 I don’t like gin. Nor tonic (so don't offer me an ice cold g'n't, for goodness sakes. I don't care if it's bloody Tanqueray/Sapphire: I DON'T LIKE THE F-ING STUFF). If I were a character in a 1930’s novel set in London, who mistakenly got herself knocked up by some cad (who subsequently broke her heart by abandoning her and returning to his wife as soon as she imparted the ‘good’ news), for instance*, I would never be able to have a hot 2” bath with a bottle of ‘mothers helper’ and a knitting needle. I would end up having the baby on the streetcorner, then shamelessly abandoning it at a nearby orphanage, before going on to become a seamstress at a big house, always wondering where the child went – before being reunited with it on page 431 – adopted, as it was – into the family for whom I’d worked for three years. You know it.
The sea provides me harmony. You know that chaotic feeling you get inside yourself, when all your blood is racing from one end of your body to the other, like a kitten chasing a laser pointer on the ground? When you’ve a roaring in your head that’s forming a whirlpool down your spinal column, and you just can’t keep still from the itching under your skin? That’s when I NEED the sea. Like, now, already. And no, the smell of brine will NOT suffice. It’s got to stimulate all of my senses: the sight of the waves rolling – whether they’re silky smooth navy blue, cresting whitecaps on a rolling boil, or smashing into rocks – I don’t care. The sound - gentle lapping, roaring, hissingly angry - I don't care. The smell - sea weed rotting and drying in the sun, seagulls poo everywhere, crabs bringing the smell of shell to the shore - I just don't care. The taste - the vinegar that begs to be added to the fish, the salt, the cold air on your tongue, the crunchy brittleness of sand between your teeth - I tell you, I don't care what it is. And the feel - the bracing wind against your face, your hair whipping around you, the sun beating down on your shoulders and nose, the sting of icy cold spray or the tempting tickle of squidgy sand between your toes - I want it all. Bring me anions - STAT. My heart is on my sleeve. It always has been. It (probably) always will be. Despite being hurt REGULARLY (hey, it’s good blog fodder, right?) I’ll still give people the benefit of the doubt immediately – trust them implicitly instinctively. Then, said heart will be trampled on (and possibly spat upon too, but at that point I’m usually too upset to look) and I’ll have to reattach the pieces to my sleeve, and hope that they will eventually mend BEFORE I go giving it away to the next bastard. I suspect that one day, I’ll pin it on the INSIDE of my sleeve. That’ll be the day I close my eyes to the rest of the world. I love to laugh. There’s that moment when your face relaxes into a smile. Then your forehead slides back just that little bit further, and your mouth stretches further to reach your ears. And before you know it, your throat and belly give birth to a cackle, or a guffaw. Occasionally, a full creasing up laugh, that won’t stop – one of those giggling fits that comes in waves and is best shared with someone else (in case the people with the funny white Kris Kross jackets come back). According to someone else, my tongue touches my teeth when I laughed.
I have a spell book. I’ve used it once (a spell to make myself appear prettier), because I’m suspicious that if I used a spell to manipulate someone into doing something with/for/to me, then that won’t be real. And you know, most of my stories did originally start with something that was real! I played cricket. Only for a season. It was crap. My whites weren’t (due to Mum’s Amazing Multicoloured Washing MachineTM – not to mention parental sniggers along the lines of ‘we’re not buying you new kit when you’re not going to last in this sport - we've witnessed your attempts to catch a basketball’), and standing in the middle of a field was boring. You couldn’t even swing the bat like a baseball bat. I scored 3 runs all season (I think). It (I? Nah!!) was shit. The only dead body I’ve ever seen was not of my blood. It was my ex-boyfriends aunt (or great aunt - I forget - Rose was her name, so possibly great aunt). It’s also the only funeral I’ve ever been to. Oh, I’ve known people who’ve died, but generally speaking I’m half a world away and skint. So I borrowed an experience from the guy who would jolt awake if a phone rang in the middle of the night – sure that someone else had died. Seldom was he amused to find me conversing with random people I used to know.
*fear not, I'm not in the family way, good grief people, talk about jumping to conclusions.Labels: Memories, Navel Gazing |
