Thursday
I eat my morning fruit salad and think how nice it would be to climb inside the strawberry and recline in the soft, fuzzy hollow of the cortex. It looks velvety, like raspberry skin, or the satin of a peach, or a horse’s nose. It must be cool in there, I think, and would be a good place to sit in the heat of the day, perhaps with a small tarte aux fraises or a large mojito. My friend believes that passionfruits are aliens. What about kiwifruit, I wonder?
Friday
I dream of a close friend who I haven’t seen for a long time, and wake with the taste of sadness in my mouth and on my chest. I had been walking over mountains to get to him, at least 500 miles, and I knew I’d walk a thousand more, but the sun had set and I couldn’t find my way in the dark, because I hadn’t brought my spectacles or my Ordnance Survey map. “I miss you," I text him in the morning. “What’s going on? I want my friend back.” He replies within minutes, and the sadness lifts. I want to ask him about the kiwifruit.
Saturday
I drink some beers in the afternoon sunshine, and wonder what it would be like to have armpit-like hair inside my elbows and behind my knees. If I grew hair in the purlicue between my thumb and finger, I think, would it be wiry and bouffant, like the short-and-curlies, or refined and aligned, like eyelashes?
Sunday
I reread a whatsapp message I sent to a group of friends and realise my words had been all jumbled up in the wrong order. When I investigate further, I see that I do this quite a lot. "What it is?" I have written. Then: "I didn’t really want to it eat”. How long have I been writing like this? Is it just this week, or have I always been muddled? Has anyone else noticed yet? Have I ever actually clicked Send on work emails without noticing that in my hurry I’ve typed “Kind regards, Satan” instead of “Sarah”? I write so many emails that I feel sure than one must have slipped through the pearly gates of proofing. Perhaps this is why some people don’t respond.
Monday
I go to my local bookshop, because I need to buy a book. I leave without the book, but with a brace of travel guides and two novels by Evelyn Waugh (Evelyn Woof, I think, because it’s better like that). It’s like going food shopping when I'm hungry, except I’m always hungry in bookshops. I smell each of my purchases as I leave the counter, and I’m pleased to find that the travel guides do have a different scent to the Woofs - more informative, less complex and papery.
Tuesday
I went to a long party on Saturday; the kind that makes you feel in the wee hours of the morning as if you’d always been there and always would be; and in the days following the music continues in my head, so that I find myself gently headbopping at my desk when I’m on hold to the travel agency. It’s not exactly trance, but it’ll have to do.
Wednesday
I avoid the news, because when I read it I think of what Talking Heads told us we’d tell ourselves - My God, what have I done? But then I recall that David Bowie came to me in a dream shortly after he left us, and he gave me a hug and told me everything would be alright, and I have no reason to doubt him. Bob Marley told me the same thing. Everything's going to be alright.
 |
| This must be the place |
Friday
I dream of a close friend who I haven’t seen for a long time, and wake with the taste of sadness in my mouth and on my chest. I had been walking over mountains to get to him, at least 500 miles, and I knew I’d walk a thousand more, but the sun had set and I couldn’t find my way in the dark, because I hadn’t brought my spectacles or my Ordnance Survey map. “I miss you," I text him in the morning. “What’s going on? I want my friend back.” He replies within minutes, and the sadness lifts. I want to ask him about the kiwifruit.
Saturday
I drink some beers in the afternoon sunshine, and wonder what it would be like to have armpit-like hair inside my elbows and behind my knees. If I grew hair in the purlicue between my thumb and finger, I think, would it be wiry and bouffant, like the short-and-curlies, or refined and aligned, like eyelashes?
Sunday
I reread a whatsapp message I sent to a group of friends and realise my words had been all jumbled up in the wrong order. When I investigate further, I see that I do this quite a lot. "What it is?" I have written. Then: "I didn’t really want to it eat”. How long have I been writing like this? Is it just this week, or have I always been muddled? Has anyone else noticed yet? Have I ever actually clicked Send on work emails without noticing that in my hurry I’ve typed “Kind regards, Satan” instead of “Sarah”? I write so many emails that I feel sure than one must have slipped through the pearly gates of proofing. Perhaps this is why some people don’t respond.
Monday
I go to my local bookshop, because I need to buy a book. I leave without the book, but with a brace of travel guides and two novels by Evelyn Waugh (Evelyn Woof, I think, because it’s better like that). It’s like going food shopping when I'm hungry, except I’m always hungry in bookshops. I smell each of my purchases as I leave the counter, and I’m pleased to find that the travel guides do have a different scent to the Woofs - more informative, less complex and papery.
Tuesday
I went to a long party on Saturday; the kind that makes you feel in the wee hours of the morning as if you’d always been there and always would be; and in the days following the music continues in my head, so that I find myself gently headbopping at my desk when I’m on hold to the travel agency. It’s not exactly trance, but it’ll have to do.
Wednesday
I avoid the news, because when I read it I think of what Talking Heads told us we’d tell ourselves - My God, what have I done? But then I recall that David Bowie came to me in a dream shortly after he left us, and he gave me a hug and told me everything would be alright, and I have no reason to doubt him. Bob Marley told me the same thing. Everything's going to be alright.
______
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