Dead Rats Tails

I crash through my front door porch - umbrella first, and kick my sodden shoes into the shoe basket by the front door in a manner to suggest I've had quite enough of Tuesdays. My fringe is stuck to my forehead, creating a little channel for the rain to run down my nose and plop on the floorboards in my hall. I sigh, and as usual try to avoid stepping on the cat as I make my way down the hall and into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"I know, I know. I'm coming." I say to her as she mews and widens her beady eyes.

I happen to look up before I open the kitchen door.
How funny, the glass is black.

I stop dead in my tracks, my hand clutching the doorknob.
The glass is black? 
I look closer. The glass isn't black.

I see the flash of iridescent wings and hear the whirring, fizzling hum hover over and around me, darting in and out and settling into a continuous speed. I'm not mistaken; there are hundreds of big black bluebottle flies - the kind that land on dog shit - crawling on the inside of my kitchen door.

---

I didn't expect to be dashing up the aisles in Sainsbury’s supermarket looking for poison. I'd wanted a cup of tea and back to back re-runs of Channel 4's Who Do You Think You Are? in my pyjamas.

"Cat food... Light bulbs... shoe polish... bleach... where's the bloody fly spray...?" I mutter to my Mum, pressing the phone into my head with my shoulder as I balance my shopping basket, heavily loaded with J-cloths and an obscene amount of bleach.

"These flies don't just come from nowhere, Lizzie.” Mum says to me, all matter-of-fact. She pauses. "You don't think the old woman who lives upstairs... What's her name-?"

"Myrtle." I say.

"-Myrtle. Well, with that many flies I wouldn't be surprised if Myrtle's dead, darling. It only takes days for a body to start decomposing..."

"Oh my God - she's not dead, Mum!" I yell, horrified. "I'm pretty sure I heard her banging upstairs yesterday." I grit my teeth. I still can’t find the killer fly spray and I am so sure it should be somewhere near the disinfectant and bin bags.

"Well, I'd give her a knock just in case, and if she doesn't answer, I'd ring the police."
"Don't you think ringing the police is a bit dramatic?" I reply, distracted suddenly by a shelf full of Raid fly killer.

Mum pauses and then in a manner to suggest she knows how to win this one, she says; "Hang on - Steve's here!"
As Mum explains the whole palaver in great detail to my very considered Stepfather, I choose the neon yellow and black can of fly spray. It looks the most economically unfriendly substance on the shelf, so I throw it in the basket. Mum finishes her sentence with a resounding; "So, don't you think she should ring the police, Steve...?"

"Okay, I'll knock. But you know it's probably going to be a dead rat." I say, unconvinced. Filled with an sense of dread at what I may be about to find, I hurry to the counter to pay, and with a resounding bang, place my basket on the conveyor belt.

---

I stand outside her flat in my plimsolls, leggings and black anorak, clothes I'd thrown on in a hurry. I hop from one foot to the other as I wait for her to open the door. The hallway is dark and I look around briefly in case there's a switch I missed somewhere. Overgrown spider plants dangle from the banisters and cast long spindly shadows up the wall, stealing the glow from orange streetlights dotted up our road.

I place my hands up to the mottled glass panes and peer in. I squint to the right and then the left, watching how the grey light from deep within the hall plays in the mottled glass, splaying out beautifully.  The sound of faint canned laughter creeps out from under the door. There's a glimmer of hope she might be watching TV from the sofa, inside, and perhaps just didn't hear my knocking. But as Mum pointed out, the TV could have been on all night.

I decide to knock again, a little louder this time.
"Hello? Hello, Myrtle? I'm Lizzie - I'm from downstairs. I was just wondering -"

- if you're dead? No, don't be silly.

"- if I could ask you something..." I yell louder than before, and rapping three times on the glass window pane.

Nothing moves inside. I imagine her sitting all dead in her chair, gooey, big black flies zipping around the living room, the TV's canned laughter chortling inappropriately. I shiver. I wish there was a bloody light in the hallway.

I remember Mum saying something about the smell. I sniff through the keyhole a couple of times, but don’t smell anything particularly nasty. It's been a good minute. I decide to knock again, even louder.

"Um... HELLO? Are you there, Myrtle?!" I bang again, this time on the wood, so the spider plants jump. 

Silence. Not even a peep.

Oh my God, I'm going to have to actually call the police. 

As I go to get my phone out of my pocket, and debate whether I'm in a big enough emergency to call 999 (probably not), I see the light from behind her door, glint slightly.

I look up. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and a rush of blood shoot to my head, all in the space of a second.

Very slowly the door opens half an inch - I spy wide eyes peering out from the dark at me and a flash of white on leathery skin. Then I hear the scream. An hollow, gurgling, high-pitched scream sprung in short bursts of sheer terror.

I'm nearly sick with shock. My toes curl in my shoes.  I scream. I scream because I'm petrified - because I think she's dead - because maybe she really is dead - and there's nothing worse than a ghost in a lace nightie.

But she's not dead - and she's still screaming. A small, wrinkly Jamaican lady shrieking in my face, showing holes where her teeth should have been and lassoing a wooden broom around her head. I realise I've put my hands up pathetically to protect myself. I stutter something about being from downstairs. I'm shaking so hard.

As quick as she started, she stops. Takes a wheasing breath, and as casually as she was asking me in for a cup of tea says in a heavy Jamaican accent;

"Aahhh, sorry me darlin'. I thought you was burglars."

Time

I'm sitting in the car, wearing my new, dark red converse trainers. They're so new they still have perfect white soles - there’s not even a scuff. I'm sitting in the car, because it's pissing it down with rain outside and I'm at my little sister's football match.

The text I received from my Mum earlier in the morning went like this:

I am going to leave for Kate's football about 10. KO is 10:30. Can you get here near 10?

Being the sister who liked warm duvets and Disney films on a Saturday morning (rather than running around a cold wet football pitch in studs), I didn't realise that KO meant 'kick off'. I also didn't realise from her text that I'd be coming to watch the match, come rain or shine.

I peer out from the backseat window, raindrops smudge my picture of the sodden muddy pitch containing a dozen fifteen year old girls and a football.
It is definitely more rain, than shine, I think as I hug my leather jacket around me to keep warm. The zip broke ages ago, but I love the way the leather is all worn out and snug. I can’t bear to throw it away.

My eyes run along the sodden side line of the pitch, scanning mothers in anoraks and dads with huge multicoloured golfing umbrellas; all giving up their Saturday morning to support their girls. There are a couple of women who have bought deck chairs along. They hoick up their wellies and push their glasses well and truly to the top of their noses (to avoid any drips falling from their hoods); shuffling about to find the best spot. All of them are wearing suitable shoes.

