Odd Exchange

I saw an odd interaction on Wednesday. I can’t quite shake it from my mind. It probably means nothing, but.. well, you decide for yourself.

I am sitting with my baby in a circle of other mothers with their babies. We are in the children’s section of the local library. Babies are cooing, the ones that are mobile are.. well, mobiling. Nibbling dirty goodies from the floor and gurgling at each other, chubby fingers reaching out to explore each other’s eyeballs. At the head of the circle is a woman who works at the library, with a notepad in hand.

‘Right,’ she says, ‘Welcome back mothers, and babies. Before we start this week’s singalong I’d like to go round the group and get all your names and your babies’ names.’

So round the group we go.

I’m Cindy and this is little Aiyla. 

I’m Anna and this is Kyle.

I’m Sarah and this is Amy.

I’m Lilly and this is Darcy.

And so on.

Until we come to an older lady holding a chubby little cherub with a bow on her head. The cherub, not the lady.

‘Hi,’ the lady says, ‘I’m Steph and this is my granddaughter Sofia.’

‘Oh!’ the library worker exclaims, ‘Stephanie! You probably don’t recognise me out of context.’

Steph squints at her, smiles politely, cocks her head.

‘We used to live on the same street in Goodbridge. A good many years ago.’

‘Oh!’ Steph says, laughing awkwardly, ‘Yes!’. Her lips lied to her eyes.

Yet she still squints at the library woman and cocks her head, almost unintentionally.

‘Yeah we used to have a good natter back then. Hahah. Right, who’s next?’

Steph relaxes visibly, sinking into her seat. She doesn’t look like she recognised the library woman.

Then the strange thing happens. A couple of new ladies walk in as we’re doing the introductions. We widen the circle and they seat themselves somewhere before Steph.. so that the library woman has to go back to them and get them to introduce themselves.

Then it’s Steph’s turn again, seemingly, because the circle is quiet and the library woman is looking at Steph, pen poised, ‘And you are?’ she says, pointedly, as though Steph is being slow.

Huh?!

Steph looks surprised, she stutters, ‘uh, yes I’m Steph and this is my granddaughter Sofia..’ and her voice fades away.

I thought it was all so baffling. How did the library woman recognise Steph from long ago in the first instance and then forget she ever knew her, and then proceed to also forget that she had already introduced herself?

What do YOU think?

Under My Skin

I’m not busy, I swear. Not anymore, at any rate. Not since the 14th of June. Most days I spend doing nothing. So why is it that I can’t call my friends or reply to anybody’s messages?

It’s not that I don’t want to. I really do. Throughout my day I harbour things I want to tell them, storing them away in the drawer of my mind specially reserved for little funny tidbits and anecdotes.

I pick up my phone to call them, but then I get distracted by something outside the window, or by dinner that needs to be cooked, or by somebody wanting something, or just by my own idle thoughts.

Bit by bit my communication with the world grows weaker.

When the EU referendum happened I wanted to call somebody and have a moan about it, but I couldn’t because firstly, I’m not even in the country so charges will apply, and secondly because I just. couldn’t. do. it.

At first my excuse was ‘I’ve too much work.’ And I honestly did. I was snowed under. Now I am not snowed under and I still can’t muster up the motivation and will to rekindle friendships. I am so sorry. What is wrong with me.

Daily life in Morocco is monotonous. Especially for the poor. It involves drudgery and cooking and cleaning and minding children. At least, that is what I have seen. I have yet to see other things, but it has opened my eyes.

Some days I am bored out of my skull. But I know it can’t all be jolly and sight-see-y and fun. It’s two weeks. It’s not exactly a holiday. I was never meant to be. I am happy, just a little itchy to get home now.

And this lack of motivation to be social. I can chatter away to any Moroccan as long as it doesn’t get personal and doesn’t form a friendship. With my friends I am struggling so hard. Like swimming through treacle. It never used to be like this. I am so tired.

Does anybody else ever feel that way?

Carrot Cake

Nicholas de Lacy-Brown

For breakfast, he ordered a slab of carrot cake, coated in thick, creamy icing, and a small mug filled to the brim with a fresh, well made latte. He ate it with a plastic fork, off a ceramic plate, and glanced around at the slowly filling cafe.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi, hi. Yes, hi, Arianna.’

‘Peter?’

‘Pete, but yes, hi.’

‘Pete. You look different.’

His hair was bleached in places from the sun, and the tops of his cheeks and his nose were red, browning. He seemed thinner. His face was sharper, his arms almost scrawny. He wore a bright green polo shirt, and on his wrist was a ring of pasty white against the browny red of his forearms, where he must have worn a watch. Why did he take it off, then?

She sat down in front of him, her clothes pristine, sharp edged, and her hair cut short and straight, not a wisp out of place, despite it being loose around her face.

Her face was clear, symmetrical. She was neither pretty nor ugly, nor was she plain. She just was.

