Fog

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.

The Viewing

The front door has many different keys, all looped together with a bit of ruffled string. The estate agent fumbles around for longer than feels comfortable, prodding each key into the door and muttering about the keyhole being upside down. I start to wonder if it's a sign. The various couples lining up behind her at the front door sigh and shift their weight from foot to foot, sun heating up the back of their necks. I stare blankly at the dandelions poking between the crack under the doorstep and wait for her to let us in. On account of the fact I haven’t eyed up our competition yet, I’m guessing I’m not fussed either way about this one. 

The estate agent is a large woman with jangly gold earrings that clatter rudely as she talks. She’s decided upon a loud flowery summer dress, complete with hessian flip flops that slap the back of her heels, which I take to be a less than obvious hint that she doesn’t like viewing empty properties on a Saturday morning either. As she pushes the front door open, we each have to squeeze (nose to wall) past her enormous bosoms, to escape into the cool, dark hallway of the ground floor flat. The side wall is painted a hospital ward yellow and I immediately feel claustrophobic.  Breaking off from the others, who are nodding in unison as if worshiping those jangly gold earrings, I creep off into the living room.  It doesn't look like mine- it’s very cool. Vintage LPs scatter the coffee table, square clocks with curved edges and bold numerates tick on the mantelpiece, and hundreds of hardback books stake their claim of the bookcase.  The sofa could look comfier, but I imagine it’s because of the two different bottom-sized holes dented in the fabric that it doesn’t look quite right to me. I run my toe along the gap between the polished wooden floor boards. 

It’s a grown-up apartment.

Photos with thick mounts and sharp black frames hang along the hallway. As I walk through, I sneak a peek, not daring to stare too long in case I get caught snooping. The couple are attractive, and a bit older than us. His hand drapes across her shoulders, her nose just tucks under his chin; both look into the camera and grin like idiots. I hover in the doorway to their breezy bedroom, with crisp white bed sheets, and tall Edwardian windows. Gleaming copper pots and pans hang abstract from the kitchen ceiling, fresh herbs in terracotta pots dot the window sill. The place is small, but cosy. The fridge is decorated with gig tickets, restaurant cards and even more of their photographic memories. My heart leaps as I spy a cat flap in the back door for Bess, leading out into a leafy private garden.  Just down the hall I hear Liam discussing storage space and meter readings, and I’m glad one of us remembered to do so. I look over my shoulder, but am not really worried if anyone is watching, because I have a question I felt ready to ask. I gingerly walk up to the kitchen sink and stand on my tiptoes to peer out of the window, brushing aside the pot plants gently. I gaze through the trees, allowing Liam’s voice to carry into a background whisper, until I see Bess rolling in the sun, warming her black furry belly on the patio, knowing I like to dream as I’m doing the washing up.  

Inner Peace... Make Mine A Double

"That's it. I've had enough." I say, stomping into the living room after work and throwing my handbag down onto the chair so it thumps loudly to reflect my mood. "I don't want to hear the television, the radio or have anyone talk to me. I need some space; to be just me and to stop bloody thinking."
I look at Liam who's sat slouched on the sofa, headphones on, his iPad balanced precariously on his knees.
I suddenly feel terrible. I've done it again; walked in from work like a gigantic whirlwind.

"Ok." He says slowly. "You have three minutes to moan. But you only get three minutes and then you can't mention it for the rest of the evening. Deal?" He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows without glancing away from his football game.

"Deal." I say and sit down. My arms (which have now been given the go-ahead) begin to wave frantically in the air as I explain how annoying it was, how she really did say it like that, and right about when I'm  describing how unbelievable it was, he puts his hand up to stop me.

"Time's up!" He says as he smiles and kisses my forehead. "Now leave it behind."

I sigh, because I know he's right.

"I need some quiet. I think I'm going to close my eyes, do some meditation and then get the tea." Then because I know how paper-thin these walls are, I ask the impossible:

"Do you think you could be silent for about twenty minutes so I can switch off?"

He raises his eyebrow. "Do you think you can?!"

Taking full advantage of the fact the television isn't blaring and hoping he'll keep his earphones in, I drag my busy mind into the bedroom (ignoring his knowing smirk) and I shut the door behind me.
 
-----

I close my eyes.

After a couple of seconds, my mind stops its chatter and rather than focussing on six hundred things, I'm only seeing one. I become more aware of my breathing. This is good, I think. As my shoulders begin to drop, the tension in my back starts to let go. The day's recurring phone calls, missing letters, the cram up in the tube so my nose was stuck against the glass... They all begin to disappear. I can still feel the stress stuck in a few knots, but it's surely going.

Deep breath in. Long breath out. This is easy, I think, wiggling my bottom into the duvet. I wonder just what all the fuss was about. Quiet my mind? Easy as pie.

Eyes firmly shut; I begin to imagine the most beautiful white light radiating down from my ceiling. Like I'm under a spotlight. Nice and calming. I'm drifting off into this bright abyss when an unexpected creak interrupts my calm. A padded: thud, thud, thud. The unmistakeable sound of a fridge door opening.  

Rustle. Pause. Rustle. 