I spy my Mum, hopping from one foot to the other to keep warm, leaning on my brother, who at twenty-four, is a good two feet taller than her. His hood is up, and I can easily picture his expression from the way his arms fly up in the air each time Kate runs for the ball. Even through glass window of the car, I hear him yell Time! Time! to my little sister across the pitch.

My sister is easy to spot; the one with a big white number 12 on her back. She's also tall, and one of the only girls who seems completely unafraid of the ball. I watch as she thunders into this tiny twig of a girl who instinctively flits out the way just seconds before she might get squashed. I remember when I was Kate's age. I'd been picked to play in one lacrosse match for my school's B Team. I hated every minute of it. My Dad had stood at the side line yelling, "Get in there! Tackle her, come on!" I was a skinny little thing, looking up at this gigantic girl lassoing her stick around her head and thinking I'd rather be anywhere else in the world than on that cold, muddy pitch, about to be whacked.

I'm feeling hungry as well as cold now. I fumble about in my huge handbag for a moment, finding only the remnants of a crushed pack of Polo mints at the bottom. I peel open the foil carefully, picking out the big pieces, popping them in my mouth before dusting off the sticky crumbs that have fallen across my lap.
Slightly more satisfied, I turn to look out across the field again, and that's when everything stops.

There's a tiny, but familiar figure way across the field. I hadn't noticed him at first. Well, he is wearing an anorak just like everybody else... I lean up close to the glass, so my nose presses against it and it goes all steamy.

It's my Dad.

I know it's him for sure, because he's kicking a football around with a tiny gangly person with no coat on, who is unmistakeably my littlest brother.

I look instinctively over to my Mum, wondering if she's seen him.
Mum must be having a fit that Henry has no coat on. After all, it is teaming down with rain. I imagine her hissing something along the lines of, "What's he doing allowing him to run about with no coat on in this weather?"
I stare for a minute at the man I haven't known for eight years. Everything about his stance and the way he moves is familiar, yet completely alien to me. I watch as he kicks the football with his left foot, arms still clasped tightly behind his back as if he either isn't able (or isn't willing) to let himself go completely.

A long whistle blows. The girls, muddy and cold with flaming red cheeks run over to the pile of jackets and water bottles splayed in a heap in the car park. Sodden spectators begin to wander over to hear the manager's team talk at half time, clearly relieved to be half way through and able to start moving their toes again.

I begin to panic as I notice my Dad is also striding towards the car park. As he gets close enough, Henry spies me peering out from the car, and gives me half a wave, his hand shooting down quickly to his side in case my Dad sees him.

I don’t know what to do. I hop out the car, forgetting my perfectly white soled converse trainers and land clumsily in the mud. One arm flies up instinctively to protect me from the spitting rain, as all the court orders, injunctions, tribunals and solicitors letters hang like clouds above my head.
Henry runs over and throws his arms around me. I love the way my little brother smells; damp and Henryish.

When I look up and let him go, Dad is standing directly in front of me. I don’t know where to look, or what to say. Instead, I scan his face, taking in each new wrinkle that I hadn't remembered seeing before. Mum is busily fussing over my sister, looking for her asthma puffer, doing anything rather than look directly at him. My other brother, George is concentrating on his boots, arms crossed, puffing his chest out to make himself look bigger. He doesn't need to, really. Dad seems smaller than I remembered him. After an awkward minute nobody's spoken, so I croak a weak ‘hi’. When he replies, his eyes look pale and watery. His hair is greyer and he seems somewhat frail. Maybe that's what fighting does to you.

My brother takes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it, holding his hand up to shelter it from the wind.
"Alright, George?" My Dad asks.
He nods his cigarette in response, his eyes still fixed on his boots.

As if it was the most normal thing in the world to be standing in a field in the pissing rain with your ex wife and your estranged children, Dad then turns to my Mum, and asks casually; "Do you remember Paul Duskin?"

I watch as Mum, the natural communicator of the two, hesitates, taken aback by his casual tone. She grips her umbrella even more tightly to compose herself, before rushing a very animated; "Oh, yes! Didn't he play for your old football team? The tall guy?"

It isn't normal for my parents to even talk, let alone reminisce. Henry (clearly not as dumbfounded as the rest of us by this rare exchange between our parents) seems to have found a toy gun from the car and begins shooting foam pellets at the girls huddled around their manager for the team talk.

I’m jumpy, nervous; I fiddle with the zip on my jacket and wait for something to go wrong.

My Dad continues.
"Yep. Really great guy. A wife, nice family... Died last year."
"Oh no... How sad." Mum pipes up appropriately, her voice slightly shrill.

He allows for a dramatic pause, which makes me wonder where he could possibly be going with this. 

"...Yes. He died from lung cancer...” Lowering his voice in disgust, and nodding disapprovingly at my brother, he adds; “...from smoking."

My Mum winces. My eyes flit between my parents and my brother, who is getting redder by the minute. He's picking at my brother. Picking where he absolutely, one hundred percent shouldn't. I dig the white toe of my converse into the mud, and wait for 'the scene' to happen.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, there's loud POP! followed by a dull thud.

Everyone stops.

My Dad has taken the toy gun off of Henry and shot George square in the chest. 

My brother's lips curl up at the edges. He tries desperately to pin them down. My Mum stifles a laugh.

And without the faintest warning, eight years of anger is dispelled across a rainy football pitch. Because we could finally allow ourselves - for just a few minutes - to forget.

I'm fine.

Sitting in the toilet paper aisle on the floor of a supermarket with my head resting against a 9-roll pack of Andrex, I realise I’ve hit rock bottom.

Well, at least I'm in the right place, I think, opening up a box of Kleenex and blowing my nose. I know my eyes are red, my cheeks a pale blotchy pink. I know I'm crying in a supermarket, I know people are staring. 

I don't care.

I'm letting it out.

Isn't that what everyone says to do? Let it all out, don't bottle everything up.

I look down at the laminate floor of the supermarket. I like the way it glitters under the superficial strip lighting. I move my head to the left, then back to the right again, squinting until the sparkles soften and blur into a single glassy tear that runs away with itself and surprises me.

I'm probably not fine, I think as I take another tissue from the box. I say it really quietly in my mind- almost whispering the thought.

It's a fairly significant moment, considering I'm in a supermarket surrounded by toilet rolls. I take a short, sharp breath that sounds a little like a hiccup.

Perhaps spontaneous crying isn't normal. Maybe they were right.

