Get lost

Anonymous

Donning stripy knee length socks, three quarter length trousers, turquoise high heels, a purple vest top, no bra, despite being well endowed, and yellow sunnies, I thought I looked the bees an ees. I was 27 wearing the get up of a 17 year old in the early noughties. Swanning around like I owned the joint, enjoying the attention that my getup attracted, thinking Id got it sussed. Hackney, with its murder mile, its reputation preceding it RIT LARGE, provides the background to my day. Its sirens, litter, and boisterous community provide the glamour. The state Im in, Im right at home.

In reality, I was far from home. My place these days doesnt resemble the foliage of Glasgows Westend where I grew up. Yes, the two places share architectural history, canals, pubs and clubs, but thats where the similarities end. Im exotic now.

The suns high and theres a spring in my step. Im feeling sensual and alert. I recently bought my first flat but still dont have a washing machine plumbed in so decide to go to my old flat to use theirs. I dont bother to phone to ask. As I walk up the road, Im gaining speed, walking quicker than normal, burning calories, losing inches off my already gaunt wee frame.

I get to the old house, weaving in and out of the backstreets. I arrive on autopilot, gregariously pound the door and am greeted by my ex flatmate who meets me with surprised and then unsure eyes as they give me the once over.

I stand on the threshold, not invited in straight away. Seems Im not welcome. Theres a problem, its not the right time. But, I need clean my clothes. My wicks quickly lit and my face tells it all. Scottish bluntness prevails over English politeness and within seconds, Im in the door and on my way to getting what I want.

In the kitchen, I invade the space consuming more than my fair share. I sit on the counter and swing my legs, chatting incessantly with none of the usual niceties which make us rub along together. Shes on the other side of the kitchen, with a concerned expression Im unable to detect.

Self absorbingly, I boom on. Why in the world would I consider anyone else? Im high and have quick wit that licks and spits. Im a raconteur, a philosopher, an expert on anything anyone care to listen to. Im a wise young woman with something to say, and boy, Im on fire today.

But then Im stopped in my tracks. My flatmate feels its time to draw a line. Im interrupting and I need to leave. Im initially confused but then overwhelmed by anger. I lash out; accusing, abusive and threatening.

I push.

I physically push another human being.

Not since Primary school has that urge been as strong.

All hell breaks loose.

Im thrown out of the flat. My clothes onto the streets. I shout threats, betraying my heritage;

Ill take you right here, right now, in the gutter.

Im not afraid. I want to be a real gutter snipe.

The door slams.

I collect my strewn clothes and storm off in the right direction. All the way home, I stamp rhythmically, Im right. Shes wrong. Im right. Shes wrong.

Raging, I tear on through the day. Once back inside the flat, I throw open the windows to my audience of pedestrians below. I turn on the stereo thumpingly loud and make music with my amps volume control, turning it up and down in sway to the beats. I dance, enthralled with my bodys suppleness and wonder at my skills. The pictures on the walls become my audience as I dance for them, spinning and stepping, releasing energy I so desperately need. I drink water and forget to eat, so tied up in the euphoria of my creativity. Im spiralling.

Night falls and the moon comes out. I think of witches and believe that I shine. Im electric and wired to it, feeding off its light. Like a threatened cat, my hair standing on end, Im ready to prowl. I pull on a coat, pick up my mobile, wallet and keys, and storm into the night. The doors slammed, Im on a mission.

I meet Sonny who approaches on a BMX. He offers me Next vouchers in exchange for hard cash. Im more than happy to oblige. Our deal done, we walk back over the road to the flat. Im happy to chat and as we come naturally to the end of our encounter, he asks me for my phone. I hand it over. He thanks me and keeps it. This robber has no malice. I walk away, uncharacteristically accepting of the event.

I wander for hours, finally drawn to the park. A blue light installation under the railway bridge catches my eye but Im here for the trees. In unified rows with thick tree trunks, they remind me of home. As I shelter below, in the distance, I hear a church bell strike midnight, signalling the end of round one.