My eyes peep open just a little. The first thing I see is a toilet roll. Never a good sign.
My head feels prickly, like a thousand little men are marching on the top of it. Strands of hair are plastered across my cheek. I'm warm and fuzzy. I sit up awkwardly and gently arch my back, which has gone all stiff. I crick my neck to the left and then back to the right. A terrible habit, but it makes me feel good.
It's all lovely and quiet. Too quiet. I stand up, placing one hand on the door in front of me. There's a door in front of me?
I then realise where I am and all the pieces suddenly - and terribly - slot together.
I'm in a toilet...?
---- Earlier ----
It's busy, so you have to inch past people to get to the bar. I flash my eyes apologetically in a way I hope looks attractive, but most probably looks manic. The menu is splashed pink and sticky. I hold it at the corners, my eyes squinting at the small typed font. I'm too drunk to focus properly, but on the left at the very top of the page I spy the word 'mojito'. Yes, I think to myself. I fancy one of those.
I'm starving. I'd munched two bags of crisps after work. Always a quick fix. They probably weren't even enough to soak one of the God-knows-how-many pints I've drunk. My belly feels empty apart from the sloshing of flat beer. It gurgles, then growls in agreement.
"Yes please?" The harassed bartender says, leaning forward and looking at me expectantly.
"Mojito please." I say, and because I can't see the food menu, I take a wild guess. "And some chips - we're sitting over there." I point in the general direction of my friends, because I can't quite focus on anyone in particular.
"Right. That'll be eighteen pounds and fifty pence, please." He says quickly.
"What?" I yell, half outraged and half unsure if I heard him right.
He repeats the price. I don't care. I want chips, so I shrug, hand over my debit card and upon request, punch in my pin.
I lean over to my friend and signal expressively to let her know I'm off to touch up my make-up in the ladies. I'm pretty sure I'll need to by now. The pink sticky stuff seems to be all over my hands, although I can't remember how.
Every flat horizontal surface in the ladies is being used to prop up handbags. The sound of clicking heels on tiles, the heady smell of too much perfume being sprayed in no particular direction and crumpled up paper towels welcomes me to the ladies toilet.
It's far too busy, but I want to wash my face. Placing my handbag between my knees, I quietly congratulate myself on being sober enough not to chuck the new Longchamp on the floor.
I pile my hair up, and fix it loosely with the hair tie around my head, shoving my jacket sleeves as far up my arms as they'll go. I push the tap hard. It gushes suddenly into the sink, splashing right out again, and soaking me with water.
Not to worry, I was going to splash my face anyway.
I glance at the mirror, pulling out my red lipstick, I smear it once across my bottom lip. I know I've drunk too much. The orange red makes my face appear even paler, but at least it draws attention away from the hazy look in my eyes. My top is still soaked, despite gyrating against the hand dryer for at least five minutes. I give up and make my way back past the kitchens with their bright lights and white uniforms, past the dim, candlelit restaurant, towards the bar where everyone moves as one. I keep my head up and my eyes focused as straight forward as I can.
Our table is full of empty pint glasses, stained water rings and spills. They are all laughing with wide gestures and shouting above the noise. I see their eyes crinkle. It takes me a little under a minute to spy the large white bowl, completely empty except for a few sprinklings of crushed sea salt in the bottom.
Someone had asked for tomato ketchup.
They ate my chips.
I burst out of the bar and into the fresh air.
"You alright, love?" A gruff voice asks.
"No, I'm pissed off." I reply, fumbling about in my bag, pulling out a cigarette, but failing to find a lighter.
Liam stumbles up behind me, and puts his hands on my shoulders.
"What's up with you?"
I point my unlit cigarette at him, and scowl. I'm trying to tell him about the chips but it's all such a big effort. I just mumble and get cross. Stupid.
I whip around and storm back inside. The room has become a pit of dark noise. It comes from nowhere in particular, but reverberates inside me like I've stuck my head between two cymbals. Clashing from all sides. I stand in the middle of it and close my eyes for a moment. It feels wonderful. I open them, and I suddenly feel sick.
The toilets are less busy than earlier. I scuttle through the doors and slip into the empty cubicle at the far end.
Locking the door behind me, I hang my bag on the silver hook and exhale.
I'm safe. I can close my eyes in here.
I put the toilet lid down and sink onto the seat. It's all still spinning so I close my eyes. I rest my head on my lap, just for a moment. It feels lovely. Much better.
