that this overgrown alabaster school boy can’t find work, he certainly doesn’t scream customer service to me. Next to him, taking up two seats on the sofa with his legs splayed wide was another young man, close cropped and heavily gelled hair. He’s on the phone, recounting drunken antics and telling anyone who calls he’s just signing on, fucking bastards keeping him waiting, he’ll see them in the pub in half an hour.
A name is called and a small grey man I hadn’t noticed until that point got up, taking a bulging folder of paperwork with him and starting up a lengthy debate with his advisor, loudly explaining how important he had been when he was working, and the many flaws that riddled the benefits structure. A young mum with a push chair took his place on the sofa, her daughter wailing and getting nothing for her efforts but an exaggerated sigh of frustration and sotto voce profanity. Names were called, people came and went, as did the time of my appointment. I want to ask someone what time their appointment is so I can gauge how delayed this whole process is, but I don’t want to engage vampire boy with my neck so exposed in a v neck tee, and the other guy is never off his phone even if would ever dare speak to him. I clutch my little pass book containing mysterious codes and try to think positive thoughts. I thought about what else I had to write in the job application I was working on, I thought about my yoga class that evening and tried to recall the sun filled days of my recent holiday, when I had felt so invincible and ready to take on the world and win.
“Miss Jones?”
Is it my imagination, or does the whole room sneer over that “miss” as I spring from my seat? Probably think if I made a bit more effort I could get a husband who would keep me in cheap fashions, cigarettes and gin, and then I wouldn’t have to bother these busy, important people at the job centre or take up an appointment which keeps so many others still waiting.
“Can I just check we still have the right address and you haven’t moved?” the boy asks, his tie a violent green which hurts my eyes. I say it is correct and feel a simmering anger. Why is he asking this? Where would I move to? I’m stuck exactly where I am until I get a job, win the lottery or leap from the top of a high building. He taps away on the keyboard, far more than necessary given that nothing has changed, and asks if I can also confirm my phone number is correct as he swings the screen round so I can see myself on their system. I nod and clutch my shopping.
“Have you done any work, paid or unpaid, in the last two weeks?”
I say I haven’t, thinking, thanks pal, rub it in. Isn’t that why I’m here? Like the questions they ask you in the airport about your suitcase, the whole process seems redundant, relying as it does so entirely on the honesty of people who should never be trusted.
“And have you been actively seeking work in that time?” he asks, still keeping up the infernal tapping on the keyboard. I take a deep breath and smile. I can show I’m not like the other people here, and I tell him about the interviews I’ve attended, the jobs I’ve applied for, the applications I’m still working on. That will jolt him out of his paperwork coma which stops him seeing his appointments as anything more than details to be checked and electronic boxes to be ticked. I talk about the new service I’ve joined which broadcasts my CV to recruitment agencies all over the UK, about the review of my CV I’ve just paid an expert £300 for and what this means for my job seeking.
“But as yet you have been unsuccessful.”
I can’t tell if this is a question or a statement, and I feel either way it’s an insult, and as I twist the handles of my shopping bag I catch a flash of the newly sharpened kitchen knives. Before I know what’s happened, I’ve pulled the largest knife out of the back and lunged across the desk so I can be sure I can aim it straight for this adolescent bureaucrat’s heart. I think perhaps it’s just the space where his heart should be as it slides in quickly, and as I pull it out, it slashes across his horrified face. I hear an advisor in the next cubicle scream as overweight security guards puff into action, their belts heavy with equipment they never expected to need, talking panicked into their radios and fighting against the stampede of people running away. Mothers run with buggies, those posturing boy/men show how young they are by pushing past women and children and crying as they rush to the door. Chairs are pushed back and the advisors rush to disappear behind a coded locked door as the guards approach me.
I fight with all the fury of the persecuted, releasing all the anger boiling under my frustration, and with each severed kneecap and bloodied limb I think of the unfairness of it all, of losing my job, of being here, of putting up with this monstrous place which has turned me feral. Through polyester uniforms, red is flowing like the tears I’ve shed these past weeks, and still they try to stop me. I swing my shopping bag over my head and fell two guards with a single blow from a frozen leg of lamb, use the coat hangers from my friend’s dry cleaning to scratch the eyes of a furious looking female guard bursting out of her uniform and clutching at her face, whimpering like a kicked puppy. When reinforcements appear from the mysterious offices upstairs - more guards, more radio chatter - I know I will be beaten. However ill prepared and ill equipped these uniformed jobsworths are for my anger, there are too many of them, and so I turn and face the approaching, cowardly shaking pack as I hold the gleaming soiled knife to my own throat.
