Sunday, 7 February 2010

62. A book without pictures or conversations

Alice was lost.

The clocks had long ago struck midnight and the Underground was empty. She didn’t really know London but she suspected she had missed the last Tube, leaving her wandering round and round a labyrinth of tiled corridors.

She was sure she was following the signs’ directions to the letter but she seemed to be going in circles, finding herself back in the same place time and time again, unable to find either the platforms or the exit. But her head was so fuzzy she couldn’t really be sure of anything.

She was surprised that she wasn’t panicky, but it was actually rather exciting – a faintly naughty privilege, like when she’d broken into school, strutting along the deserted corridors and sitting behind the teachers’ desks in vacant classrooms.

What was it with this stupid city? An hour earlier - she thought it was about that long - she had got the northbound Victoria line from Euston to King’s Cross. There she had found out that the trains weren’t going any further. So she had got on the northbound Northern line from King’s Cross, which then deposited her back at Euston, with an apology that trains were going no further from there. How was that even possible? So she had got back on the northbound Victoria line from Euston ...

There was something very familiar about all this. Something about getting very tired of waiting for her sister that morning, who was at Bank. Something about the perils of following the boy with the big feet and the waistcoat on to the Underground at Warren St. Something about being frustrated by things named after kings and queens.

Alice rubbed her eyes. Definitely something about eating the boy’s cakes. What had he put in them? She felt unsteady and uncoordinated, as if her limbs weren’t her own or were the wrong size.

“Who are you?”

Alice jumped. Not an encouraging opening for a conversation, but the tone was friendly enough.

It was a man carrying what looked like a bong or a hookah in a bag. Alice saw he was wearing a pair of industrial boots. They were made by Caterpillar. Of course they were.

Tuesday, 2 February 2010

61. Imperfect 10

Her boy wasn’t perfect. And that’s why she loved him.

Perfect is rubbish. Perfect is boring. Perfect is safe. Perfect is samey. Perfect is burbling lift music next to symphonic power and passion of imperfect, matchless beauty.

Perfect was a kiss from her mum; imperfect was the taste of his sweat and feeling of his nails down her back. His imperfections were the little deviations from the mundane that surprised and stretched her, that recognise life’s richness and expressed what was unique about him and everything he’d ever done. There is beauty in dissonance.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. It annoyed her that so many people had reduced that sentiment to a bland truism, saying it without ever thinking it or feeling it. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and she beheld her boy to be very beautiful indeed. He smiled at her through imperfect teeth and looked at her with love through eyes that didn’t work properly, but at least he smiled at her and looked at her.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder... What she liked as much was the flipside –no one is inherently beautiful, with all the supposed superiority that’s meant to come with that. The kind of guy who looked down on her beautiful boy she beheld as decidedly unbeautiful, rendering the arrogant, posing cocksure pricks deflated and impotent. It made her feel powerful. Without anyone to look at them they were like trees falling in forests with no-one to hear them drop. And in many cases they were about as interesting as a piece of inert lumber.

“Hello, beautiful.”

She could smell him before she could see him. He was about to bite off considerably more than his perfect little mouth could chew.

60. 14 words for 14 February

In the second drawer down was the fading Valentine’s Day card; written, unsent, unread.





59. Scent of a Woman

He knew he was in trouble when he caught the faintest whiff of her perfume and it was like being hit in the chest with a hammer.



58. Language of Love

Prologue

onguboy [v. Boro]: to love from the heart
onsra [v. Boro]: to love for the last time
onsya [v. Boro]: to pretend to love

57. Bitterly Ironic

All he had ever wanted to do was make her laugh. But now all he seemed able to do was make her cry.

56. Owner of a Lonely Heart

No-name slob, M, 44. Looking for chats, laughs & someone to romance. Lks walking, reading, theatre & travel. Seeks F, 40-50 w/ warm SOH to go lightly with him. Ldn. Call 0905 795 8616.

Fit, successful, M, 35, seeks attractive, tall, slim F, 21-29. Works f-t in sales. No mingers. Ldn. Call 0905 795 2442.

F, 43. Will never let anyone put me in a cage. Looking for kind, easy going M, for conversation & laughter. Long walks, longer dinners and still longer kisses. Warm SOH essential. Lnd. Call 0905 795 8617.


She checked her mailbox. Still no calls.