Never mind about the chips. Never mind they ate them all.
And I just close my eyes for a minute.
----
We sit side by side in a black cab; a huge sulking space between us. I chew my lower lip. My teeth are probably orange-red but it doesn't matter.
Liam turns his head to the right and glares at me.
"I didn't mean to fall... " I begin. But his eyebrows merge together with his dark brown eyes and I know I shouldn't speak.
I want to tell him about the chips - how they ate them all, how he was right - I can't drink pints in rounds, as he's always said.
But I button it. I sink back in the taxi's leather seats (feeling much-better-now-thank-you) and watch the early morning mist flit across the Thames.
It'll all be clear tomorrow.
Showing posts with label sleep. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sleep. Show all posts
22 September 2012
23 November 2011
Subway Sleeper
I bet the sound of shoes clacking on the paving slabs penetrate into his dreams. At first I didn't notice him. I thought he was rubbish, an old sack that had been left to the side of Vauxhall Station's subway. But as I pelted down the stairs, my black ballerina pumps pattering two steps at a time, I noticed it wasn't a sack at all, but a royal blue sleeping bag that looked so grimy it could almost pass for grey. It seemed to have been thrown, uncared for into a heap at the bottom of the stairs. But in that brief moment before I passed, being just one of the thousands that would pass through the station that morning, I saw the sleeping bag had a hat.
The high flow of commuters carried me like a surfer on an almighty wave towards the ticket machines. People pushed and elbowed their way into a line, autonomously checking themselves through the barriers. I looked back briefly and wondered who was inside the bag and under the hat. Only two people were still amongst the clamour of the morning rush; the tired looking attendant in a luminous orange vest leaning inattentively against a metal rail and that person crumpled up in the blue sleeping bag, asleep on the concrete floor. I couldn't help but wonder whether the continuous beeping as people passed through the gates would piss him off, or whether it might be a comfort knowing there were other people around him.
----
After I'd taken the last telephone call and shut down my computer, I left the office, pulling the large glass doors closed behind me. I lifted my lapels up high around my ears and made my way home through the dimly lit streets of Mayfair. The wind had been bitter that day. It managed to breeze its way through my scarf and tie knots in my neck as I tensed up with the cold. I was looking forward to getting home, where a shepherd's pie supper was waiting for me in my snug little flat. I kept myself warm thinking of the candles lit on the coffee table, fleecy blankets to be wrapped up in, and an endless supply of hot water bottles. As I scurried through the subway, shivering, I noticed the blue sleeping bag had gone. I prayed he'd found somewhere warmer. The station cleaner was whistling, brushing away two squashed brown cardboard boxes that had been left grubby and ignored up against the concrete walls where the man in his sleeping bag had been. I contemplated rushing over, asking him nicely to stop, explaining that I thought they might actually belong to someone. But I was worried he'd think I was nuts, so I carried on walking to the escalators. The underground was crowded as usual, but for once I was rather grateful for the mass of bodies and closed my eyes as the warm, dirty air whooshed through my hair as the train pulled into the platform.
----
I knew it would be cold from the moment my eyes opened and I caught sight of the condensation dripping down the window panes. Wiggling my toes I lay there in the dim light for a minute, my duvet pulled up to my chin, enjoying having the warmth of someone lying next to me for a few seconds longer. A layer of morning frost covered the park as I trudged across it to reach the station. I still felt half asleep, awoken only slightly more by the cold biting the tops of my ears. The platform was full, and you could feel each person's sigh as they reached the top of the stairs from the ticket hall and saw the huddle of strangers crammed into the four metre spaces where the doors of the train were expected to stop.
Once aboard, the train jolted and spluttered its way towards Waterloo. I noticed after a few moments that a new announcement was being played over the loudspeaker in the carriage.
Due to network rail improvements, the subway connecting the tube and the train station at Vauxhall will be closed until March 2012. Passengers are advised to alight at Waterloo and use the Jubilee line to avoid congestion at Vauxhall station.