“And if you could just sign here, Miss Jones, I’ll see you in two weeks.”
I nod meekly, and as I leave, the ashen faced boy remains buried in his book, and his provisional companion is still on the phone.
With things to do before the meeting, it finally reached the point where I could do nothing else to avoid the walk into town. I was everyone’s friend since I lost my job, having endless free time for favours and errands. I dropped off washing, posted letters and got kitchen knives sharpened, I picked up shampoo and something for dinner for the elderly couple next door. Finally, it was time and I walked towards the job centre, thinking about the last time I’d gone there, to make my unemployment official. That boy who called himself my personal advisor and who would have still been in primary school when I had started my career. He sat across from me looking self important yet uncomfortable in his cheap Burton suit and a tie only a mother could have bought him, his acne shining under the artificial light, telling me I might want to try the internet for job vacancies. I want to laugh in his face, but with each day that brings no news but failed interviews, polite rejections and deafening silence, I think the fear of this second meeting is that this makes it real, this is my life and it’s all I deserve.
Even before looking inside and seeing the crowds of the desperate and defiant unemployed - penned in together on deceptively uncomfortable, modern looking sofas - the people outside signalled what kind of place this was. Young men in tracksuits and cheap gold jewellery postured in a parody of manhood; tattooed, bleach-haired girls who don’t look old enough for a Saturday job pushing prams, smoking furiously before they head inside, swearing at their children to behave as Mummy needs to sign on, or there will be no Macdonalds later. I don’t want to look like I belong here, but I look down at my tatty t-shirt, cheap shorts and flip flops and fear that I probably don’t look any different to them. I keep my head down as I head through the doors and am excessively polite to the guards in the hope that they know, they can see it’s a mistake that brought me here. This is not my world.
I’m summarily ushered to a reception, which seems a grand title for an arrangement of three sofas and a rack of leaflets, and look around at my companions. Despite my best efforts at delay I’ve got here early, and immediately realise my mistake in not bringing a book. Next to me sits a young man so pale as to appear vampiric, an impression he does nothing to dispel with his dark heavy clothes and long hair swept across his forehead. He is obviously more seasoned than me, as he’s heavily into his book – American Psycho, by Bret Easton Ellis. Although cheered by this potential sign of intelligence, I do think that it’s no surprise that this overgrown alabaster school boy can’t find work, he certainly doesn’t scream customer service to me. Next to him, taking up two seats on the sofa with his legs splayed wide was another young man, close cropped and heavily gelled hair. He’s on the phone, recounting drunken antics and telling anyone who calls he’s just signing on, fucking bastards keeping him waiting, he’ll see them in the pub in half an hour.
A name is called and a small grey man I hadn’t noticed until that point got up, taking a bulging folder of paperwork with him and starting up a lengthy debate with his advisor, loudly explaining how important he had been when he was working, and the many flaws that riddled the benefits structure. A young mum with a push chair took his place on the sofa, her daughter wailing and getting nothing for her efforts but an exaggerated sigh of frustration and sotto voce profanity. Names were called, people came and went, as did the time of my appointment. I want to ask someone what time their appointment is so I can gauge how delayed this whole process is, but I don’t want to engage vampire boy with my neck so exposed in a v neck tee, and the other guy is never off his phone even if would ever dare speak to him. I clutch my little pass book containing mysterious codes and try to think positive thoughts. I thought about what else I had to write in the job application I was working on, I thought about my yoga class that evening and tried to recall the sun filled days of my recent holiday, when I had felt so invincible and ready to take on the world and win.
“Miss Jones?”
Is it my imagination, or does the whole room sneer over that “miss” as I spring from my seat? Probably think if I made a bit more effort I could get a husband who would keep me in cheap fashions, cigarettes and gin, and then I wouldn’t have to bother these busy, important people at the job centre or take up an appointment which keeps so many others still waiting.
