Four years ago, the bulb in the bathroom pendant ceiling light exploded.
Is this really where my book begins?
Sitting in my little spot at the kitchen table, I perch by the window and snoop on the neighbours opposite whenever I’m bored of typing or need to stop because my wrists hurt. They don’t do anything particularly outrageous really, the neighbours. Mainly washing up.
I’ve been pretending.
‘What is it I think I’m doing?’ I mutter, partly to myself and partly to my husband as he makes clanging noises with the oven trays, manoeuvring them clumsily into the kitchen cupboard. I stare at the dust gathered on the door of the washing machine. It’s furry now, just like the lampshade had been before, the glass now only semi-transparent. I’ve already drunk half a pint of Amaretto, half a pint of Campari, two measures of gin diluted in Vimto cordial and now I’ve opened the 3 year old bottle of pre-mixed mulled wine. I’ll drink it cold. I don’t give a fuck.
I scrape my wet hair back from my face and pretend again that I’m one of those women who can pull off a masculine slick-look quiff.
It feels like the sun hasn’t risen in months. It makes a shy appearance around 9am, skulks around outside the window for a bit then disappears again around 3.30pm. I don’t own a S.A.D light but I wish I did.
I’ve pretended to have goals and ambitions but really I’ve been pretending not to have goals and ambitions. Do you see what I mean? That’s probably why I feel happiest when I look inside my orange-red eyelids at the flickering future picture, because in it I am floating.