There's a crescendo of electronic humming seeping through the walls. It would be quite calming, except there's a sudden pop! that makes me jump right out of my skin and back in again. I realise it's the toaster. I'm cross because there's no worse a time to be jumping full pelt out of your skin than when you're meditating.

I screw my eyes tightly shut, and try to find my focus again. But I can hear him fumbling about for the butter. It'll be my nice, expensive Lurpak butter. Spreadable. No clumps. Slightly salted. Oh god.  

Warm, melty butter on toast.

I take another deep breath in and one long breath out. It's not important. Focus. It's just butter. And once again I see my happy place.

But now there's a clinking noise going on in the kitchen. It sounds suspiciously like ice cubes being popped into a glass. If there's ice cubes going on, it can only be...

The sound of a bottle scraping the sideboard, the plastic being peeled off, and a muffled "rrrhhhgh" before the cap is unscrewed.

Oh, he hasn't. I imagine him sloshing a hefty measure of my new bottle of Coconut Mahiki rum into the bottom of a glass.

I've lost the six hundred stressful things floating about my head. The one, single thing I'm focussing on is a cool coconut rum and coke with ice tinkling around in a glass. I can see in my mind's eye a bright red straw, bubbles fizzing to the top, the froth settling. One eye peeks open just a little.

I slide off the bed as I hear him walk back and slump on the sofa. Careful not to make a sound I tiptoe across the room, slowly and silently push the handle of the door down and ease it open just half an inch.

"Can I have one?" I whisper. The sudden hissy noise in the silence shocks him, making him jump out of his skin and drop his straw on the floor.

I smile knowingly at him. And ever so quietly add;

"I've not failed completely. One eye's still shut."

Not Quite Normal

I was shopping for Secret Santa presents before Christmas. Desperately hunting around WHSmiths novelty gift section for something remotely funny, or something that even just slightly hit on the personality of the person that I had to buy for. He's a nice sort of chap; likes his football, a couple of beers in quirky pubs, good mates with my boyfriend and we'd been to university together... But there was nothing hilarious about him. Nothing that stood out as something I could pick on with a carefully (and evilly) chosen gift.

I was finding it a bit tricky. Everything I picked up from the shelves seemed a perfect present for me. The Simon's Cat 2012 calendar that I knew would look fantastic on my kitchen wall. The Rubik's cube - because I've always wanted one and could clearly never do it. A set of sticky moustaches, of all colours and styles - brilliant - (and perhaps useful?)

I wandered over to the magazine rack, thinking that there could be something hideously unsuitable to give him, like Bliss magazine for teenage girls. My eyes flicked fiendishly across the shelves. Men's Health...? He wasn't particularly known for eating too many pizzas, so perhaps that wasn't insulting enough. I knew he loved his football, and recalled the deep depressions he got into after Manchester United lost a goal, an opportunity, or - God forbid - the actual game.

"ah-HA!" I whispered to myself as my eyes scanned the Sport section and plucked the Chelsea FC Official Club Magazine off the shelf, knowing it would really piss him off - which would be quite funny for me. Then I threw in the sticky moustaches for good measure. Yes. Everyone loves a sticky moustache.

As I took my secret Santa gift over to the counter to pay, something being advertised on one of the stands at the front of the shop caught my eye. A mug - on sale. It made me stop to turn it over, chuckle to myself and look around to see if anyone had seen. It was THE most perfect secret Santa present - but for me. I loved it. I had to have this mug. I thought about buying it right there on the spot and pretending I'd got given it for Christmas. But maybe that was really sad, so I left it there on the top of a pile of other mugs, and thought that maybe, just maybe, my secret Santa might get it for me.

-----

Apparently, I'm too old for stockings at the bottom of the bed at Christmas. Last year, I felt so despondent that I might miss out on one of those wonderful, crackly, crispy, heavy sacks of presents that I informed Liam early in November, that I'd be doing him a stocking this year - and that I would like one too.

I spent ages thinking about what he'd like (this time I picked serious, lovely gifts, and thought about all those things he needed, but wouldn't buy himself). I got him a beautiful vintage leather bag for work, a matching belt, I even crocheted him some fingerless gloves (which maybe he wouldn't buy ever... but I was determined that he would like). I'd been patient all day, slightly nervous that he might not appreciate me buying him Disney's Robin Hood on DVD (because it was obvious I'd wanted to watch it too), or think that the really useful changing colour egg timer I'd found in the shop was a bit silly. It was early evening on Christmas Day and we'd just cleared away the dinner plates and sunk into the sofas in the living room when he looked over to me, winked and said;

"Shall we do our presents now?"

I jumped up and followed him upstairs. Lying on his bed all exciting in a crisp, white pillow case was a lumpy bag of crunchy presents. I squealed. 

"Can I go first?" I asked, acting like a five year old. 

"Sure! Go for this one." He said, picking a square shaped, neatly wrapped parcel out of the pillowcase. 

As always, I peeled the sellotape off carefully, tearing the corners just a little, enjoying the way the paper sounded as it ripped. I saw a flash of shiny blue. I held my breath and my eyes boggled. 

"No way...!" I said, leaning over to kiss him. 

