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.

January Jitters

So, I'm back in the office and it's definitely January. The flowers in reception have been replaced. Transformed from the festive red berries and silver sprayed pine cones to a rather demure thistled number with grasses, red gerberas, pink lilies and (most confusingly) all bundled together with a palm leaf. The weather has also gone a bit berserk. Last night the wind screeched through my single glazed windows and caused havoc with the flower pots on my balcony. But today the deep rumbling clouds of yesterday transformed into a beautiful warm pink morning sky. They seem a bit like me; unsure how to be now January is about. You still feel the same as you did last week; same clothes, same hair, same old work to come back to. But there's also something different. You feel bolder and a little bit braver. When you woke up on New Year's Day, did you sense what I did? A spark, a sort of hope that musters about in the air, not quite brushing away last year's cobwebs, but giving you that lift to take on anything. Especially that fresh, clean, sparkling new year.

cited

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."

Identifying me

I open the drawer by the side of my bed and absentmindedly, pick up my passport; my gateway into many cultures and my permission to explore them all. I run my fingers over the worn leathery cover, which feels soft and comfortable in my hand. The striking dragon’s blood red, as if stained with a real history of knights, castles and battles won over the land that is my home – is now slightly faded from creasing and wrinkles. Those gold capital letters, proudly splayed across the front, declaring Queen and country, have also worn off slightly, and look positively tired. Sticky splodges of God-knows-what (perhaps some sort of travel sweet or fizzy drink - now unidentifiable and covered in fluff) are splattered up the spine. My eyes fall upon the lion poised proudly on the left of the Royal coat of arms; perhaps he is smiling - or maybe roaring -  but he, more than anything looks faded and old.

The corners are black and dusty; dirty from too many rowdy nights out tucked safely away in my handbag, crushed up against smashed blushers and broken eye-shadow pots.
The book bends easily, and I flick absentmindedly through the pages. Almost all of them blank, leaving just a whirr of pastel-coloured paper and the odd flash of blue, red and black inks stamped towards the back. In flicking I’d created a light breeze, which made me blink a bit and instantly the musty air it aroused brought back memories of long journeys in the back of chicken buses.

There’s a stamp or two from Costa Rica, Belize, Guatemala, and Honduras (which, I may add, is the prettiest stamp in the book). Then there was the one I’d got at the Mexican border. The customs officer, in a flurry to pass as many people as possible through his gate had half missed the page and stamped the table instead. I’d walked away really cross, debating at nineteen years old whether I was brave enough to walk back up to him and ask for another one. Needless to say, I didn’t. I remembered the scary-looking official in Orlando, in the US of A, who - much to my horror - randomly picked any old page in my passport to stamp, and did so upside down. Then, as knocking my carefully collected stamps out of chronological order, eyeballed me through his gate, as if daring me to protest. But most of the pages remained bare, characterless and without a story - and from now on, they always would.

I knew exactly how I’d feel as I felt my thumb slide further past the pastel pages flicking forward and stopping right at the back – more specifically the very last page. It opened with ease – exactly as it’s meant to – and I came face to face with my sixteen-year-old-self. The picture was just a little fuzzy, and glittered wildly from holograms of roses and italic writing as I moved it ever so slightly to catch the light. My thoughts walked me back to the day it had been taken - before some school ski trip – if I remember rightly. I’d worn a V-neck black jumper and haematite crystal crucifix on a leather thong around my neck, trying to look distinguished. I recall Mum saying at the time:

“You’ll be using this until you’re twenty-five. In 2011 - now, can you imagine that?”

I remember thinking it sounded light years away, and I’d be so old I’d have a husband, a house of my own and babies by then. So I’d gone all out to look grown-up, just in case they weren’t completely sure it was me once I'd become so sophisticated.

My shoulder-length hair, usually a dark brown, looked black in this photograph, and in contrast, my skin appeared a luminous white. I’d really loved the Gothic look at sixteen; dark eyes, dark hair, dark clothes – all dark, but with this beautiful bright outlook.

I suppose they’d never allow a picture like that now – too much smiling. Plus, you couldn’t see my eyes.
‘Too dark’, they’d say, then send it right back.

I’d queued at the photo booth in Tescos as Mum paid for the weekly shopping. Once inside, I had to twirl the seat around and around, adjusting the height. I carefully applied my ‘nude’ lipstick and dropped £3 into the slot, before posing and adopting a half coy smile as the instructions spoke out from the speaker at the front.
"Hurry up!", Mum had hissed from outside. I hadn't time to take another, even though in my first and final photo, my crucifix was slightly wonky to the left. I'd sighed and pressed the green button, then drew back the curtain before stepping into the bright lights of the supermarket.

I now gazed at my signature in the bottom right-hand corner of the page. I'd been told to sign within the box on the application form. Within the box? Sign? I didn't have a signature at sixteen. So I'd signed the elaborate swirly letters in my name over three pieces of plain paper, before realising it definitely wouldn't fit inside the box, and finally settled for a slightly italic version of my name printed in full.

Shifting slightly on my bed, I took a deep breath and allowed myself a peek at the back cover, mostly it was just a quick indulgence in my sadness, but also I felt that a little of me would be pretending that things were as they were written on that back page.
The words were written in Mum’s distinctive capital font – scribbled, as I remember, as she'd leant over our kitchen table, just before I set off on my first holiday without her.

My Mum and Dad's names. Mr and Mrs.

It was the closest the two had been together in years. You wouldn't get them in the same room now, and there they were, written next to each other on the same page - the same line even. It seemed strange to think of them like that – I’d gotten so used to it being different. Suddenly the memories hit me like oncoming bullets, fired in slow motion. Since I'd asked for it - I just took them all, one by one. My body reeled as I soaked them in, digesting how the scenes of cosy family dinners had turned gradually cold. I relived the Saturday lunches of walks to the market then cheese and pickle sandwiches, the way they'd both cuddle in the mornings, wrapping their dressing-gowns around each other tight with no slippers on cold tiled floors. The rounds of teas under duvet tents, and the overwhelming feeling of being safe. But then came the looks - the crying - then the silence and the letters. And then there I was, sat in a hard wooden court room, biting my lip, waiting for the call of a stranger to decide which of the two people I loved was right, as I watched them both fall apart individually.
I looked back at the official document which lay in my hands, identifying me in more ways than one. The saddest part being the dark-eyed girl with the slightly coy smile, who hadn't the faintest clue sitting in a photo booth in Tescos. Closing the book, I tucked it away in my side cabinet drawer. I wouldn't throw it out when I ordered the new one next week. It still had a few months left before it expired, I think.