The aisle is clear, everything has gone quiet.

I bet they're all avoiding me. Like when someone drops a jam jar or bottle of red wine on the floor. Everyone clears off sharpish, leaving a sad mess amongst shards of glass, staining with a dark disillusionment; those dreams of being so much more splattered up discount signs and shelving units.

I peer up the aisle. 

I half expect someone to walk down with a mop and bucket. Holding one of those yellow slippery surface signs tucked under their arm to put up around me.

But no one comes. 

 

The shelves across the aisle seem to loom over me. I feel suddenly small. My eyes flick up to the rows upon rows of branded cleaning products. The bright gaudy colours and cheap labels that scream for my attention.

I look at them all; naming, shaming, blaming.

My heart palpitates. A roll of nausea sweeps from my chest, teetering on the tip of my tongue.

Depressed.

I hiss out the letters slowly, my tongue releasing the tension, like air escaping from the neck of a too-puffed-up balloon. For a moment, I revel in that tiny bit of control.
Because I just didn't think it could belong to me. I never wanted that label.

It's ok. I'm fine. 

I wipe the hair that has stuck to my forehead with the back of a clammy hand; it comforts me slightly. I close my eyes, rising to my feet. I will myself not to cry.

The Voice

cited

There’s that voice; the breathless, slightly apologetic tone that makes my stomach sink. I grip the phone against my ear, and feel my cheek turn hot. The words slowly slither around and around the cord, as if hypnotising their way into my psyche. You love that you’ve got me listening. 

You’ve always been good with your words. You’d like to think that’s where I got it from. Finding clever little words that mould your imagination to how you envisage yourself to be; accenting the letters that agree with you and smattering calculated dots over all your ‘i’s. All those ‘i’s. There must be hundreds in there, twirling at your approval. You’re a slick automaton, and you’ve perfected your act.  I wait for your lips to slice the words that fall like finely cut diamonds; multi-faceted and glittering with all the devastation they are worth.

A Crooked Tale

"Where do you want to be put?" The teacher fussed about a pile of plastic chairs to the side of the stage before registering the girl's silence and stopped shuffling for a moment to look at her. "Are you sure you're okay to do this?"

"Yes." The girl replied, perhaps a little too confidently. "Um. I don't really mind where. Just maybe not on the stage..."

She looked doubtfully around the large auditorium. All those blue flip seats seemed to rise for miles. She felt a knot tighten in her stomach at the thought that in just twenty minutes, all those seats would be filled with hundreds of faces just like her own.

------

She'd only been back from school a couple of weeks. She had mentally prepared herself before taking the ten minute walk down the road under the horse chestnut trees to school on her first day back. It had been raining and she'd taken extra care not to slip on the the few autumnal leaves that had fallen on the pavement. Gripping the strap on her bag for support, she approached the ramp that lead down to the school nervously, a smile fixed firmly on her face. Girls were squealing, laughing and all proudly displaying brand new navy duffel coats done right up to the top, careful to avoid scuffing their shiny new shoes as they hugged one another after six long weeks of summer holiday.

She'd arrived early on purpose, not wanting to suffer the stares if she'd turned up late. The common room was empty, apart from a few tiny year seven's sitting nervously on bean bags, their over sized skirts covering  polished shoes. She found the year ten seating area, and went to the noticeboard where her class timetable had been neatly pinned and highlighted. A quick glance told her she'd kept her favourite English teacher, and Art had been kindly put on a Friday afternoon. Gym had to be her worst class of the week. And there it was, lurking after double maths on a Tuesday afternoon. Last term had seen her humiliated in front of the whole year, being forced to run around the field twice in her gym knickers. She hadn't thought it entirely fair. She was the only one caught hiding behind that bush in cross country, although not the only one waiting until the mass of runners came around the course for the second time, before subtly sneaking out and joining in at the front. 

This time, though, it was different. She'd stand out for other reasons. She carefully folded her new timetable, tucked it into her blazer pocket and sighed.

------

The hall had been laid out in the same old fashion as last year. The head teacher's chair was to the right of the wide wooden stage, and three other chairs for the heads of the school houses were just next to that. Her table was now placed central in the hall, and as per her wishes; not on the stage, but just below on the floor. She placed the large brown envelope that contained her x-rays on the table, eyed the plastic bag on the floor with suspicion and clutched the slightly crumpled handwritten notes tightly in her right hand.

"Why don't you take a seat on the front row, dear. Then Mrs Shaw can call you up when it's time for you to speak." The teacher said, lining up the chairs.

She did as she was told. The butterflies were still jolting around furiously in her stomach. She took a seat and waited.

------

The school changing rooms always smelt like wet socks. Wet, festering socks. Dumping her gym bag on the slatted wooden benches, the girl looked around the open room, trying to figure out where would be the most private place to change into her gym clothes. This school didn't believe in privacy, she was sure of it. Firstly, the showers were communal with no curtains or doors; and secondly, even if someone was crazy enough to take a naked shower after gym class, there was the fact that Miss Evans would run into the changing rooms far too frequently to 'check on things'. What 'things' she was checking on, was hardly worth thinking about.

The girls from her year began to stream into the changing rooms as the bell rang. The clatter of studded lacrosse boots on the concrete floor amongst forty gossipy conversations grew louder. She shuffled her things along the bench, began to unzip her bag and hoped they were too busy getting lost in conversation to notice her change. Her friend, Tamsin, a popular girl who had strong legs and was mean with her lacrosse stick, came bolting through the main door, late as usual.

"Hi! Bloody late... Bloody couldn't find my trainers." She said, puffing as she threw her stuff down on the bench next to the girl, and started ripping her clothes off. She glanced up at the girl for a moment. "You'd better get a shift on, Lizzie, or you'll be later than I am!"

She was quite pleased that Tamsin had parked up next to her, creating a sort of flustering curtain between her and the girls. Suddenly worried she might be late, the girl gingerly began to unbutton her shirt. Turning to face the wall, she shuffled one arm out of it's sleeve, keeping the shirt balanced precariously on her shoulders. Then the other arm wiggled out. She tried to slouch as far forward as she could, sticking her bottom out and holding the collar with her chin, whilst reaching around to the left to unbutton her kilt; it was a fine balancing act.

Then she heard a whisper, and it was only then that she noticed that the room had gone somewhat unusually quiet.

Someone stifled a laugh. The girl paused, suddenly very self-conscious.

She turned around quickly and in doing so suddenly lost her grip on the white shirt. She watched on horrified as it swooped gently to the floor in a sort of slow motion and just lay there.