There, in my lap was the mug I'd seen and loved. I couldn't believe it. 

Today, it sits proudly on my desk, slightly inappropriate for a posh, corporate reception and it still makes me laugh. I get it out the cupboard every morning to make a cup of tea (not too milky, one sugar please) and potter back to my desk. I like how it's become a bit of a talking point, a conversation starter. And I always say proudly;

"My boyfriend brought that for me. He knows I'm not normal, and I quite like that."

Being Twenty-six

London has suddenly exploded with sunshine. Walking to the station yesterday to catch my train for work, there was something special in the air as I passed through the park near my flats. The sun was low in the sky, and just brushing the tree tops in the distance, so bright beams shot across the grass and played havoc with the mist that had settled quietly across the field. The air was crisp, and tickled my nose, but it wasn't cold enough to steam up my breath. I stopped to take a picture by the railings. It looked like something paranormal. Just beautiful. It was a fresh morning, the kind that wakes you right up and starts to make you think. Even at seven O'clock in the morning.

I will be twenty-six on Saturday. Twenty-six.  

I continued up the path, and watched as a grey figure walked through the mist just a couple of hundred yards in front of me. I could hear the footsteps and heavy breathing getting louder as they strode towards me, but the mist distorted his face. He passed quickly and smiled as he went. I beamed back. A little exchange of how beautiful it was. My thoughts flipped back to my birthday.

Was twenty-six really so different from being twenty-five? 

I walked briskly along the path, carefully avoiding squishing all the tiny red berries that had dropped to the ground from the tree overhead.

It's taken me a year, but I think I'm in a good place. At twenty-six, I've got a nice flat, a job that pays for it, good friends and a lovely man.  I might even go as far to say I'm beginning to love London.

I left the park, noticing the way the fog just slipped by and out of sight as I walked across the cast iron bridge and turned left through the estate. Feeling settled, or rather, feeling safe has always been rather important to me. Change was never something I was very good at. I'd try and do everything possible to keep things the way they were. I loved photographs that captured beautiful moments with natural real-life poses, videos I could play over and over again watching every movement and reliving a tiny snippet of who I was at one tiny point in time. And then there were the diaries. I might not have been good at change, but recording change; I was brilliant.

 -------

A fabulous day in London - 14th April 2006

(Aged 20)

We set off at Amersham to get the cheap tickets. Ahead of us was just the most romantic day. It was cool - not too cold but lovely and bright. We arrived in London and started with Covent Garden - my favourite place. We were really hungry so I'd made a picnic and done some cute sandwiches. It was lovely... We arrived and he held me close and we kissed and as we did the sun came out. 

I felt so happy... I held his hand and loved looking around the ring stalls and there was a carousel where we sat by and ate our sandwiches in the sun. Then we made our way to St James' Park (while the sun was still out). Walked through the park and even saw Buckingham Palace. Squirrels and blossom were everywhere. We sat on a little bench by the lake and I lay on Leam's lap. I loved just being together away from the usual setting in Manchester. Decided Leam would love Camden and so off we went to the market. He bought me a nose stud from a stall by the lochs. Everyone was having a pint in the sun, so we thought we'd go for a drink. We went to Embankment, and went aboard a river boat on the Thames. Such a beautiful setting. We talked about summer and the future. Felt so good, but got a little cold as evening set in, so we decided to go to china town for an evening meal. I did my usual on the restaurants; changed my mind, couldn't decide on a table, before finally asking to leave and find another one. Then we found a lovely cosy place, nice - but quite expensive. We had London fever, and I just so wanted to stay. If only we could afford a hotel! We made our way back- I felt happy. The day had really summed up for me how good the last six months together have been. We have the 'at one'ishness. There's no need to speak. No silences. He's just so cute and I'm so in love. Still.

Aura

Sitting on my wide wooden reception desk, I'd say, about 150 different people pass me each day. I have three lifts and six doors around my reception where the people I work with pass through. Some glance up, their eyes flicking only slightly so as not to be rude, some stop and lean over the glass panel at the front, and stay for a few minutes to chat, and others just plain walk on by, perhaps pretending im not here, or maybe just too busy to notice.

I'm not hard to miss. I'm slap bang in the middle of the reception area - my desk wider than my arms can stretch, and I'm lit up with hundreds of different kinds of lights, large beamers, little spotlights, and wall mounted atmospherics - all artificial.

Literally, you couldn't miss me.

I've been here in this job now nearly a year. I know the people who I should smile at, or say 'good morning!' to, those who always have the latest bit of office gossip, and I can spot the few who love to stand a little longer over my desk than they should do- for one reason or another.

Sometimes I play little games, which is probably a little bit mean, because I smile like a maniac to the ones who look grumpy, and announce 'good morning' with a little too much enthusiasm and always in a slightly operatic manner, to those who ignore me - just so they have to notice I'm there. It's just good manners, afterall.

