Tuesday, March 20, 2007

give her a medal
TA kissed me at the glass doors – have a good day. He says it every day as he tries to make it seem as though I’m about to spend the next nine hours on pink fluffy clouds of happiness, but today his words were even more filled with devout hope. I smiled and said, well, it can’t be worse than the second year of middle school. Walking into the office I was comforted to see Skye resolutely glued to the pavement, unwilling to leave me with the lions.
So far, so good. I’ve made some apologies and kept my head down. It’ll blow over. The two people in the know are treating me as though I might break; presumably they have been shielding me from fallout. And to think I was considering sneaking in on Sunday and clearing my desk.
I rang the surgery to make an appointment and have two days to figure out exactly what I’m going to say to my devoutly Catholic GP to persuade her that while I’m in need of an urgent talking to I don’t need more drugs or to be sent to the lovely, quiet, white room for a tranquil holiday of indefinite length.
What a mess.
Meanwhile, here I sit in an inconspicuously long-sleeved jumper contemplating what on earth to do. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I was joking when I said I’d try pills next time. Note to self: don’t run away; face the demons; stop self-sabotaging and making excuses for fear. I’m tired just thinking about it – acceptance of failure is so much easier and it’s become comfortable too.
I was bunking off middle school when I got myself squished. What a rebel. I was so embarrassed and wanted to just slip back into school after two weeks away – please ignore my arm still strapped up, please let’s just forget this little mishap. As for punishing my bunking – why not? I might have got myself run over, but I was still bunking off; bring it on – I deserve it.
The headmaster read out my name in assembly and told everyone what I’d done. My cheeks burnt red with shame and embarrassment. At least he didn’t ask me to stand on the stage as he explained to everyone that I was being given a reward, a star, for my bravery. It was the star that stung – I knew I wasn’t brave; I knew I was stupid and selfish and had hurt those who loved me with my actions – I threw the certificate away and never looked at the stars I won honestly in the same way again.
Do you ever get the feeling that history is repeating itself?

crispy, crispy Benjamin Franklin
Do you ever feel deep fried? Is it really just me, surely not? I think I have – let’s face it, I know I have – an overactive imagination, but really. Crispy, burnt edges and an idea that lava might break out from under my skin at any moment: Peter Jackson’s Balrog has a lot to answer for.
I know I’m being good, or supposed to be, but I so nearly ran out today. I work on the third floor. The window looked inviting and I thought of myself as a seventies cop crashing through the sugar glass and falling poetically to the street (so what if they have crash mats when they do it on the telly) while my coworkers looked on dumbfounded and that wap-woppa-wap music slapped its strings in the background. And it was so crazy – the window overlooking the Savoy is picture perfect for that kind of caper, perhaps Bob Hoskins was at that very moment exiting from a Long Good Monday – that it took all my self-discipline not to make it happen.

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