Most of them had stopped tying their shoe laces, rummaging in canvas bags for spare socks and tightening the strings on their lacrosse sticks, to turn and stare at her. All had the same questioning expression. A few looked horrified even. All were wondering what had happened over the Summer holidays to make her look like that.

She began to mumble an explanation, her eyes flickering between the limp shirt lying useless on the floor, and Tamsin's boots.

 Say something. Say anything. Just give them a few words to stop the quiet.

Then the most wondrous sound suddenly echoed across the changing room, saving her.  Those thunderous footsteps pounding down the corridor, and Miss Evans' hand slapping the swing door open wide.

"Get a move on girls! Or I'll have you all lap the lacrosse pitch at least three times before I throw in a ball!"

------

At home, the kitchen was the family room; the heart of the house. It was kept warm from the ever glowing Rayburn that could made even the cool Victorian floor tiles feel as if they had under floor heating. Her Maths homework was always done at the kitchen table. It was the only way she could ever do it, with someone there to make sure her mind didn't wander onto more creative things. Her sister was sat with her knees up, curled in the big wooden chair watching the little box television in the corner of the kitchen.

"How was school then?" Their Mum asked, stirring a large saucepan of mince meat on the hot plate.

"It was OK." The girl replied monotonously. She was stuck on expanding the brackets of her algebra problem, and had rubbed out so many mistakes she was in danger of going through the page, so was getting more and more irate.

"What about you, Caroline? Anything fun happen?" Her Mum added a large tin of chopped tomatoes to the mix and looked over at her sister, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since she'd got home from school at 5:30pm, after her Tuesday netball practice.

Her sister took a long time to speak. She kept her eyes fixed upon the cartoons dancing across the television screen, her face lacking expression. Caroline was very sociable and chatty. She loved sport, especially netball and following her after school practises, she would usually dump her kit on the kitchen floor and endlessly discuss the tactics, the goals and who out of her friends played the best until they were all sick of hearing about it.

"No. Not really." She spoke quietly.

"What's up Loolie?" Her Mum asked gently.

Her sister looked away, letting her head drop. A tear roll slowly down her cheek and dropped onto her lap. She wiped it away quickly.

"It was just some girls in my year. They were being really nasty." She said, her voice wavering. Her Mum walked forward to give her a hug, but Caroline put her hand out to stop her. "It was about you, Lizzie. They were picking on me, laughing about your brace."

------

As the 8:30am bell rang, she could hear them piling into the hall's foyer entrance. Hundreds of  footsteps pattered up the stairs. The door at the very top of the auditorium creaked open, allowing hushed voices to bounce and echo all across the great hall around her. She sat on her blue shiny flip seat on the front row, and listened to the four school houses pile in year by year, then fill up the auditorium row by row. The teachers had taken their seats at the front. The organ played classical music behind the stage out of sight, and just slightly out of tune. The sharp, fast notes shot through her nerves, until suddenly they stopped. Only a few whispers were left and the flutter of hymn book pages.

The Head teacher, Mrs Shaw strode up to the very centre of the stage. She was a small, grey-suited woman with long pointed-toe kitten heels, that clacked and slapped the back of her heel as she took a step. The girl remembered what it felt like in those couple of seconds, when she would sit in the auditorium with the rest of year ten, as Mrs Shaw took in the entire school, absorbing the attention of each single girl before she spoke. The Head pursed her lips tightly, and blinked. She liked to remind you that it was her time to speak.

"Good morning, girls. Instead of having a reading this morning, we are going to hear a short talk from one of our own pupils. As some of you may already know, Lizzie has recently been diagnosed with a condition called Scoliosis. She has bravely decided to stand up in front of you all this morning to explain a little bit about it."

Mrs Shaw's stern face switched suddenly as she turned to look at the girl sitting on the front row. Her eyes softened uncharacteristically and she nodded at her to come up.

There had been nothing quite so scary that the girl had ever had to do. She slid off the blue seat, picking up the large carrier bag she'd brought in earlier and held the paper in her left hand tightly. She didn't dare look behind her until she'd reached the wooden table. She kept reminding herself that she loved drama and had been put as the lead role in all the school plays (which meant she must be quite good at speaking out loud) and that really, speaking up in assembly now, was absolutely no different. As she turned around to face her peers, she tried to find her sister sitting in the audience. She had always been taught by her drama teacher to focus on something when you spoke in public and not to think of all the people. But her sister was lost in a sea of blue blazers and blank expressions so she decided to tell the green Fire Exit sign at the top of the stairs all about her Scoliosis.

She explained how her spine had suddenly grown crooked, and was shaped more like an 'S' than an 'I'. That she was an 'idiopathic' case (which didn't in fact mean she was an idiot or a psychopath - just to make that clear), but that the reason she had got it had been completely random. The girl reached into the large brown envelope on the table and pulled out her full skeletal x-ray and held it up to the light, showing the whole school her bones. Someone whispered 'cool', and she beamed inside, suddenly gaining confidence and pointing out that she had a thirty two degree angle at the bottom and a twenty four degree angle just above it- her eyes flickering away from the x-rays for a moment to see if her maths teacher looked impressed. The girl then remembered the bag on the floor. She took a breath.

"In about a year I'm going to have to have a big operation to straighten my spine. My consultant told me that until the time is ready to operate, I'm going to have to wear a back brace all the time." She swallowed, and reached inside the bag, pulling out the large plastic body brace for the hundreds of girls to see. 

"It's a little bit like a corset they used to wear in the olden days- although not as pretty. This is the first one I'll have, and I've heard you can get brightly coloured ones, like when you break your arm, so I might choose a pink one next."  She was quite enjoying it now, and dared to talk away from the fire exit sign for a moment to focus on their faces. No one was laughing at her. They looked interested, and even sort of impressed. She felt the colour flood to her cheeks.

"I had to sit for ages whilst they bandaged me up like a Mummy and wrapped me in orthopedic plaster to make a cast of my back. Then, after it was made, they placed these soft padded bits on the inside which will help straighten my spine as I grow taller. It's very clever."  She was coming to the end of her notes and as per the last line of her handwritten squiggles she looked up directly at her school, smiled and asked if they had any questions (like she'd seen important speakers do on the television). 

The place promptly erupted with chatter and around fifty hands shot up to the ceiling. Mrs Shaw clucked like a hen and stood up, her hands clapping for silence amongst the babble and indicated everyone should remain quiet with one stern look.