But if you haven't got nearly a year to get to know someone's weird and wonderful ways, then it's often really hard to know how interact with them. I sit at my reception desk and out of the corner of my eye, I see the lift doors open - sliding slowly - and I can see a peek of a suit, a shoe, or hear a tinkling laugh before that person steps forward into the lights, and I realise that I've never seen them before. Their face is new to me, their expression (mostly fixed into an expectant look towards me and my reception desk) is often unreadable except to say that they might be needing my attention in a couple of seconds. I've found that people just don't walk around with their thoughts and personalities written all across their faces. Instead, they can be hidden behind smiles, wrapped around words, or lost under glazed, work-tired eyes.

There's this thing I've been able to do, ever since I was young. It's a useful ability, and in my people-watching reception, has proved monumentally helpful. I can honestly, no kidding, sense people. That's not using my sight, my hearing, or even (thank goodness) my sense of smell. To put it more specifically - whilst risking sounding like the gigantic hippy I am and nearly always try to avoid to be - I sense their energy; their aura.  

When I was younger, I didn't know what an aura was. I thought it was pretty normal to just know how people were feeling as I clapped my eyes upon them. I got this niggling instinct in the pit of my stomach, that wiggled it's way up until I paid it some attention. Almost always I was right.

There are hundreds of books out there on auras. There are the airy-fairy ones, the rather technical ones and the ones with the photographs to prove them (Kirlian photography - if you're interested). But to put it very simply; an aura is an energy field which radiates all around you. It's your personal energy, made up of essentially you. Even, I guess, right down to whether you liked that expensive dinner last night, how you hated peas when you were six-years-old and those high flying dreams of what you want to be 'when you grow up'. I have come to realise, that these auras are made up of all the things you just don't go around shouting about in everyday life - especially at work - but are extremely important in making up exactly who you are, nonetheless.

I think I got this extra-sensory ability from my Mum. She can suss out a person with one small glance. I remember how I'd bring around my shiny new best friend after school. We'd sit and chat, eating our sausages, chips and baked beans in the kitchen, before racing up to my bedroom and talking about the latest boy we fancied in our class. Later on, after she'd gone home, I'd come down to the kitchen in my pyjamas and ask Mum proudly what she thought of my 'new best friend'.

She'd narrow her eyes and tilt her head to the side, as if working out the best way to put it across.

"A nice girl." She'd say, squinting a bit. "'Though, if I was you, I'd be careful she doesn't pinch your boyfriend." Well, I'd stand there arguing with her until my face went blue, thinking of a hundred different reasons why my new best friend could never, ever stab me in the back or run off with the boy I fancied. And without fail, within a couple of weeks, she would.

Relating to people in everyday life seems make a lot more sense when you know about auras. You begin to understand those people who after just five minutes of talking with them, are able to make you feel as if you need a seriously stiff drink and a lie down. You then begin to really appreciate those people who have a warmth around them - an inner beauty that radiates out when they communicate; so much so that you could sit and talk to them all evening, because you just connect.

I'm sure it's why I get so claustrophobic on the underground in London. All those bodies, and their individual auras crammed into that tiny carriage on the District Line into Wimbledon. Just living in London in general, I find myself searching out open areas, standing in the middle of parks, desperately finding my own space to be me whilst living among eight million people. And then, amongst all those millions, you might find one aura you connect with more than any other.

And for me, that aura belongs to Liam. I dont tell him this fact very often. Mainly because he's incredibly skeptical about anything he can't actually, physically see, but also because it's hardly what a guy wants to hear; 'Oooh your aura's lovely...'

But it's true.

He's got this energy about him that I could sit and connect with forever. It's warm, open and safe. When he's scooting across the world on his business trips and I'm left at home with the cat; well, we miss him. I can always talk with him on the phone about my day, so it's probably not our conversation that I miss most. As a self-confessed hermit, I definitely don't miss sharing our tiny little flat; fighting over the remote control, squished up on one half of the bed and getting cross because he's nicked the last of the sour cream dip. No, it isn't one thing in particular. It's his aura I miss. That buzz of energy around him that makes up every single part of him. The bits I dont know, the bits I do - the everything that is essentially him.

cited

Lipstick Lesbians

It's one of those dutiful nights. Where, despite being absolutely exhausted, I've given in, pulled on the black jeans, curled a few strands of hair and slicked on some baby pink lipstick and dragged myself to a pub half way across London - all for love. Alright, for Liam. So I agree to a cheap house white - as long as it comes with a 'tap water and ice'- and I sit back at the table which is surrounded with all his friends, and I try to laugh at the right moments, and not shudder at how acidic my wine is.

It's late. The pub's noisy. A girl in a heavy knitted cardigan has started swaying on her own to '99 Red Balloons' and waving at herself in the mirrors. There's talk of another round of drinks. Someone's smoking off the balcony. No one seems to mind.

"Just nipping to the loo." I say, squeezing Liam on the arm. I slope in and out the obstacle course of wooden pub chairs, avoiding people and pints alike. I've not been here before. I squint, looking for a sign, wishing I'd put my glasses on. I hope I won't walk into the men's toilet, which often tends to happen. In a dark corner painted a grubby green, I spy the door. Then a pointy hand with toilets written on it politely. I push it and enter.

Suddenly I'm faced with two whitewashed doors with absolutely no signs. It's like Alice In Wonderland- I just need a white rabbit. I stop for a moment, wondering which one I should push before a voice pipes up from behind me.

