I realised that I didn’t look out of the train window anymore, even when the contest for seats subsided during the holidays, and infact my ability to recognise my location by the sway of the tracks was indeed dismal but particularly helpful. The dark mornings and evenings had long passed, and yet the risk of catching the sky- dazzling blue, pink and orange liquid- gave an unbearable transitory glimpse into something which vaguely resembled peace, so I kept typing into my computer [I’m alright. It’s the deadline for Chair’s Actions today, so naturally no-one is adhering to it and I’m fucking stressed. How are you?]. There was a passage in a book I couldn’t recall which might have helped, and I couldn’t read it again- had it ever existed at all- because I didn’t have the time, and nonetheless the book itself was on the other side of town, sandwiched between other books in a box, between other boxes stacked neatly upon each other, inside a rented room at the storage facility – a type of suspended animation I couldn’t afford to resume. There would be other passages in other books that I wouldn’t read again or at all, because of the weather, or because I was busy, or because I would be dead in the future [I hope you are well. I have compiled a short list of outstanding queries regarding the project which I hope you are able to review/answer, if it isn’t too onerous]. Continue reading “Seasons”


Out, Damned Spot

It was a glorious plan: I would dye my hair red. I would look irresistible and complementary of the festive season all at the same time. It was a glorious plan, and then I realised that red dye on top of black hair only makes a deeper black. Save for the blonde roots, which would become red roots. Black hair and red roots. Ginger roots. Ginger trying to disguise ginger and failing miserably. Awful. So awful that looking at it would make your eyes water… although that might also have something to do with the ammonia. Awful, but fixable. Tomorrow I would purchase some more black hairdye and save my roots from ridicule. Tomorrow everything would be fine.

And so with tomorrow my hair was fixed and I became sassy and tremendous once more. But there remained a single fragment of red: a red spot upon my hand where the gloves had split. No amount of soap and water would rid it. Nor toothpaste. Nor battery acid. I couldn’t stand the silent ridicule from my work colleagues and friends; non-existent, but potent. A secret ginger. Caught red-handed. I could stand it no longer. Continue reading “Out, Damned Spot”