‘Tell me about love,’ she said to the builder. He was round again tending to the edges of the hole he was making in her kitchen. It was through the door way now. The corridor that led to the kitchen had begun to slope into nothingness. He always seemed to be applying plaster to the edges, or smoothing the precipice. She had given up asking him about it, he never really said anything except that it was fine. Everything would be fine. ‘It’s structural,’ he usually said if she asked more insistently.
So, ‘tell me about love,’ she said instead. And he would. He would stare into the hole in her house and start talking as if the things he was saying were things he found in the hole. Some heavy objects that he would dredge out and describe to her, before he lowered them back in.
‘Love,’ he said, ‘it’s like going outside. I go outside and it feels like I just stood on a thin pane of glass, and everywhere I look there’s a huge crack I just made.’ She said it sounded horrible. ‘Can’t help that,’ he said. ‘It’s just how it feels. A million cracks with every step, but somehow I know it won’t break. ‘
‘Tell me something else about love,’ she said. ‘Had a cat once,’ he told her. He told her about when he and the cat used to just sit and he would look at what the cat was looking at. He could tell that the cat really really loved him. He felt good about it.
‘What about me?’ She said. ‘Do you love me?’ And for a long time he stared into the hole, eventually he nodded. And then when she went into the other room he considered diving into the hole in her kitchen because there would never be anything to say the way it should be said.
He got a drink for himself instead. He had a bag, you see, with a little holder for his flask. ‘I love this bag,’ he said to himself. And then, loud enough for her to hear in the other room – ‘We should see about getting a cat.’
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
Friday, 9 July 2010
47-48 Years Old
There’s a hole in the kitchen. She has to skirt around the walls to get to the sink and the fridge. The hole is empty. Soundless.
The builder doesn’t seem to want to fill it in. She doesn’t mention it. The hole is ok to her.
The sad builder. He came round less than 40 minutes after she called him. He looked at her designs and said ‘Nice. I’ll make a start tomorrow.’
But then he left and did not come back. He did not call. He did not write. After four months she summoned the courage to phone him again.
‘Are you still doing my kitchen?’
‘Yeah. Sorry. Yeah.’
‘You alright?’
‘Not really. Mum died.’ he said.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’ll bring the plans later.’
She waited for him in the living room. She wondered about her face. ‘Can you also fix this please?’ she said in the mirror.
After a fifth glass of Viogner she said. ‘Can you install a new pair of these!’ and she grabbed her breasts and shuffled them up and down.
She went around the flat in her pants, dancing and singing to her favourite Madonna songs.
Hanky panky was playing when the builder finally arrived. It was 10pm, but she didn’t even notice.
He smelt like the paper from chips.
They sat on her sofa and the builder got carried away, drawing pictures of how he saw the new kitchen. At one point he lead her by the hand into her kitchen and said.
‘You’ll be standing here. And everything you can see will be perfect.’
He had his hands on her shoulders. It felt incredible.
‘Start tomorrow.’ she said.
And he came every night for two months at 10 or 11 at night, keeping her up smashing holes in her home.
She made him strong drinks and cooked him meals. And all the time more and more of her kitchen was vanishing into a hole.
She creeps around it now, makes a couple of gins and then goes back to the living room to wait for the builder to come. Never sure if he will turn up. That sad builder who makes an unfillable hole in her kitchen.
The builder doesn’t seem to want to fill it in. She doesn’t mention it. The hole is ok to her.
The sad builder. He came round less than 40 minutes after she called him. He looked at her designs and said ‘Nice. I’ll make a start tomorrow.’
But then he left and did not come back. He did not call. He did not write. After four months she summoned the courage to phone him again.
‘Are you still doing my kitchen?’
‘Yeah. Sorry. Yeah.’
‘You alright?’
‘Not really. Mum died.’ he said.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’ll bring the plans later.’
She waited for him in the living room. She wondered about her face. ‘Can you also fix this please?’ she said in the mirror.
After a fifth glass of Viogner she said. ‘Can you install a new pair of these!’ and she grabbed her breasts and shuffled them up and down.
She went around the flat in her pants, dancing and singing to her favourite Madonna songs.
Hanky panky was playing when the builder finally arrived. It was 10pm, but she didn’t even notice.
He smelt like the paper from chips.
They sat on her sofa and the builder got carried away, drawing pictures of how he saw the new kitchen. At one point he lead her by the hand into her kitchen and said.