‘Arianna. You don’t.’

Neither of them smiled.

‘Right.’ Arianna pulled a small black folder from her neat bag. It looked as though it fit inside perfectly, neither too big nor too small. He eyed the folder and the bag, then scratched his neck irritably.

‘Let’s get cracking.’ Pete said, and he shoved the last mouthful of oozing carrot cake into his wide mouth, his cold, blue eyes on the folder that Arianna was now sifting through. He swigged at his latte, and then pushed his plate and cup away, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward as though he were at a social gathering, and about to enjoy himself.

Arianna glanced up at him, then quickly down when she realised he was looking at her.

‘Right,’ she said again, ‘right.’

‘Right.’

Arianna pulled out some documents. She leant over, her straight brown hair falling over her face, and pulled a pen out of her bag, which nestled by her gleaming high heels.

‘You will need to sign here,’ she pointed with the end of the pen, ‘and here.’

‘Right, yep.’ Pete pulled the papers towards him, and as he did the bottom part of the paper rubbed against a glop of carrot cake icing on the table, smearing the underside of the crisp paper.

‘Right.’ Arianna said, noticing, and she made the slightest of grimaces. Pete did not notice, as he signed his life away.

‘Right,’ and he slid the papers over to Arianna again, leaving a trail of smeared cream across the table as he did so.

‘Ok.’

‘You okay?’ Pete took another swig of his latte, eyebrows raised in question over the rim of his mug.

‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘Going to Spain?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’ he paused, then raised his eyebrows again at her, when she didn’t fill the silence between them.

‘It fell through.’

‘Why?’

‘Company decided to send someone else.’

‘Well. Too bad. I’m great. Had a court hearing last week, for punching a man in the face.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah. Punched him because he was abusing his girlfriend.’

‘Okay.’

‘He deserved it. Right twit. I don’t regret it. And I was feeling terrible because I’d lost mine.  And there he was shouting at his, while he still had her. Fuckin’ prick. Mind you, I wasn’t that great to you myself, was I… so.. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You’re peaky as fuck.’

‘I fainted. At work.’

Pete sat back, and swallowed.

‘Good.’

‘That’s not nice.’

‘You deserve it.’

‘Okay.’

‘Yeah, you deserve it.’ Pete pursed his thin lips, nodding a little, and his eyes were full of anger when he looked at her.

Arianna stood up.

‘Okay, then.’

‘Call me soon.’ Pete looked up at her, and despite his cold, cold face full of hostility, she could see the desperation in his ocean blue eyes.

‘Yup.’ Arianna walked away quickly, her sharp, pointy heels clicking on the wooden floors of the cafe, the sound swallowed into the loud babble of voices that took over the cafe as she got further away from him.

Pete watched her go, picking absently at the crumbs on his plate. She exited the cafe, then stood outside for a second. He frowned as she put her face up to the sky, her shoulders rising deeply then falling, before walking across the road. She didn’t glance back once.

His shaky fingers, the nail beds black and grimy, pulled a cigarette and a lighter from his pockets, and he stood up to walk jerkily outside the cafe, where he lit up and took a deep drag, closing his eyes against the bright sun of summer on his face.

 

 

What are you like?

Hi, I am shy.

I don’t smile at people.

People think I am ‘indifferent’ or ‘moody’.

I generally am, though.

But when I am not, I don’t smile at anybody anyway. I walk around with a perpetual frown on my face. That is my face when it is resting, and I am thinking about things. Mostly life, mostly what I am going to have for lunch, mostly whether or not my keys are in my pocket.

My ‘moody’ demeanour makes it hard for me to make friends, because its pretty off-putting. Most days I don’t want to make friends, because the general population make me very irritated.

The man who is parking on double yellow making it so I have to wait for the oncoming tide of traffic to wane so I can get past, for example. I gave him a right old glare as I went past. Was it necessary? No. Would it change his attitude toward parking on double yellow? Certainly not.

But it gave me pleasure and so I glared as hard as I could.

I am very good at glaring.

I am also good at being awkward. I say unnecessary things and make unnecessary faces.

Take the other day when I was waiting in the dentist waiting room. The assistant was a girl I knew from college and then uni. We were surprised to see each other.

She smiled so wide at me. That reminded me that I had to smile too.

She was blatantly in uniform, and when she said “Oh I work here now,” I said, without really thinking, because sometimes i faze out when I talk to people, I don’t know why,

“Oh really!?”

Then she tugged at her dark blue scrubs, “Yeah, look at my clothes!”

That was weird. Why did I say that?

I knew she worked there. She even had a name badge.

When the appointment was over, I went to leave.

“Well, thank you so much. See you Wednesday.” I said.

Then she said, “It was lovely to see you, Len.”

I would never have said that.

“It was lovely to see you too.” I told her. And it was.

“How’s married life?” she’d asked me, as I blew my nose loudly in the waiting room.

