Down…. I look down, and away, trying to slide past the neighbour children unseen. They have not been taught, as we were, about manners. They see nothing wrong with making loud personal remarks to a lady, a stranger to them, as old as their grandmother no doubt; laughing and catcalling at my confusion and discomfort.
Down…. Going “down Town” to sign my name at the jobcentre Waiting on a chair so low that the only way out of it is to roll out and
Down….to the side onto my knees and push up from there. In a public building, on my knees in supplication like a penitent, for having no job, no prospect of a job, for being old, and unwanted and poor.
Down…. the fear of falling, that an ankle or a knee might fail, that I will not be able to stand, to walk….
Down…. How these tablets make me feel. Like I am full of poison in my belly and in my head.
Down…. to the doctor’s, to the nurse. I’m like some old bag-lady with my bad attitude, ready tears and anger when they tell me to get a taxi back later as nobody is available to dress my wound.
Down…. I point to my shoes with three inch long holes in and ask if I look like I can afford a fucking taxi
Down….The way Dr Jamie DoubleBarrelled Entitlement looks at me, like I am a squishy caterpillar in his rosebed of wealthy compliant stalwarts who would sooner tear out their eyes than show the least emotion in public.
Up…. being spoiled by my Mum, a wonderful and resourceful cook, Doing the crossword together and the Sudoku. Watching our quiz show with all our middle-class intellectual snobbery to the fore. Rejoicing in the stupidity of the contestants, while knowing full well that under the glare of lights, our intelligence would fly from us birdlike and we would gawp and stutter as they all do
Up…. and online and talking to my friend, who, like someone’s over excitable Great Dane puppy, one can love unconditionally and appreciate all the better for knowing one is not the one responsible for feeding and walking such a creature.
Up…. Loud LOUD music. Fuck you neighbours and your screaming and shouting and violence. In this place I am the world’s greatest singer. I play encore after encore for the dusty books and piles of laundry
Up….Being nocturnal, making pancakes or toffee at 3 am
Up…. a new blog at Writerless. Reading it aloud, hearing my own voice spill into the darkness as the words drop and roll, not to their knees but into air, like skydivers, first falling then drifting gently, alighting on the chaos and confusion that is this place and shedding a light of their own.