‘You’ll be standing here. And everything you can see will be perfect.’
He had his hands on her shoulders. It felt incredible.
‘Start tomorrow.’ she said.
And he came every night for two months at 10 or 11 at night, keeping her up smashing holes in her home.
She made him strong drinks and cooked him meals. And all the time more and more of her kitchen was vanishing into a hole.
She creeps around it now, makes a couple of gins and then goes back to the living room to wait for the builder to come. Never sure if he will turn up. That sad builder who makes an unfillable hole in her kitchen.
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
46-47 Years Old
Some things I overheard her saying and could not forget this year.
At seven am, whilst buying a Krispy Kreme doughnut: “This will be my one treat for the day.” before she boarded a train and went to work, knowing there would be no more treats until tomorrow’s doughnut.
"Ha!" In the office, when someone called her a MILF and she had to pretend she did not know what that meant. At home she typed the word MILF into Google and then watched a lot of videos she wished she hadn’t watched.
Once, out loud to an empty kitchen she said: “Oh. I love you Mark Kermode.” Meaning every single word and walking quickly from the window to the sink and back again while she listened to his voice.
When she felt ill and farted so badly she had to leave the room, she said: “fuck it all” and she stood in the hall for six minutes, not even bothering to go upstairs, listening to the television through the door.
Drunk, at a friend’s house, she said into the toilet while she was being sick, and her friends were talking about her round the dinner table: “Mark Kermode, where are you now, when I really need you?”
“Oh what a nice stick” to a dog by itself in the park
“Don’t worry, I’m not a MILF” to one of the teenagers who came to get the football from next to where she was sunbathing.
When she could not remember the name of the actress Faye Dunaway: “Sissy Spacek, only not her. She looks like a bitch.”
“Come out of the station and turn left until you hate yourself, then you’re at my road.” To a blind date who was coming to pick her up. He later asked her eight times to go back to his house and when she finally went, he made reference to her ‘quim’ and she spent £45 on a taxi home.
“I think this little black pebble is my father.” Quietly, behind the backs of everyone she spoke to, with her mouth moving in a way that she could not control, because I was making her do it.
At seven am, whilst buying a Krispy Kreme doughnut: “This will be my one treat for the day.” before she boarded a train and went to work, knowing there would be no more treats until tomorrow’s doughnut.
"Ha!" In the office, when someone called her a MILF and she had to pretend she did not know what that meant. At home she typed the word MILF into Google and then watched a lot of videos she wished she hadn’t watched.
Once, out loud to an empty kitchen she said: “Oh. I love you Mark Kermode.” Meaning every single word and walking quickly from the window to the sink and back again while she listened to his voice.
When she felt ill and farted so badly she had to leave the room, she said: “fuck it all” and she stood in the hall for six minutes, not even bothering to go upstairs, listening to the television through the door.
Drunk, at a friend’s house, she said into the toilet while she was being sick, and her friends were talking about her round the dinner table: “Mark Kermode, where are you now, when I really need you?”
“Oh what a nice stick” to a dog by itself in the park
“Don’t worry, I’m not a MILF” to one of the teenagers who came to get the football from next to where she was sunbathing.
When she could not remember the name of the actress Faye Dunaway: “Sissy Spacek, only not her. She looks like a bitch.”
“Come out of the station and turn left until you hate yourself, then you’re at my road.” To a blind date who was coming to pick her up. He later asked her eight times to go back to his house and when she finally went, he made reference to her ‘quim’ and she spent £45 on a taxi home.
“I think this little black pebble is my father.” Quietly, behind the backs of everyone she spoke to, with her mouth moving in a way that she could not control, because I was making her do it.
Sunday, 2 May 2010
45-46 Years Old
Oh Fronde. Grandson.
Look at the state of you. Walking around and around my hotel bedroom. Constantly listing ways to seduce the maid:
Yodelling. Nonchalant without towel. Using two of the shiny black pebbles from the desk as a pair of comedy eyes. Clever invitation to dinner.
Nothing works. You never go anywhere. It drives your mother insane.
‘What kind of a holiday is this?’ she shouts in the corridor.
Finally the maid comes in and you toss something into the air like: ‘Christ! I could eat shit I’m so hungry!’ and she feels offended and leaves shaking her head. She’s beautiful.