Ugh. Why do people insist on asking me that? It’s so annoying. I am not defined by my ‘married life’, just because I got married at nineteen.

Now I take to answering people like this;

“Yeah. It’s regular. We wake up and brush our teeth and go to work and school and do life, then go to bed at night. You know, the usual.”

It’s been two years. My life is more than just the ‘married’ aspect of it.

Ask me something interesting, like how is my ocean bream. Or what are my plans for the week. Or what do I think about the current situation. Any situation. I would say I think the bee situation is getting out of hand and they really ought to do something about those rats.

Ask me about my mental stability. I joke. That would be weird.

I will tell you, though, that I secretly think I am insane and might have some kind of disorder, because in my dreams people keep revealing to me that I am autistic.

I mean, that’s ridiculous, but it might have some truth? I am terrible with humans, absolutely terrible.

I never used to be, though. It is really since I left somebody who used to emotionally abuse me and manipulate me. Since I was influenced by him my social life juddered to a rusty old stop and I haven’t been the same since.

I really am such a fool in social situations, and I really don’t want to make any friends, and the friends I do have get on my nerves so badly that I rarely see them, and when I do, I have to force myself to be all nice and say ‘I love you hahaha’ when really I don’t love them. Not a whit.

Oh dear. Who knows. I’m happy, though, the way things are. I think I need to meet people more like me, though. I generally attract folk who aren’t like me at all, which is probably why I struggle to enjoy their company.

Anyway.

What are you like?

Excuse me, fellow human.

Can I tell you something?

It’s a little secret. Mostly it is a plaguing nightmare.

Are you listening?

Do you care? If not, it’s okay. I am going to say it anyway.

I have no friends.

Yes, you heard right.

It doesn’t make me a sad human. It just makes me feel sad sometimes.

I don’t know how this happened. Once upon a time I was surrounded by friends. We had some great larks. Then physical distance came between us as we all spread over the globe to pursue our own lives and careers.

Acquaintances came and went in my new life.

I’ve been here six years.

Six years and all I made were mistakes and regrets.

So now I am twenty one and a small voice inside my head says,

“But Lenora, you have no friends.”

I do have ‘friends’, if you can call people who you hang out with from time to time that. But I can’t trust these people. I can’t tell them that my heart is ailing and that I fear sometimes for my marriage. I can’t tell them that I feel like I am a failure at 21 because I haven’t achieved the goals I set out to achieve by now. I can be there for them emotionally and listen to them and cheer them up but I can’t cry to them and have their comforting friendly arms and laughs to bring me up again.

I go to their dorms, we have pizza and watch movies, we go shopping together; but I don’t feel like I can fully open to them. Not like before. I can’t have meaningful conversations with them about things that matter because they don’t seem to understand those things. Maybe adult friendships are different? Psssh. No. I know they’re not. A true friend is a true friend, no matter your age.

There.

That’s my secret.

That’s probably an unsocial thought, and one which I am loathe to let go of. But there we go.

What are your thoughts on friendship? Do you think friendships change as you enter adulthood?

Oh, hello, stranger.

There is a woman next to me eating a tuna sandwich. Well, I think it is tuna. I can’t be too sure. You never can, with the wide variety of sandwich fillings these days. What happened to good old cheese and tomato? That washes down well with coffee.

This lady is sad, folks. Her face is flushed, and she pulls a tissue out of her coat pocket to wipe her eyes and nose. She also stares vacantly out the window for a while, and her shoulders slump as though the weight of the world is settled on them. She holds herself close to her heart, her knees inwards, her chest bent in on herself, as though she is curling up like a desert leaf to hold herself in and protect herself. Her posture suggests she might be nervous or uncomfortable.

She has a slim notebook in front of her. The cover is black, with green drawings all over it. She is left handed, and writes with her hand bent over her sentences. It is not a way I could envision writing. Her bag is purple, like space, dotted with stars. Her hair is shoulder length and curly, and she wears glasses.

Her eyes are sad, and I want to go and sit next to her and sprinkle some joy upon her day. But I don’t know how to. What would I say?

Hello, I noticed you look sad. Wanna talk about it?

Hi! I’m Lenora. I love your diary.

Oh, hello. Look at these pictures of cute squirrels I found on the internet.

Good afternoon. Do you think you could take a few moments to talk about our Literary Lord and Linguistic saviour John Ronald Reuel Tolkien?

Hi, I really like your hair.

Hello, ….

The possibilities are endless. But none sound remotely right.

Oh. She has put her coat on, and off she goes. Mayhaps she wrote all her sad thoughts in her diary, and now feels relieved to carry on with her day.

Perhaps she wasn’t sad at all, but had hay fever.

I wish I talked to her. I want to know what she has to say.

I don’t know how to talk to strangers though, without seeming like a creep, or uncommonly odd.

Well. Maybe next time.