The head teacher thanked her and quickly ushered her back to her seat, stating loudly that there would be 'all the time in the world to answer questions after assembly'. The girl beamed both inside and out. She still felt sick with nerves, but the adrenaline was pumping through her body, creating little warm spots that made her glow. Walking back to her seat clutching the ugly plastic back brace, she quickly scanned the hundreds of faces, and found one that looked more settled than the rest. Her little sister was grinning at her. She slid back onto her blue flip seat and felt an unusual rush of pride at what she'd achieved. 

Mum had been right, people are afraid of what they don't understand.

I underwent successful spinal fusion surgery in October 2000. Through religiously practising my consultant, Miss Mehta's corrective back exercises for an hour each day and wearing my plastic back brace for over a year (yes, I did get my psychedelic-coloured one eventually) before I went in for surgery, I was able to improve the crooked angle in my spine significantly. Today I am 5'5 and as tall and as straight as a bean pole, and I have Miss Mehta and my vigilant, caring Mum to thank for it. 

To learn more about Scoliosis; visit SAUK The Scoliosis Association (UK)'s website.

Don't Look Back

"Let's get out of London this weekend." Having thought about the prospect for the last few minutes as I finely chopped an onion for our shepherd's pie, I put the thought out to Liam, threw the contents of my chopping board into the sizzling saucepan on the hob and waited for a response.

Ahead of us was one lone, clutter-free weekend, which had escaped being made part of our extraordinarily busy summer schedule, which was seemingly packed, fit-to-burst with weekend weddings, birthdays and dutiful trips to see family.

"Sure, what do you have in mind?" Liam replied, washing the potatoes over the sink.

"How about Brighton?" I suggested.

We'd been to Brighton a couple of times recently. Lovely seaside town. I couldn't get enough of the place. I could just see myself pottering about the bohemian cafes, silver shops and buying rock and candyfloss along the promenade. Problem was, every time I visited I felt more inclined to move there. Liam, who insists regularly that 'we can't say we've lived in London until we've lived at least a year in Zone 2', avoids any chance I might find to whinge about central London. It was for this reason, I suspected, that his expression looked less than thrilled about the idea. 

"Kew Gardens?" He offered.

"That's not out the city - it's near Richmond." I threw the lamb mince into the pan, and poked it with a wooden spoon for a bit.

With no car, we were always going to be a bit limited finding somewhere outside of London, where we can return the same day, and still make the journey worth doing. After shooting down suggestions like, Southend, Bournemouth and then Cornwall- to which I received a snooty, ‘you do know that it takes seven hours or so by train, don't you?’- a thought popped in my mind.

"How about going back to Bognor Regis?" I asked, turning the meat with my spoon until the pink slowly disappeared and it turned a light brown. "You know, visit the little bungalow I used to go to when I was little...?"

"Bognor?" He asked doubtfully.

"- It's not as crap as you might think..." I replied defensively, before he could launch into a speech detailing all the reasons we shouldn't go to Bognor. "The place I went to was sweet and it had a lovely beach - large pebbles, not gritty sand in your socks." I added tactically. "There's Arundel Castle nearby... and Chichester a little way up. Besides, I think I'd quite like to go back, it's been almost eight years."

"Okay..." He said as he turned the gas on full whilst flicking the lighter with his thumb simultaneously. The hob jumped into action and he pulled his hand away quickly, before placing a lid firmly on the saucepan of potatoes.

"I've been thinking a lot about the old bungalow recently. I’m not sure why..." My sentence drifted off into my own thoughts for a while as I absentmindedly stirred the meat and stared pointedly at the wall tiles by the cooker. A couple of minutes of silence passed before I asked quietly, "Do you think a lot will have changed?"

"I don't know. But I should imagine so." Liam turned to face me. "Look, I don't mind going at all..." He wrapped his arms gently around me. "But are you absolutely sure you want to go back? Might not be as good as you remember."

It was a difficult one. Should you ever go back? 

What if I went back to the little white bungalow and the familiar smells and sights had not only lost their sparkle and excitement, but with my critical adult eyes, what if I cruelly focused on the cracks and not the charm of the place? I pondered quietly over what to do, weighing up the pros and cons throughout our shepherd's pie dinner (which turned out wonderfully), wondering right through a rather interesting documentary on seals, and by the time I was stood by the sink, brushing my teeth before bed, I still hadn't made a decision on what to do. So, as it's best to do with all rather difficult decisions, I slept on it.

I woke up bright and early on Saturday morning and pottered into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Sleeping on a problem always works (failing that it’s a good cup of tea). But before I'd even switched the kettle on, I was sure I knew what to do.

----

The train pulled into the station. I looked excitedly out of the window, and squeezed Liam's hand as the elaborate Victorian station roof came into view.

"We're here!" I squealed.

I'd been gazing out the window for the entire journey, watching the high rise buildings lower gradually as we'd left London, until you couldn't see buildings at all, just miles and miles of green, open fields. Upon my squeeze, Liam opened his eyes and pulled out his earphones, for a better look. Fumbling in my handbag for our tickets, we left the carriage, following the mass of Londoners who had also escaped London to see the sea, along the platform to the ticket barriers.

"Now let's get this straight. I'm not trawling 'round a million shops today. Okay?" Liam said as we walked down the hill towards the town. "We're here to get out of the city, don't forget."

"Okay... Maybe just a few." I winked at him.

We picked up a late breakfast; two coffees, a steak and ale pasty for Liam, the vegan sausage roll for me, and ready for the beach we headed down to eat them sat amongst the pebbles. Passing through a narrow side street, Liam stopped briefly outside a shop that was selling alternative posters and postcards.

"These look good. Do you mind if we stop for a minute?" He asked me. 

Taking his coffee from him so he could flick through the boxes that had been displayed outside the shop front, I resisted a sly comment pointing out that we were here to get out of the city- not shop, holding back purely in case we passed any jewellery shops later. Walking down the street slightly, I found a quiet spot near one of those cafes with the tables and chairs sprawled across the road and moved my attention away from Liam who was excitedly plucking out posters of The Smiths album covers, to watch Brighton go by.

I slurped from one of our coffees, glad I hadn't gone to Bognor Regis. I had promised myself not to mention once to Liam how much I'd love to move to Brighton; how it was so much more relaxed than London, how the shops were more quirky, how the sea air reminded me of those seaside holidays when I was little. I most definitely wouldn't mention to him (probably ever) how secretly I'd like to be a Brighton hippy; wear gigantic tie-dye trousers with incense sticks propped up in the pockets, become truly vegan and drink only peppermint tea. 