There is the sound of screaming in the car park. It’s the porter. The porter is complex and people think he’s insane for screaming without any reason. But he does have a reason. He has been plagiarised by an artist.
He once had a brilliant idea:
‘I think I’ll paint a picture of everything upside down.’ he thought.
Then a year later, there’s a picture of something upside down in the town art gallery. It could be a coincidence of course, but the porter is sure the artist stole his idea. The reason he is so sure is because the artist clearly also copied his other really brilliant idea of hanging the upside down painting itself upside down, so the picture looked the right way up.
‘The first thing I’ll do’ he said ‘is punch that bastard until he admits he painted it upside down.’
You see, the artist claims the picture has been the right way up all along.
TRICKY!
Also he knows he won’t get a full confession because the porter isn’t actually able to paint at all. He’s completely without talent.
He's waiting. His anger will vanish as soon as he has another brilliant idea.
You’re in the room again now with your mother. She looks more alive and insane than ever. Neither of you have mentioned that you’re trying to find me. The porter knocks on the door, excited. He says:
‘Would you pay money to see a painting of someone’s daughter, who isn’t really their daughter? Who in fact never really existed?’
You both say ‘Probably not.’
Look at the state of you. Walking around and around my hotel bedroom. Constantly listing ways to seduce the maid:
Yodelling. Nonchalant without towel. Using two of the shiny black pebbles from the desk as a pair of comedy eyes. Clever invitation to dinner.
Nothing works. You never go anywhere. It drives your mother insane.
‘What kind of a holiday is this?’ she shouts in the corridor.
Finally the maid comes in and you toss something into the air like: ‘Christ! I could eat shit I’m so hungry!’ and she feels offended and leaves shaking her head. She’s beautiful.
There is the sound of screaming in the car park. It’s the porter. The porter is complex and people think he’s insane for screaming without any reason. But he does have a reason. He has been plagiarised by an artist.
He once had a brilliant idea:
‘I think I’ll paint a picture of everything upside down.’ he thought.
Then a year later, there’s a picture of something upside down in the town art gallery. It could be a coincidence of course, but the porter is sure the artist stole his idea. The reason he is so sure is because the artist clearly also copied his other really brilliant idea of hanging the upside down painting itself upside down, so the picture looked the right way up.
‘The first thing I’ll do’ he said ‘is punch that bastard until he admits he painted it upside down.’
You see, the artist claims the picture has been the right way up all along.
TRICKY!
Also he knows he won’t get a full confession because the porter isn’t actually able to paint at all. He’s completely without talent.
He's waiting. His anger will vanish as soon as he has another brilliant idea.
You’re in the room again now with your mother. She looks more alive and insane than ever. Neither of you have mentioned that you’re trying to find me. The porter knocks on the door, excited. He says:
‘Would you pay money to see a painting of someone’s daughter, who isn’t really their daughter? Who in fact never really existed?’
You both say ‘Probably not.’
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
44-45 Years Old
Days pass slowly when you’re a small black pebble. A year drags.
The maid comes in, she cleans around me. They haven’t rented my room out yet. She’s cleaning it for me. They don’t know where I am, but money keeps coming out of my bank account into theirs. When you get transformed into a black pebble by a Hotel brochure, they still keep your bank account open.
Joe, the hotel owner comes in every Tuesday. He likes to pick me up and rub an area on my black-pebble surface that would once have been my throat. He rubs it gently at first, but then he starts to press quite hard with his thumb. And I feel like I’m choking. I want to shout
‘I might be a pebble, Joe, but it doesn’t mean I can’t feel you crushing me.’
But I can’t. I am a shiny black pebble.
After a while, Joe puts me back on the mirrored desk and picks up one of the other three black pebbles and he rubs them. He looks anxious about something. It’s impossible to know whether he realises we all used to be people before we became black pebbles.
One Tuesday he stays extra long and he rubs me over and over again across the ridge of his lip. Where it goes from skin to lip, Joe is almost as smooth as me. He is interrupted by the maid. She startles him and he drops me.
‘I’m going to start renting this damn room again.’ he tells her. ‘If there’s any of that guy’s crap left in here, you can keep it.’ The maid nods. She looks very tired. As Joe passes her to leave the room, she raises one of her hands towards him, but then lets it drop back by her side.
The first guest has just arrived. A chubby-ish man with mouse brown hair. The first thing he does is dump off his t-shirt and walk around topless. He’s quite hairy.