"Well that's not very helpful, is it?" A girl says in a soft Irish accent. "Chance it for the one on the left."

I push the door, and by the smell alone, we realise we've hit the wrong one.

"Whoops!" I shriek, and laugh, bursting quickly through the door on the right.

What a state. Tissues all over the floor, water on the basins and soap smeared up the mirrors. It was definitely the ladies toilet. If it wasn't obvious from the mess, both cubicles are locked. She makes a point of hammering on each door and telling the occupants to "bloody hurry up".

I stand opposite the large mirror. My reflection stares back at me and my curls have gone flat. I sigh, open my handbag and reach for my hairbrush. As I'm fumbling about I notice that the girl is staring at me.

"English girls are so pretty." She says casually, turning to apply her lipstick.

"Oh, really?" I laugh off the compliment.

"Absolutely. You're really pretty." She says, turning to look at me and half smiled.

Not quite sure what to say, I laugh. "I'm sure I look tired." I say, embarrassed. There was a flicker of something else in that smile.

"Are you from 'round here?" And without waiting for the answer she says, "I'm staying with my friend near Clapham."

She definitely wasn't a Londoner. She was far too friendly. I stole a quick glance at her face as she was busy fluffing her hair and talking about her friend's flat. She was quirky. Dark haired and pale with big blue eyes- typically Irish.

As I start a polite but distant response, the toilet flushes from behind one of the cubicles. She stops fluffing to glare at a sheepish looking girl who walks out alone, who decides against washing her hands to just exit as swiftly as possible.

"After you." I say.

There's an awkward quiet in the toilet. God knows what going on in the other cubicle. The Irish girl grins and clacks her cute black boots across the lino into the cubicle. I busy myself fiddling with a loose curl up close in the mirror. She pauses as she pushes the door. I notice that there are loads of odes to love and hate written across the back wall in different lipsticks and eye liners. What's she pausing for? She suddenly spins on her heel to face me and I half expect her to ask me to join her.

"D'you have a boyfriend then?" She tilts her head and wrinkles her nose as I nod. "Shame. Course y'do. You're dead pretty. I'd be surprised if yer didn't." Then she strides into the toilet cubicle and closes the door.

Shame...? 

Afraid of the silence and not wanting to hear her pee, I turn the taps on full and pretend to wash my hands. Yelling over the water splashing across the sinks and onto the floor, I shout, "Yep. He's quite a nice one too. Been together ages." Then I add (because I now have a feeling that I need to make myself appear less available), "We have a cat."

She might just be a non-Londoner who hadn't yet realised that in London you just don't talk to strangers. But no denying it, there was definite flirting. I didn't know what to do... Run? Or stand there red-faced when she came out the loo?

Thing was, I couldn't run. I still really needed to pee.

So I stayed. I'll admit, part of me was pretty chuffed. Having never been hit on by a girl, I found it all rather exciting. There was no sleaze. No ass-checking, boob-staring or cheesy chat up lines falling from slurring lips. A definite improvement on the usual. For a moment, it was pretty scary when she leant forward to kiss me goodbye. Just a friendly two-cheeker - though I swear to God she sniffed me. I left the ladies toilet in air of smugness and made my way back to the rickety wooden table where Liam was playing around with beer mats, and his friends were singing along to Chumbawamba's 'Tubthumping'.

Later on, when a few of his mates had been asked politely - then less politely - to stop dancing on the tables, we made our way out of the pub and into the fresh air to queue up by the hundreds of late night drinkers looking to making their way home at the bus stop.

I leant on Liam and put my arm around his waist. "Guess what?" I asked, teasing. "I got asked out tonight by a girl."

"You didn't...!"

"I did." I said, looking all smug. He smelt of fags, lager and possibly something vaguely cheese and oniony. I sniffed him. "You stink." I said, poking him.

"You love it." He grabbed me tight.

"Only a little bit." I said wrinkling my nose. No, he was right. Such an appealing smell. I wasn't ready to become a lesbian just yet.

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."

A Mancunian love affair

 

I stepped onto the bus. It had taken me a few minutes to remember which number I needed to get to reach Fallowfield, even though I used to travel this route, twice a day for three years. I caught sight of the 142 – yes – that’s the one – and ran furiously to get to it just as the bus pulled out to leave. The driver caught my eye through the reflections on the windscreen, slowed to a stop, and the doors hissed open, almost in annoyance. 

“How much to Fallowfield and back, please?” I asked him, slightly breathless.

“That’d be £3.20 please, love.” 

He had a kind face, and his strong Manchester accent took me aback slightly, it was far friendlier than the snobby London accent I was so used to hearing in Mayfair. There had been a time when I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid, and perhaps would have even spoken with a slight Northern twang myself. It sounded so familiar, and I realised I’d missed it. I fumbled in my pockets for some small change, and handed it to him, before crawling to a window seat and cringing at how out of touch I was, that I couldn’t even remember the return fare on a Stagecoach bus.