I'd decided that morning, to keep my rose-tinted spectacles very firmly on as I looked back to my childhood memories of Bognor Regis. The place itself was really quite unremarkable- and where we'd stayed - just a small village in West Sussex. The bungalow was just another home, the quiet beach like many others. It was my memories that were special, created during those precious times when my family was still a family, and we were all in love with each other. I felt the desperate need to keep those memories safe. I was afraid that if I went back, they'd be whitewashed over with unforgiving, dull tones of reality. I'd promised myself at eight O'clock that very morning as I’d placed my toothbrush back in its pot, to write a piece and keep them forever. 

The bell attached to the door of the shop rang rudely, and I turned to see Liam walk out carrying a large plastic bag, looking pleased with himself. 

"Ooh. What’d ya get?" I asked him eagerly, handing him back his half-drunk coffee with lipstick marks around the rim.

"Well, couldn’t really decide between this and The Smiths, 'Hatful of Hollow'... But eventually I chose Bob Dylan." He said, reaching into the bag and pulling out the poster he'd chosen and holding it up for me to see. "Thought it'd look great framed on the wall at home."

I don't know if you believe in signs, or meant-to-be's. I do. Liam doesn't. So I didn't say anything to him as he held it up proudly, I just smiled.

"It's brilliant." I said. "Just brilliant."

Five O'clock

When I was little, I hated sleep. Mostly I suppose because I hardly ever slept. There was this awful time of the morning, around five O'clock, that I used to wake up. Sometimes it was six and often it was four. I used to lie in my bed, the sheet not half as cosy as it was when I'd first got in the previous evening, having curled into a ball and wiggled my toes right down to the bottom.

I was always afraid of dark corners; the space under my bed and especially the door. I used to make sure I tucked the duvet right over my head, wrapped around my face - my eyes peeking over the top. That way, I thought they couldn't get me from behind, and if I slept facing the door, I could also keep watch- that was, until I could watch no longer, and begrudgingly fell asleep. I don't know who they were, but they scared me anyway.

But at five O'clock, when I'd awoken wide awake, I'd lie there for a moment and stare at the door, my eyes peeking, blinking into the dark, and wait. For something to jump out at me, or for me to fall back asleep... For what seemed like forever.

So I think. I'll go use the bathroom. That would take up some time.

I'd jump from the gap under my bed, missing it by nearly a mile, and land in the spot where the floorboards didn't creak. I'd peek in at my sister (just to check she too wasn't lying in bed, and staring at her door). No, she never had any trouble sleeping. I'd creep down the stairs, leaning on the banister to take all my weight so I didn't make a sound which might wake up the house. The floorboards always felt cool as I tiptoed and balanced my way across the hall, hopping from one bit of clothing left stranded on the floor to another. Leggings, jumpers and socks lay there like little islands in a deep, dark sea, and I hopped across them, leaping one last leap to land on the long Persian rug at the end of the hall; my jetty. Safe on that jetty, I'd take my time. There was no rush. Tiptoe. Tiptoe. I'd pull the cord carefully in the bathroom, knowing it would clink the light on in that loud, vulgar way, which in the dead of night, the silence of five O'clock, would sound thunderous. I had to shut the door quickly behind me, so only the slightest shard of light could dart across the landing which lead to Mum and Dad's room. Then, I'd pause and wait. Listening for five minutes in case they'd heard the thunderous clink and might want to get up to see what it could be.

Once back in bed, I'd stare at the digital clock, watching the green lines switch like worms changing shape, from 5:09 to 5:10 to 5:11 to 5:12. But it didn't tick. Thank God, it didn't tick. I'd have listened to that for hours. Instead, I'd listen to the birds singing, sat in the sycamore tree outside my window and I wondered what they were saying to each other. I wished and wished that it was my house, and there was only me in it. If it was, I'd race down the stairs, thumping two at a time with all the lights switched on. 'Like Blackpool illuminations...' Mum would say. I'd make some tea and toast with Marmite spread all thick, and watch as many Disney films as I liked. Any one would do, even something like Pinocchio which scared me a little, or Bambi which made me cry- anything that would quiet the birds and stop me from waiting.

Sometimes I even got ready for school. I'd dress up in my crisp white shirt, school jumper with the tree logo on it, my grey pleated skirt and thick woolly tights, and then get back into bed. All ready to go, except for brushing my hair, putting my shoes on - oh, and cleaning my teeth.

'Why are you so crumpled?' Mum would ask as I ate my Shreddies at the breakfast table.

'Dunno.' I used to reply, yawning and shrugging a bit, reading the back of the cereal box.

She would walk away mumbling about how we should be more careful as we sorted the airing cupboard after Gran had spent ages ironing our things.

I knew she'd go mad if she knew. Either that, or worry.  

All these memories come back to me tonight. It's 5:32am. It's a Saturday night - or rather a Sunday morning, and I'm sitting in the living room table in my little flat. I've got some herbal tea (ginger and lemon, if you must know) and I've made myself some toast (with oodles of butter and half a pot of Marmite). Liam is snoring in the bedroom (he always does that when he sleeps on his back) only stopping for a moment when he rustles the duvet and turns every ten minutes or so. I've crept into the living room in my white fluffy dressing gown, and I'm writing to you. I wasn't afraid of the dark, but I still don't like the gap under my bed, if I was really honest. I did creak the floorboards as I crept from my bed, because I'm just not used to avoiding them here. I'm not master of the silence, quite like I used to be. But I did lie awake for a little while and listen to the birds, wondering what they might be saying, and why I couldn't sleep. It's funny how it all came back. But I'm okay, I've got my little lamp on, and having just scribbled furiously on my pad, to you, I'm feeling a little bit tired. Think I'll crawl back into bed in a bit. Besides, my tea's nearly finished. Goodnight.

cited



Invincible - My guest post.

'I'd like you to write a post on Inspiration.' My friend, Starlight asked me in an email. I felt very honoured. It was to be included in her series of guest posts on Inspiration. I didn't have to think for long about what I would write about. Immediately one person came to mind.

I picked the person who I thought to be invincible, who is undoubtedly my inspiration: My Mum. To find out about her - and the story behind this picture I painted just for her - pay a visit to Starlight's blog, Crazy Thoughts.

Starlight is a wonderful writer, a dedicated blogger and a supportive friend. I want to thank her for giving me the opportunity to share my inspiration with you all.

Look what happens when I'm dutiful...

A very embarrassing thing happened to me on Monday. As every dutiful flatmate knows, when the person you live with is away; you take out the recycling. The small black box we'd got from IKEA a couple of months back, had been festering - yes, there is no other word for it - festering a little way past our front door. Just far enough so it didn't stink as you turned the key. And with Liam away for a few nights, I did the dutiful thing.

