I don’t want to talk
22.28 ( awake since 6.45am)
Went for a run 7am-8am.
I don’t want to talk. I want to be quiet and silent. I want to be silent. I don’t want to fill the space of the house with conversation. I grew up in a quiet house. Mum is from a quaker background, though she is one of ten children and I don’t suppose her childhood was at all quiet, my parents always maintained a quiet peaceful house. So that is what I am used to and what I crave. Space and no conversation. I do not feel at peace in my home. My family likes to talk a lot, they want to fill the space with chatter, and guitar music but I just want to be and I want to be quiet. I want to move slowly, carefully. I want to be carefree with quiet.
Thats I guess why I run. I literally run away from home. The birds sing, but they are not singing for me, they don’t want a response. The sheep stare right at me, but they just stand rooted in their field, they ask for nothing. The ground underneath my feet is soggy, marshy, muddy. I sink a little into it. The sun is just waking in the ordinary grey. Its not raining, not yet.
I stop momentarily at the clothes line with black pegs. The pegs are still. The lights in the school are all off.
Pink blossom, goldfinches, two dead toads decapitated and squashed into the tarmac of the road.
Naoise was in the shower when I went to the loo and he said mummy you have your period, you are bleeding aren’t you. I reassured him that I was ok, he had seen the blood on my old pad and had watched me placing a clean one in my pants. He then asked mummy why do you have periods? I delighted in telling him about all the eggs that I was born with and how he came from one of my eggs and one of daddy’s sperm. I drew a picture with my finger on the vapour of the shower screen, a swirly round large egg and a small sperm wriggling in. Then more and more questions. So delightful, so curious, so wondrous to see his mind working each amazing story over in his mind.
Empty the washing machine. Pour small glass of red wine, shouldn’t have full of calories, but brings such ammediate joy and warm comfort. Stops the coughing for a while. Overdosed on lemon sweets, had the ineffectual pain killers, drunk water. Still coughing, but no longer lying down. Fighting the house like a warrior, cleaning, sorting, licking the dirt off the shelves and the floor and the stairs. Not licking the loo, but hugging, caressing it with cloth and anti bacterial spray till it shines a plastic smile.
In the ball park. The children eat their chicken nuggets and cold baked beans on colourful plates. The other children are unruly, loud, crazed, far too big to be playing in the baby section. A three year old spends all his time slapping and hitting the bigger boys including Naoise and his friend. To my relief they eventually leave. I read a chapter from Tove’s The Winter Book, a story about a battle with a squirrel that has taken up residence in her home. Its so beautifully and simply written. I read in fits and starts, in-between watching the boys, loo trips, 20p’s for the machine and just watching all the garish colours under the strip lights.
The children request a slush puppy. The woman theatrically squirts the crimson red and the electric blue slush into the clear plastic cups. The boys smile with delight. They sit and eat the frosty drink on the end of spoon straws.
The slush puppy drink reminds me of a place. A temporary home. A council house home now demolished, a street that no longer exists. A place thankfully that I never need return. Slush puppy, caramac bar, fish and chips, a slow cooker, no fresh milk, only sterilised milk in plastic bags, a street named after the Larch Tree but with no trees at all. Grass verges of dog poo. A large scrappy communal patch of grass to light bonfires, to ride bikes across or to challenge another to a fight. No play. Couples that argued and rowed at open windows late into the night. A downstairs, outside loo, cold, miserable, a long way from bed. Black rabbit stolen from its cage just before Christmas time.An occasional excursion via the train to Liverpool. Windows that I tried to walk through. A camp bed for my little sister to sleep. Elvis Presley, snowballs, rubics cubes and cigarettes. Long distance running, running away from it then.
Listening to Sydney play his new song on the guitar, over and over and over again. Making humous. Washing up. Washing up. Laundry. Making sandwiches for a day trip. Packing a spare clothes bag. Tucking Naoise and Sydney into bed. Writing this. Spilling thoughts out onto an electric screen. Cars passing on the wet road. Sip of wine. Must stop, late, need sleep.