The minute Liam and I had arrived at Manchester Piccadilly station for a long weekend with friends, I had felt like I’d come back home. The many memories of standing on Platform 5, malnourished from too many university pasta dinners, waiting for the London Euston train via Milton Keynes Central to arrive to take me home for a long weekend with Mum, quickly came back to me.  I gripped Liam’s hand as we walked along the platform, half listening as he talked about which of our usual haunts we would head to for lunch, and then my mind wandered to the last time we’d been here in Manchester together. It had been in the station. He’d left with his huge rucksack on the train for three months to travel around Peru. I remembered how I had run alongside the train as he’d smiled and waved from the window.  I thought that if I ran fast enough I could delay the last moment I would see him, and it was only when his train became a dot along the tracks, amongst the sky rise buildings and overhead wires, that I had let myself cry. 

As my bus bumped and hissed its way to the junction, I opened up my handbag and searched for something like a mirror. Pulling my phone out, I used the reflection to apply a slick of pink lipstick.  I was meeting Liam in Platt Fields Park in Fallowfield; it was where we’d visited many a fairground, firework display and sat together amongst the long grass and frazzled in those rare moments when Manchester had seen the sun. In the hot stuffy bus, I squinted at my reflection in the dark black screen.  I didn’t think I looked too much older than when I’d first met him in our first year university halls, all fresh-faced and nineteen. 

We’d pulled out of the station and were trundling down Portland Street, passing Kro Bar, where I’d always treat myself to the best marshmallow hot chocolate or the wedges with chilli and sour cream dip.  As we passed China Town, I recalled  the day I spent there with my friend Helen, at Chinese New Year. We’d brought paper dragons, jade trinkets, and clapped at the street performers. The rickety bench just on my left was where we linked arms and huddled together, picking at a punnet of chips.

The bus took a sharp turn around the corner at the Palace Theatre, and we passed the Cornerhouse Cinema, where Liam had taken me to see ‘Che Part One’ after I’d had an operation a few years back. I’d spend the whole time giggling, all drowsy and dosed up on strong painkillers. Trying to focus on the subtitles, I eventually fell into a light Tramadol invoked sleep; having psychedelic dreams involving jungles and firearms.

We pulled into a bus stop. A couple of people got on, flashing their paper passes at the driver before they found themselves a seat. No one seemed rushed, no one pushed or tripped up on other peoples feet. The guy to my right had scruffy trainers on and was reading a large text book, which had been highlighted and underlined in many different colours. I’d put money on him being a student and getting off at the next stop. 

The bus drove past our rival university, Manchester Metropolitan. You could guarantee the Man Met students would always dress more fabulous than the typical University of Manchester student. Hair tied up in coloured scarves, bright red lipsticks and angular cut fringes. I’d always slightly envied them for having chosen more creative degrees and would often wander into their student union to look all the art materials up for sale in the union shop, scribble my name with the felt tip pens and wish I could find a purpose in my degree for a A3 Scrapbook or a scalpel and cutting mat.   

In a moment, the students were gone, replaced with cafes and shabby newsagents, just before they too whizzed past me and I saw my university coming into sight. We pulled up and stopped outside the grand arches I had posed under with my family for photographs the day of my graduation, and I remembered the beautiful bunch of peonies and lisianthas Mum had given me. We passed where I’d stumbled up the middle of the road after the Summer Ball in my first year, at five in the morning; my face painted with butterflies and singing Bon Jovi tunes at the top of my voice, my best friend Natalie under one arm – a squished cheesy naan bread under the other. 

We drove up the curry mile- Rusholme- the only place in Manchester that you can guarantee the shops will have changed owners and signs since the last time you went that way. I smelt the usual waft of spices fly in through the window, and my tummy growled in appreciation. At first glance, it looked more run down than usual, but upon a closer look, I saw the glitzy saris in the shop windows, Indian gold bangles draped across velvet and people laughing over baklava and a shisha pipe in the cafes. I laughed as I remembered the 3am stop offs after boozy nights out for a curry in Al Nawaz; the only curry house on the mile which has goldfish in tanks swimming under a glass floor. 

As we neared Platt Fields, I stood up and pressed the red button waiting for it to ding! loudly. The bus pulled up and I hopped off, thanking the driver, who smiled and nodded at me. How personal. How different from London. I was only a couple of miles from the city centre, but it was quiet, with only a few cars passing on the road to my right. Crossing the road, I walked into the park through the the big iron gates, taking in the open space, and the hot sunshine beating down on my head. There was a little park bench up the way. I remembered I used to stretch my legs on it when I had that burst of enthusiasm in my first year to go running after I'd got a little pot belly from too many beers. I'd brought some trainers from JJB Sport especially, but unfortunately my burst of enthusiasm had only lasted a few weeks, and the trainers are still in a box under my bed somewhere. 

I lay down on the bench, pulled my knees up, and rested my head on my suitcase. It was comfy. I listened to the sounds around me, zoning out a little; the birds chirping, the rustle of trees and the occasional jogger who breathlessly passed me by. Children were squealing somewhere in the distance, but it didn’t bother me as it usually did. For a moment I could pretend I still lived here. In the city I loved, where I’d built up so many happy memories. I closed my eyes, until I heard a familiar low wolf-whistle coming from behind me. Squinting into the sun, I peered over my suitcase, to see Liam walking up the path towards me, grinning, looking almost exactly the same as when I first met him, those five years ago, just 100 metres down the road.