It is one of the jobs Liam always does. It is one of those jobs that I try my utmost to never do. Along with emptying the recycling, theres taking the rubbish bins out and hoovering. I don't have to ask him to do these jobs. I just let it get so bad he realises it needs doing. Terrible, but true.

I cautiously picked the black box up by both handles- careful to breathe through my mouth- and staggered with it, holding it a good foot away from my body along the corridor. Something dripped from the bottom and landed with a splosh onto my flip-flop.

Down four flights of steps, and an aluminium coke can jumps out the box. It rolls one flight, two flights and rolls some more. I have to place the box down so I can pick up the runaway can. But when I go to lift the heavy black box again, my hand slides down the handle. Ohmigod. Green goo. Wipe it on the takeaway pizza box. No matter.

We are lucky. We have recycling bins that you just chuck everything into- no sorting needed- at the edge of the car park. So I swagger over to them after the four flights of steps with my bottom sticking out, and my knees bent. My spindly little arms are holding on tight.

This is the bit where I have to touch the lid. The gross, dirty lid of the recycling bin, with weird bits of sludge on the handle. So I do it quick; one, two, three, GO!
With my left hand I hold the sludgy lid up, with my right I go nuts, throwing all my recycling into the bin as quick as possible. Glass pasta sauce pots with tomatoey juice lurking in the bottom, cardboard cereal boxes flattened and wedged in tight, Cobra beer, Heineken beer, Singha beer bottles with old dregs... What's this? Champagne bottle? I feel a bit bad chucking that in, but in it goes with all my glass, paper, tin and card, smashing about in the bottom of the wheelie bin, causing great crashes to echo around my block of flats.
I wouldn't be surprised if all my neighbours are peeping at me from behind their lacy blinds, tut tutting at such a noise clattering about their bank holiday afternoon. But hey, I'm recycling. They can't complain.

A car pulls up to my left, nearly knocking my black recycling box over. I tut tut and frown a little at the silver Smoothie in the front seat, who's got his window wound down, a straw hat on and boating shoes. He gets out of his car, the Beach Boys humming from his car radio (I wasn't surprised). He nods at me, and goes to get something out of his boot.
With only a few more bits left in the box, I grab the few remaining cartons, and reach to the bottom of the box, for a flyer which had got wedged in the corner...

Then suddenly, I scream.

A loud, blood-curdling scream which reverberates all around the block of flats and drowns out 'Little Deuce Coupe' in an instant.

I run around in circles, hopping from one leg to another, shaking my arms and legs involuntarily. I wiggle my fingers, my bottom, and my knees are out at odd angles. A shiver shakes down my spine. I'm aware I'm making incomprehensible noises like, Ugggghhhh.

Smoothie looks like he might have pooped himself out of shock.

I'm still hopping, rolling my head around and flapping my T-Shirt in and out. I wince.

'Still there. It's STILL THERE!' I shriek.

Shake a bit more, and Smoothie stalks casually to the box, glances in whilst lifting it with one hand. No fear, Smoothie?

He looks at me like I'm not from this world, bangs the box upside down and raises one eyebrow, to make me feel really stupid. 'It's only a little one.'

Yeah frickin' right.




One cat, a hundred calls and three options

Tuesday 5th April

I sat on the couch in my dressing gown. Laptop on knee. Reporters notepad and pen in hand. It was 8:10am. Usually I'd be getting off at Earls Court tube stop around this time to change for the Piccadilly line. Liam was brushing his teeth after the shortest shower in history -  he had only got out of bed five minutes earlier. It was funny to see what exactly he does in the thirty minutes after I have left for work each morning - and I had concluded; not very much.


A quick email to my sympathetic, cat-loving manager secured today off as a holiday from work. I didn't think I'd be having much of a holiday, however. I glanced down at my to-do list, wistfully.

• Telephone all possible animal charities who help injured cats, and their desperate, low-incomed owners. Cats Protection, Blue Cross and the RSPCA were the ones I'd heard of... and then, if no luck, find some more.
• Telephone vets outside of London for quotes on mending a cat's broken hind leg. Perhaps, like a can of Coke, the rates would be cheaper outside the capital? 

And if all this fails:

• Start fundraising... Painting - perhaps I could sell them? Card-making - everyone likes cards. Crochet? No. Would take too long. Not everyone loves crocheted creatures... *Spider diagram needed.

Liam suddenly appeared fully dressed and ready for work in the living room. He looked far too well turned out for only having had eight or so minutes to get ready. Glancing in the mirror to flatten a fluffy bit of hair, he lifted his keys off the coffee table and leant in to kiss me goodbye.


'Take it easy.' He said, as he gave me one of his bear hugs. 'A quiet day in the flat is what you need. Keep in touch via email, and I'll ring you at lunch.'


He poked his finger through the bars of the cage, and stroked the top of Bess' furry head. She opened her eyes, but didn't raise her head off her blanket. She looked as I did when I took the occasional Tramadol for stomach pains; drunk.

As the front door slammed shut, I heard him shout 'Good luck!' I listened to the sound of his feet skip every third step down the four flights of stairs until he reached the ground floor. Pottering into the kitchen, I put the kettle on for a cup of tea. Nothing would be open until 9:00am so I had a few minutes to spare. I stood in the kitchen and stared blankly out the window, as the sound of the kettle boiling got louder and louder until the steam billowed into an upward-climbing waterfall around my kitchen cupboards.  A good night's sleep had dulled my shock, but the astronomical figures I'd heard at the vets last night still whirred about my head.
I thought I would try the charities first, and as soon as the clock hit 9:00am, I picked up my phone to dial the first number. By mid morning, nearly all of my calls, had sounded some sort of a variation of this:


Me: 'Ah. Good morning. I hope you can help me. My cat has badly broken her hind leg, and I have been quoted a large amount for the operation she needs, which I am really struggling to pay. I heard your charity might be able to help me...?'


Them: 'Do you receive any income support or council tax benefit?'


Me: 'Um... No... But I'm desperate - I can't meet the bill the vets have quoted me...'


Them: 'I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you aren't eligible for our services or support if you are not on benefits."