The t-shirt landed on the mirrored desk and if I squint, I can just make out the word
B-O-R-I-N-G
written on it. He orders some room service. He says ‘My Mum is paying.’
The maid comes in, she cleans around me. They haven’t rented my room out yet. She’s cleaning it for me. They don’t know where I am, but money keeps coming out of my bank account into theirs. When you get transformed into a black pebble by a Hotel brochure, they still keep your bank account open.
Joe, the hotel owner comes in every Tuesday. He likes to pick me up and rub an area on my black-pebble surface that would once have been my throat. He rubs it gently at first, but then he starts to press quite hard with his thumb. And I feel like I’m choking. I want to shout
‘I might be a pebble, Joe, but it doesn’t mean I can’t feel you crushing me.’
But I can’t. I am a shiny black pebble.
After a while, Joe puts me back on the mirrored desk and picks up one of the other three black pebbles and he rubs them. He looks anxious about something. It’s impossible to know whether he realises we all used to be people before we became black pebbles.
One Tuesday he stays extra long and he rubs me over and over again across the ridge of his lip. Where it goes from skin to lip, Joe is almost as smooth as me. He is interrupted by the maid. She startles him and he drops me.
‘I’m going to start renting this damn room again.’ he tells her. ‘If there’s any of that guy’s crap left in here, you can keep it.’ The maid nods. She looks very tired. As Joe passes her to leave the room, she raises one of her hands towards him, but then lets it drop back by her side.
The first guest has just arrived. A chubby-ish man with mouse brown hair. The first thing he does is dump off his t-shirt and walk around topless. He’s quite hairy.
The t-shirt landed on the mirrored desk and if I squint, I can just make out the word
B-O-R-I-N-G
written on it. He orders some room service. He says ‘My Mum is paying.’
Sunday, 18 April 2010
43-44 Years Old
Four thousand years. That’s what it says in the book. Four thousand years since this hotel was built. It was built by the ‘early French’. In each room, a desk made entirely of mirrors. So I can see my face now, as I read again the fabulous lies of the hotel literature.
The owner’s name is Joe. Today is his birthday and he has invited me to spend the day with him. After I get dressed, I will make a list of things I can say to Joe about his hotel and the literature they hand out when you move in.
Early French, 4000-years-old , haunted, full of unmovable black pebbles, build in a shape that when viewed from above is racist against the Chinese.
The party is in full swing. I am wearing this incredible blazer I found in the wardrobe.
Joe’s mother has cooked a hundred boiled eggs for us to eat. I feel like last year it was a hundred and one boiled eggs. ‘When I die,’ Joe tells me ‘I don’t have to eat any more boiled eggs.’
We all help Joe out, eating a few eggs ourselves.
Stinky!
‘Happy birthday Joe!’ we all shout and Joe does a little, egg-laboured dance. He bows for us when the dance is finished and we all applaud.
‘Hey Joe!’ I shout. ‘Was the hotel really built four thousand years ago?’ and the room goes quiet. Everyone looks, not to Joe, but to his mother who says.
‘Yes. That’s true.’ and I say ‘and is it true that this hotel is ‘Early French’?’ and she says
‘Actually no.’ There is a gasp amongst the gathered crowd of guests. ‘It was built by the Chinese.’
And for no reason I can understand, they all start laughing. And then I notice that Joe is Chinese. And so is his mother. Everyone here is Chinese. I remember something about China.
My daughter! Her possible Chinese biological father. Back to my bedroom and the hotel literature on the mirrored desk. My mirrored face is different. It is black and smooth and has no features.
I have no body.
I am a black pebble on a hotel mirrored desk.
The owner’s name is Joe. Today is his birthday and he has invited me to spend the day with him. After I get dressed, I will make a list of things I can say to Joe about his hotel and the literature they hand out when you move in.
Early French, 4000-years-old , haunted, full of unmovable black pebbles, build in a shape that when viewed from above is racist against the Chinese.
The party is in full swing. I am wearing this incredible blazer I found in the wardrobe.
Joe’s mother has cooked a hundred boiled eggs for us to eat. I feel like last year it was a hundred and one boiled eggs. ‘When I die,’ Joe tells me ‘I don’t have to eat any more boiled eggs.’
We all help Joe out, eating a few eggs ourselves.