A little lost in London

I was walking to the tube after work, yesterday, lost in thought, and feeling a little lost in general, when a man walked past me.


'Cheer up, love. Might never happen!' He yelled, as he got right up in my face, before turning to his friend and snorting with laughter. He had a big pot belly, which was barely covered by the old faded T-shirt he was wearing. His jeans looked grimy like they needed disinfecting and his eyes were covered by a washed out red baseball cap, which he hid behind when he looked away.


I instantly felt small, miserable and insignificant. This emotion was quickly plastered over by a bout of rage.


Who did he think he was?


I didn't smile at him (which could well have proved his point), but instead, I tightened my jacket, and gripped my handbag for support and kept walking on to the tube. Truth is, his words hit me a little like a slap around the face.
Did I really look that miserable to the outside world? Okay, so this scruffy bloke who thinks he had the right to openly judge strangers just minding their own business, doesn't hardly constitute the world, but you know what I mean.


I thought back to the past couple of weeks. I hadn't been quite myself, that was true.
"Are you okay? You're not quite yourself today - a little thoughtful perhaps?" A friend at work had asked as she strolled past reception last week.


"I always know when something is up with you, you go all quiet." Said another of my work colleagues, one who rarely speaks to me.

My life had become a bit of a routine. My work days were full to the very brim of commuting, newspapers, post, trays of coffee, transferring calls, and stationery catalogues. The most exciting thing that happened each day was realising I had walked quicker than usual to the train station, meaning I could take the earlier train and didn't have to rush to get a seat. If finding a spare seat on the tube excited me, then no wonder people at work had noticed something was wrong.

But it was the person who knows me best, who was perhaps the most perceptive.


"You haven't been writing much lately, have you?" Liam had said.

I'd walked in from work and slumped onto the sofa, putting my head in my hands and letting out the biggest sigh. I was surprised he'd brought it up. He, who hates my Twitter account, and gets jealous of how I have a tendency to put my relationship with my blog followers before ours sometimes in the evenings.
Can you put your phone down, and stop checking your blog - for just one minute? He'd sigh and remind me again that we were trying to have a nice meal together.

"No, I haven't." I replied. "In fact, I haven't felt like doing many of the things that I love, recently..."


He came over to the sofa and bear-hugged me, squeezing me tight against his chest so my ears got all squashed. I love it when he does that. I like the way his voice sounds all gruff and echoey through his rib cage. He didn't jump in asking questions, he let me speak, as he always does.

I trundled through each grumpy, indifferent, frustrated emotion I'd felt over the last few weeks. Each day had felt like it needed to be 'done' just to get onto the next, to then finish that day in order to repeat the whole process again. When it suddenly clicked that the thing I looked forward to most in each day was sleeping, it was there in my living room, wrapped tight in Liam's arms, that I decided I had a problem.

"It could be that nothing much at the moment inspires me, pushes me or challenges me." I offered.

I'd gotten used to the monotony of my daily routine. I thought about how I had begun to walk faster to get to each destination, not stopping to notice things around me, how I regularly tutted at people who crossed my path, or those who walked too slow in front of me. I'd started buying into all the consumerism; the caramel macchiatos, the fancy clothes, the posh meals out. It had become ashamedly easier to slob in front of the TV after getting in from work, rather than get my watercolour paints out to create a picture, or set my mind to write a story. All very fickle. I narrowed my eyes and spoke very slowly and seriously. "I think I might have finally become a Londoner."


Liam thought this was hilarious, and whilst laughing, said very pointedly, "Well you do know what you're going to have to do about this..."

"Move to Brighton?" I asked, hopefully, teasing him slightly.

"No -" He rolled his eyes at me. "You need to put some effort in to make things change. You can look for a new job today if it's not exciting enough, you can plan to do things that will inspire you."

I didn't want to admit he was absolutely right. I had become lazy. Too comfortable in my routine to even think about having the ability to change it. I had become that miserable face on the London Underground I'd always hated. Me. 

As I sat down to write this post, switching my computer on and logging in to Blogger, I saw my familiar home page flash up, and a wave of excitement flew through me as post after post popped up from my favourite bloggers.
Wanting to read them all at once, I smiled as I remembered that familiar desperate need to be creative, come sneaking back to me. And I suppose I wasn't half surprised I hadn't blogged for a while, I couldn't really call myself a light in London when 'a little lost in London' might have been more appropriate.

cited

Kiss me quick!

Waking up early on a Sunday morning, I peek out of the curtains. Its only 7:00am and it’s always going to look foggy like that at this time. The clouds loom over head, but it’s still bright, nonetheless. I’m positive, I’m excited, and quickly run a cool shower. Liam’s still snoozing as I pull on my jeans, a short white T-shirt, and a long navy cardigan. To flip-flop? Or not to flip flop?  I didn’t. I opted for black leather pumps instead. The kettle sounds loud in the quiet flat, as I flick it on, and it jumps into action. It wakes up the cat who is not used to such early morning start on a Sunday. She mews and expects her breakfast before I go to get mine.