By mid morning, I was mentally exhausted, had been through four cups of tea and was willing myself unemployed. Of all the possible charities in London, not one had been able to help me - unless I could provide documentation to prove I was on benefits. I was outraged.
Last year I had struggled to find a job when I'd moved from Manchester down to London. London did not seem to be recruiting, and for just under six weeks I'd had to sign on for job seekers allowance. The amount I received was hardly enough to survive on, and once I'd paid the bus fare to take the twenty-five minute bus ride to the local Job Centre each week (you could hardly call it local) there was barely enough for food, let alone rent. Each week, the admin officer in the Job Centre would look narrowly at me, glance at my papers, (upon which I had dutifully listed all the job applications I had made that week in neat little capitals, placed carefully in the right box) and then eye me suspiciously. She would yawn and sign my paper off only once she had probed me with the same monotonous questions.

I had since fought hard to get settled in London. And now, I had finally established myself in a little flat, with a modestly paid job, and I felt as if I was getting punished for it.


By 2:00pm, I had Liam's parents ringing vets in Worcestershire, and my Mum checking the vets in Hertfordshire to compare prices for leg operations and amputations. I had posted out for help and advice using Twitter and Facebook last night, and the support I had received from all my friends and fellow bloggers was incredible. Everyone it seemed, knew at least one cat who was missing a leg, and last night Liam and I had sat together and checked out the suggested websites, and laughed a little reading the cute stories of three-legged cats who still lived life as if they had four. Each person who posted me some advice, lifted a little weight off my mind. I had the support. All I needed now, was the universe to spit out a solution (one I could afford) that could help my girl feel better.
 Bess hadn't moved much in the last hour, and I was getting worried. I knew she was still drugged from the tablets and anaesthetic, but she hadn't eaten, used her litter tray or drank much water since she'd come home. I looked at her dry cat food, splattered with anti-inflammatory drugs (a bit like ibuprofen) which smelt like marzipan. No, I wouldn't have eaten it either. I decided to go for a quick walk to Tescos to pick her up something tastier, that really stank - like mackerel or tuna. Then she might eat it. Stroking her ear, she didn't even open her eyes, which worried me, so I grabbed my bag, and hurried out the front door, phone and cigarettes in hand.


As my converse trainers padded the pavement and I puffed on my cigarette, I took a look up to the sky, and threw my worries right up there; across the park until they splattered across the skyscrapers to my far left and right. I walked with my head up, and shoulders back, because it made me feel better, less trapped, and I spoke loudly in my head to anyone 'up there' who might listen. I don't always feel the need to know who I'm talking to, but think maybe just the intention of what I need might bring it closer to me somehow. As I nattered along the pavement, I suddenly felt my pocket vibrate, and I fumbled about in my jacket to answer it. It was a strange number. I caught it just in time:


'Hello?'

'Oh, Hello.' Came a rather quiet, strained voice that I guessed belonged to someone much older than me. 'My name is Mr Farlan, I'm calling from the RSPCA in Wimbledon. I was given your number by one of my colleagues who said you were in a rather tricky situation.'


I couldn't believe it. Fast work, God.

I remembered my call to the RSPCA earlier that morning. The girl on the telephone had fully listened to my plea (unlike most of the other charities) before sounding terribly guilty that she couldn't help me, but she had asked for my telephone number, just in case she thought of anything.


'Yes, Yes... ' I said quickly, before relaying the entire story to Mr Farlan.
'Well, my colleague is quite right, y'know, you will struggle to qualify for financial help with the RSPCA. But it is an awful situation... These vets... I can't quite believe their prices. It's daylight robbery!'


I agreed, and felt my self lifted by the mere fact that someone sympathised and understood.


'Now, let me have a think.' He paused, as if he wasn't on the telephone, and had all the time in the world to chat to me. I felt like I mattered. 'I'll have a word with our treasurer in Wimbledon, I'm not promising you anything, but I'll see if I can appeal your case. But in the meantime, have you thought of taking your cat to Putney RSPCA Animal Hospital?'


'Oh, thank you so much for asking.' I replied, thinking how glad I wasn't speaking with Mr Farlan in person, or I might have kissed him rather inappropriately on the spot. 'I haven't tried Putney hospital, no. I'll get onto them right away.'


'Yes... They might take you in, y'see. They help people on low incomes, not just if you're on benefits. It might be worth a ring. Anyway, love. Good luck, and I'll ring you tomorrow to see how you're doing.'


He hung up.


When Liam came home from work, around 6:30pm, I was splayed on the floor of our living room, on the land line phone, with two mobile phones scattered around me, taking notes from a vet in Worcestershire, on the price and procedure of pinning Bess' leg rather than plating it. It had been non-stop calling all day, and I was exhausted.

When I finally got off the phone a few minutes later, Liam had made me a cup of tea. I crawled up onto the sofa, resting my head on his lap, and rested my feet on the coffee table - a habit of Liam's, which I usually tell him off for - and closed my eyes, mumbling thanks.

'How are my girls?' He whispered after a couple of minutes quiet.

'I've worked so hard...' My words came out all pathetic. 'But I've got us three options.'

'I called Putney RSPCA Animal Hospital this afternoon, and spoke to a really kind receptionist, who listened. She advised, if I took Bess in, with wage slips, ID and a utility bill, I might qualify for them to operate on her. But they might not save the leg, as they always go for the best, but cheapest solution... And then there's big problem, that I might not qualify for a low enough wage...and if they turn us away...'

I paused to take a look at my notepad, since my brain was so muddled with all the words I had heard and spoken that day, I couldn't think quite straight.

'...I've got us a back-up plan, just in case. There's a small vets up near your Mum. He said he would pin her leg.' I'd noticed his eyebrow raise, and that familiar wrinkle appear on his forehead, letting me know he was about to throw a hundred questions by me. 'I've checked - It's not quite as secure as the plate - but they said it would definitely work. He's quoted me around £900 for the operation including the aftercare of taking the pins out.'

'That figure sounds a bit better...' Liam trailed off as I interrupted him.

'Yes. And your Mum has offered to drive down to London tonight to pick Bess up, take her to the vets and then care for her a couple of weeks after the operation at her house... She's been so kind...'

'...But you're worried that you won't be able to look after her yourself?'

He knew me so well.

Yes, the idea of carrying on with work, my day to day life, whilst Liam's Mum cared for my cat seemed wrong somehow. She was my responsibility...

'And the third option?' Liam asked.

'The Celia Hammond Animal Trust will do an amputation. They don't tend to do operations as they are a little too specialist, but they would charge me significantly less than the vets would, just to amputate the leg...'

I knew Liam was against the idea of amputating Bess' leg, especially as the vets had advised that it was possible to save it. But we were running low on possibilities within our budget, and time was running out.

'You've done so well...' He picked my tea off the coffee table - avoiding my feet, and not saying a word about them - and passed the mug to me. 'Let's visit the RSPCA tomorrow morning, first thing, and take it from there.'