Stinky!
‘Happy birthday Joe!’ we all shout and Joe does a little, egg-laboured dance. He bows for us when the dance is finished and we all applaud.
‘Hey Joe!’ I shout. ‘Was the hotel really built four thousand years ago?’ and the room goes quiet. Everyone looks, not to Joe, but to his mother who says.
‘Yes. That’s true.’ and I say ‘and is it true that this hotel is ‘Early French’?’ and she says
‘Actually no.’ There is a gasp amongst the gathered crowd of guests. ‘It was built by the Chinese.’
And for no reason I can understand, they all start laughing. And then I notice that Joe is Chinese. And so is his mother. Everyone here is Chinese. I remember something about China.
My daughter! Her possible Chinese biological father. Back to my bedroom and the hotel literature on the mirrored desk. My mirrored face is different. It is black and smooth and has no features.
I have no body.
I am a black pebble on a hotel mirrored desk.
Wednesday, 16 December 2009
42-43 Years Old
Fronde has gone.
We tried to search his room for clues but have no idea where his room is, or if he ever had one. We have no idea how old he is.
Perhaps he’s been gone for months.
His mother remembers he always wanted to go to London. Get into business. He always wanted to wear one of those beautiful, impeccable suits and ride around and around on the London Underground.
We leave notes everywhere and I try to put pictures up, but really, I can’t picture him at all.
Sometimes he has a beard.
Sometimes he is wearing a t-shirt with ‘Boring’ written on it.
In London May found herself following the shape of a man with a beard around the Euston/Kings Cross loop
(Take the Victoria Line south from Kings Cross to Euston, then change at Euston. Go South on the Northern Line to Kings Cross then change and go South on the Victoria line to Euston. Repeat forever.)
‘Fronde?’
He stops. Looks at her. She cries because she has no idea if she has found her son or not. Nobody, not even me, knows if it is him.
Meanwhile, at the Organic Juicebar, a woman tells me she used to be Fronde’s lover.
‘Took me to this hotel a couple of times’ she says
‘Told me once that if we’re out for dinner and I want to get up on the table on all fours, he would get up on the table on all fours too.
And there we’d be:
Two people, up on a table’
The most romantic thing anyone has ever said to her.
At the hotel, I checked into their room. Place is drowning in blankness. I spend hours on the bed staring at a couple of shiny black pebbles on the mantelpiece, thinking
‘They must have been people once. People who stayed here too long.’
Honestly, this room makes me feel awful, but I booked in and I’ve been here for almost the entire year. I’ve got no idea how to leave.
Somewhere in London, my daughter's weeping and clinging to someone who may or may not be wearing a t–shirt that says ‘Boring’ on it.
We tried to search his room for clues but have no idea where his room is, or if he ever had one. We have no idea how old he is.
Perhaps he’s been gone for months.
His mother remembers he always wanted to go to London. Get into business. He always wanted to wear one of those beautiful, impeccable suits and ride around and around on the London Underground.
We leave notes everywhere and I try to put pictures up, but really, I can’t picture him at all.
Sometimes he has a beard.
Sometimes he is wearing a t-shirt with ‘Boring’ written on it.
In London May found herself following the shape of a man with a beard around the Euston/Kings Cross loop
(Take the Victoria Line south from Kings Cross to Euston, then change at Euston. Go South on the Northern Line to Kings Cross then change and go South on the Victoria line to Euston. Repeat forever.)
‘Fronde?’
He stops. Looks at her. She cries because she has no idea if she has found her son or not. Nobody, not even me, knows if it is him.
Meanwhile, at the Organic Juicebar, a woman tells me she used to be Fronde’s lover.
‘Took me to this hotel a couple of times’ she says
‘Told me once that if we’re out for dinner and I want to get up on the table on all fours, he would get up on the table on all fours too.
And there we’d be:
Two people, up on a table’
The most romantic thing anyone has ever said to her.
At the hotel, I checked into their room. Place is drowning in blankness. I spend hours on the bed staring at a couple of shiny black pebbles on the mantelpiece, thinking
‘They must have been people once. People who stayed here too long.’
Honestly, this room makes me feel awful, but I booked in and I’ve been here for almost the entire year. I’ve got no idea how to leave.
Somewhere in London, my daughter's weeping and clinging to someone who may or may not be wearing a t–shirt that says ‘Boring’ on it.
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