It’s a quick turnaround, and within twenty minutes all the lights are turned off, the radio set onto Radio 4 to keep the cat company, before the front door shuts behind us and the key is turned in the lock. Do you think the peach mac or the canvas jacket? I ponder at the top of the stairs. Do you want to catch the train or not? He asks, rolling his eyes at me. The air is fresh, so I stick with the mackintosh and we race to the train station.

One change. Two change. A hot sausage roll and take-away coffee later, we are on the train to Brighton. It’s only an hour journey and I pop one earphone in my right ear and one in Liam’s left. It’s still early, I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. Two little girls colour a large pad of paper with bright felt-tip pens in the chairs next to us. An old lady and her flowered shopping trolley get on ten minutes later. She parks it close by and shuffles onto the seat opposite me. Gardens with whirligig washing lines full of whites pass by, fields busy with Sunday morning football clubs appear and then are gone as quickly as I saw them. Clatter, bump. Jitter, clunk; the train clambers down the track.

In no time at all, I’m being woken up. My hand in his, I am led down the platform, among a swarm of people. I look up to a maze of Victorian windows and beams, painted blue high up above my head; the station roof. A stern brow and a nod from the inspector. Tickets please. I hand him mine. Thank you. He says.

On the sunny side of the street we walk, avoiding the sea wind whipping past us too cold. I feel like skipping now we are out of London, out of the smoke and one square metre of space in that city. The air feels lighter. Can I see the sea? I tiptoe for a moment. I’ve got to see the sea! Not quite yet. We walk closer down the hill, passing cafes and slightly run down shops, the kind you know have been there forever, with their signs a little peeled, and their customers too few. The promenade is not yet busy. It’s open for business with one or two stalls, selling shells and jewellery spread out on bright cloths. Tinkling music is playing, all in different tunes, from different places, luring you to each end of the stretch. And there’s the sea! My hands are place gently on the cool metal bars along the front. Feel my feet firm on that concrete promenade. But my heart wants to leap out from my chest and do a little dance over the waves into the distance. Take a deep breath, it smells like the sea; salty and fresh. Miles and miles of glittering blue, today quite calm and still.

A Mr Whippy ice-cream? He asks as he kisses my head. Oh, yes, please. No flake... I remember to add. The sun has got hot, I feel it on my face. We walk slowly towards the pier with our ice creams, hand in hand. The pier vibrates with the music on the megaphone. It's Bob Dylan. So we stand and watch the sea, and listen for a while. My Mac over my arm, I tiptoe across the slats. Avoid the dips, the gaps and damaged bits and eye the rusty bolts with suspicion.

We have all the time in the world as we walk along the pier, the wind blowing my hair gently to the right. I feel like a Victorian Lady from an old sepia photo. I pretend I'm in a long frilly dress, adorned with jewels, my parasol and hat. I strut proudly along the pier. Link arms with my tall, top-hatted man, and laugh as I imagine his handlebar moustache.

Ker-ching! Clunk Clunk Clunk! Brrrrring! Oooh, the Penny Arcade. Flashing lights. Tinkling tunes. I feel seven again, and rush to go inside. Holding as many two pennies in my hand as possible. I make a little carrier for them with the bottom of my T-Shirt. Eyes darting to the trays underneath, I look for the coins which have fallen too soon. One through the slot. Slide down the chute. Hit the bottom. Spinning around and around until it stops. Then sweep. Knocked down a level. Pushing the rows forward and forward more. One or two fall, and I hear the satisfying clatter of two pences in the tray below. And everyone stops to glare a jealous look.

I see the fair at the end of the pier from the corner of my eye. Dodgems, the Waltzers, a Helter Skelter - roller coasters galore!

I grasp Liam's hand, dragging him across the slats. Oh we've got to have a go on the Waltzers! He looks at me as if I'm crazy. But I was sick last time... He says. Oh don't be a baby. Lets get tokens! I kiss his cheek. We change over six pounds with the tiny lady in the booth, and compromise to have a go on The Twister - fast, but less sicky.

The bar goes down across our laps. We hand over our tokens. The bell sounds and the music starts. His arm is tight around my shoulders. The ride jolts into action; we swing sharply to the left. There's a pause for half a second - I catch Liam's eye - before we fly across the section, my hair whipping furiously behind me. I throw my head back and look to the sky. Hands in the air! I scream to him. The people waiting by the side, whizz in and out of sight. My heart is thump, thump, thumping so I hold on tight. His face looks green, his teeth are grinding and his lips curl. 

We slow right down all of a sudden; the music comes to a stop. My hand is white from gripping on so tight. Giggling, I lift the bar and hop onto the floor.

His arm slips around my waist and I pretend not to notice that he's wobbling a bit, or that he's using me as a crutch. Laughing, we pass a small pub with patio chairs and tables. How about a pint on the pier? I ask, with a slight glint in my eye. Hmm... Maybe in a bit. He says, squinting into the sun. I flop over the railings to the sides of the pier; still trying to catch my breath. We look out to sea, to the beautiful blue and right across the stony beaches. The sun beats down a little stronger than before. The tinkling music plays on. Lets get you back to shore. I say.