Me, myself, I

So I was going up to London for the Stoke Newington Literary Festival. So I spoke to my oldest bestest friend Jane.
‘Um, I’m coming up to London next weekend…’  Pause.  ‘Could I?’
Pause. ‘Damn. I’m going to Istanbul.’ 
‘Oh.’  Remembered my manners quickly.  ‘How lovely.’
But really. Damn, damn, damn.
‘Never mind. I can crash somewhere else, no problem.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’ll put the keys in the post.’
Oh my.

So there I was, in London, solo, for the weekend.  It was like being in my 20s again. I had the keys to the castle - a flat of my own, albeit borrowed. 

Now, let’s get this totally in context.  This is not some cruddy old flat.  Jane’s place is tucked away down a leafy street behind Essex Road.  It’s the bottom half of a Victorian house so I suppose it’s not really a flat per se, but let’s call it that for the sake of argument (and because the word maisonette sounds unpleasant – frankly anything that ends –ette always sounds a bit dodgy and smacks of “feminine hygiene” to me, but that could just be me.) Actually I don’t like the word ‘flat’ either but…

Anyhow, this is a clean, pristine flat. It is a flat that is not covered in dog-hair; a flat that does not have partying ‘energies’ on the stairs; a flat that has nice normal rooms, not spaces that deserve labels like ‘doom’ and ‘despond’.   I walked in, kicked off my flipflops and just sighed with total utter decadent pleasure.

There were flowers.  There was a lingering scent of Jo Malone rather than the stench of stale dog sick, fetid trainers and damp.  I dumped my bag in the bedroom and threw myself onto the big wide bed with its fresh white Egyptian cotton sheets and – oh oh oh – its memory mattress.  The silence was intoxicating.

I padded upstairs into the open-plan kitchen, living room area and flung open the tall wide windows.  Sunlight streamed through and tickled my toes.  Opened the fridge and, bless her soul, Jane had left me a whole shelf of veggie heaven (falafel, dolmades, halloumi, veg curry, various types of tofu).  Smoked tofu with almonds and wild garlic? Basil tofu? Seriously? 

Jane has the soundtrack of our shared past pretty well covered and so pretty soon I was trying to decide between The Cure, Bruce or Kate Bush. Shuddered a little over David Cassidy (no, I never did, nor Donny Osmond FFS); The Specials (did, but only live – they were cracking live); The Smiths (don’t get me started). 

Now don’t get me wrong.  I love my family, I really do, and I even have a sneaking softness for the Bonkers House. I do love Dulverton too.  But, but, but…sometimes it’s just lovely to be me.  Just me.  Not a mother, not a wife, not someone trying to juggle a gazillion balls at once.  No responsibility. Nobody to please. Nothing that has to be done.  A holiday from life, from reality.  You know what I mean, don’t you?  If you don’t, I’ll take it you don’t have children – or are male.

So I put the music up high. Had a long hot shower (without anyone yelling that they needed this or had I seen that?). I did my tarot.- and, frankly, didn't believe it.  Made a pot of coffee. Stretched out on the sofa, wiggled my toes and just sighed with pleasure. 

Hell - Part Two

This hell question.  I just don’t know.  I do know it isn’t in the places you might imagine.  I looked in a fair few of those.  I tried finding it in people too but each and every one, no matter how hard and tough and mean they looked on the outside, just turned nice on me.  Angels and demons eh?  Honestly, life is mirroring art – or is it the other way around? 

I suspect hell is hidden out of sight really, not down the dark alleys or in the mudflats, or in street-wise kids with sneers or big men with tattoos on their faces.  Hell is probably a flat, the warm yeasty smell of posset mingling with stale fat; and a baby that won’t stop screaming. Or a gleaming penthouse in which two beautiful people sit either end of a white leather sofa, staring into their perfect space.  Or maybe Hell is simply being trapped inside a mind where the synapses are misfiring. 

The closest I came to it on my London trip was sitting in an Internet café in Islington.  The computer was old, the keyboard sticky. The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke, Bombay mix and sweat.  I was swiftly catching up on emails, knowing I’d be offline for 24 hours (hmm, maybe Hell is being out of touch? Or is that Heaven? Do we know the difference anymore?). 

‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’  The chair behind me scraped along the scuffed vinyl floor. I kept typing – as you do.

‘No! This cannot be happening.’  Keys being crashed.  The air crackled.  A phone rang.

‘No. You don’t understand.’  Pause.  Scrape of chair.

‘No. You’re not listening.’  Pause.
‘But I’ve lost everything. Everything.’  Pause.  A strangled sob turning into anger.

‘WHY DON’T YOU LISTEN TO ME?’

Roses for Hecate by Solange Noir

She threw back her chair and stumbled out of the café, leaving her coat behind.  I went to pick it up and run after her but realised she had stopped outside, on the pavement. Even in the middle of meltdown, she was being polite.  Sheesh, us humans and our social mores.  I watched her through the glass front.  She looked stricken. 

What had she lost?  And who wouldn’t listen? 

What is worse, the losing or the not being heard?

Some music?  Wyrdly, I left my iPod behind when I was in London...but these have been playing non-stop since I returned.