“Can I just check we still have the right address and you haven’t moved?” the boy asks, his tie a violent green which hurts my eyes. I say it is correct and feel a simmering anger. Why is he asking this? Where would I move to? I’m stuck exactly where I am until I get a job, win the lottery or leap from the top of a high building. He taps away on the keyboard, far more than necessary given that nothing has changed, and asks if I can also confirm my phone number is correct as he swings the screen round so I can see myself on their system. I nod and clutch my shopping.
“Have you done any work, paid or unpaid, in the last two weeks?”
I say I haven’t, thinking, thanks pal, rub it in. Isn’t that why I’m here? Like the questions they ask you in the airport about your suitcase, the whole process seems redundant, relying as it does so entirely on the honesty of people who should never be trusted.
“And have you been actively seeking work in that time?” he asks, still keeping up the infernal tapping on the keyboard. I take a deep breath and smile. I can show I’m not like the other people here, and I tell him about the interviews I’ve attended, the jobs I’ve applied for, the applications I’m still working on. That will jolt him out of his paperwork coma which stops him seeing his appointments as anything more than details to be checked and electronic boxes to be ticked. I talk about the new service I’ve joined which broadcasts my CV to recruitment agencies all over the UK, about the review of my CV I’ve just paid an expert £300 for and what this means for my job seeking.
“But as yet you have been unsuccessful.”
I can’t tell if this is a question or a statement, and I feel either way it’s an insult, and as I twist the handles of my shopping bag I catch a flash of the newly sharpened kitchen knives. Before I know what’s happened, I’ve pulled the largest knife out of the back and lunged across the desk so I can be sure I can aim it straight for this adolescent bureaucrat’s heart. I think perhaps it’s just the space where his heart should be as it slides in quickly, and as I pull it out, it slashes across his horrified face. I hear an advisor in the next cubicle scream as overweight security guards puff into action, their belts heavy with equipment they never expected to need, talking panicked into their radios and fighting against the stampede of people running away. Mothers run with buggies, those posturing boy/men show how young they are by pushing past women and children and crying as they rush to the door. Chairs are pushed back and the advisors rush to disappear behind a coded locked door as the guards approach me.
I fight with all the fury of the persecuted, releasing all the anger boiling under my frustration, and with each severed kneecap and bloodied limb I think of the unfairness of it all, of losing my job, of being here, of putting up with this monstrous place which has turned me feral. Through polyester uniforms, red is flowing like the tears I’ve shed these past weeks, and still they try to stop me. I swing my shopping bag over my head and fell two guards with a single blow from a frozen leg of lamb, use the coat hangers from my friend’s dry cleaning to scratch the eyes of a furious looking female guard bursting out of her uniform and clutching at her face, whimpering like a kicked puppy. When reinforcements appear from the mysterious offices upstairs - more guards, more radio chatter - I know I will be beaten. However ill prepared and ill equipped these uniformed jobsworths are for my anger, there are too many of them, and so I turn and face the approaching, cowardly shaking pack as I hold the gleaming soiled knife to my own throat.
“And if you could just sign here, Miss Jones, I’ll see you in two weeks.”
I nod meekly, and as I leave, the ashen faced boy remains buried in his book, and his provisional companion is still on the phone.
Thursday, 18 June 2009
The Rose Garden
You turn the corner and there we are:
Dark red unconscious beauty and friendship
Yellow like fresh butter. Pink, a small girl’s bedroom,
Skipping round hopeful white in walled seclusion.
Circular paths built for the ambulation of romance
Held in arms from bud to bloom by remembrance
Benches and the ghosts of the couples who sat here
Quiet and united with packed lunches, and who loved this garden.
It’s a garden of first kisses and declarations,
Planted, cultivated colour in grey faceless streets.
Here the barest touch of an arm could bloom
Into moonlight dancing and I love you.
This is a detour on our way, a giggle in a library
A deliberate fall down the rabbit hole.
We never made our destination.
Dark red unconscious beauty and friendship
Yellow like fresh butter. Pink, a small girl’s bedroom,
Skipping round hopeful white in walled seclusion.
Circular paths built for the ambulation of romance
Held in arms from bud to bloom by remembrance
Benches and the ghosts of the couples who sat here
Quiet and united with packed lunches, and who loved this garden.
It’s a garden of first kisses and declarations,
Planted, cultivated colour in grey faceless streets.
Here the barest touch of an arm could bloom
Into moonlight dancing and I love you.
This is a detour on our way, a giggle in a library
A deliberate fall down the rabbit hole.
We never made our destination.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)