I woke up with a start and looked around the carriage. Commuters looked completely flabbergasted that their journeys were to be lengthened by around five minutes more that usual with a detour to Waterloo. I sighed, not because of my extended journey, but I wondered where the person in the blue sleeping bag would sleep now his subway had been closed. I decided not to follow the crowds to Waterloo and so I jumped off the train as it pulled into Vauxhall and made my way down the stairs. The lights were dim as I returned to the ticket hall, and the station seemed smaller. Possibly due to the wave of people being reduced to only a steady trickle, that wound its way through the diversions to find the route out to the tube. I had a longer time to glance over at the subway this time and had the space to stop and stare at the enormous blue chipboard blockade that had been nailed across the entrance to the subway. It was the same royal blue as the crumpled sleeping bag. As I pattered up the stairs and out into the cold morning air I hoped that he'd found somewhere else to sleep last night, a place that was warmer and where he might not have needed to sleep in a hat. I hoped he'd dream soundly tonight without those hollow clacks of heels on concrete that might have penetrated his dreams before.
The high flow of commuters carried me like a surfer on an almighty wave towards the ticket machines. People pushed and elbowed their way into a line, autonomously checking themselves through the barriers. I looked back briefly and wondered who was inside the bag and under the hat. Only two people were still amongst the clamour of the morning rush; the tired looking attendant in a luminous orange vest leaning inattentively against a metal rail and that person crumpled up in the blue sleeping bag, asleep on the concrete floor. I couldn't help but wonder whether the continuous beeping as people passed through the gates would piss him off, or whether it might be a comfort knowing there were other people around him.
----
After I'd taken the last telephone call and shut down my computer, I left the office, pulling the large glass doors closed behind me. I lifted my lapels up high around my ears and made my way home through the dimly lit streets of Mayfair. The wind had been bitter that day. It managed to breeze its way through my scarf and tie knots in my neck as I tensed up with the cold. I was looking forward to getting home, where a shepherd's pie supper was waiting for me in my snug little flat. I kept myself warm thinking of the candles lit on the coffee table, fleecy blankets to be wrapped up in, and an endless supply of hot water bottles. As I scurried through the subway, shivering, I noticed the blue sleeping bag had gone. I prayed he'd found somewhere warmer. The station cleaner was whistling, brushing away two squashed brown cardboard boxes that had been left grubby and ignored up against the concrete walls where the man in his sleeping bag had been. I contemplated rushing over, asking him nicely to stop, explaining that I thought they might actually belong to someone. But I was worried he'd think I was nuts, so I carried on walking to the escalators. The underground was crowded as usual, but for once I was rather grateful for the mass of bodies and closed my eyes as the warm, dirty air whooshed through my hair as the train pulled into the platform.
----
I knew it would be cold from the moment my eyes opened and I caught sight of the condensation dripping down the window panes. Wiggling my toes I lay there in the dim light for a minute, my duvet pulled up to my chin, enjoying having the warmth of someone lying next to me for a few seconds longer. A layer of morning frost covered the park as I trudged across it to reach the station. I still felt half asleep, awoken only slightly more by the cold biting the tops of my ears. The platform was full, and you could feel each person's sigh as they reached the top of the stairs from the ticket hall and saw the huddle of strangers crammed into the four metre spaces where the doors of the train were expected to stop.
Once aboard, the train jolted and spluttered its way towards Waterloo. I noticed after a few moments that a new announcement was being played over the loudspeaker in the carriage.
Due to network rail improvements, the subway connecting the tube and the train station at Vauxhall will be closed until March 2012. Passengers are advised to alight at Waterloo and use the Jubilee line to avoid congestion at Vauxhall station.
I woke up with a start and looked around the carriage. Commuters looked completely flabbergasted that their journeys were to be lengthened by around five minutes more that usual with a detour to Waterloo. I sighed, not because of my extended journey, but I wondered where the person in the blue sleeping bag would sleep now his subway had been closed. I decided not to follow the crowds to Waterloo and so I jumped off the train as it pulled into Vauxhall and made my way down the stairs. The lights were dim as I returned to the ticket hall, and the station seemed smaller. Possibly due to the wave of people being reduced to only a steady trickle, that wound its way through the diversions to find the route out to the tube. I had a longer time to glance over at the subway this time and had the space to stop and stare at the enormous blue chipboard blockade that had been nailed across the entrance to the subway. It was the same royal blue as the crumpled sleeping bag. As I pattered up the stairs and out into the cold morning air I hoped that he'd found somewhere else to sleep last night, a place that was warmer and where he might not have needed to sleep in a hat. I hoped he'd dream soundly tonight without those hollow clacks of heels on concrete that might have penetrated his dreams before.
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