Iâve learnt about you in the past five minutes, Jemima.â
âWould I?â
âYes, you would.â
âOh goodness, I dread to think.â
âYouâd be amazed how naked our behaviour makes us. Your movements will always betray your mind.â
âOh, I feel so embarrassed. Am I really so transparent?â
âYes, Iâm afraid you are.â
The guy reckons he can discover what a personâs like in bed just by shaking their hands. Dominant, submissive, playful, shit. Shake my hand, thinks Colin, shake my fucking hand, you twat. Of course, the guy canât, because heâs on TV. Too bad, thinks Colin, looking down at his hand. Itâs gripping the iron, smoothly guiding it over his jeans. What does this mean?
âTits,â says Colin to himself. The iron hisses steam and Colin coughs into his fist. âNothing,â he says, continuing to iron.
Along with football, bird-shagging is a major national pastime; itâs odd that Colin no longer gets involved. He tries to ignore his feelings. He remembers Marionâs cellulite. How it began to shimmer and quiver on her thighs towards the end of their time together. How it reminded him of enormous blisters; the scars that the victims of fire are left with. She had tried so hard to win him back. She bought gels from Versus, toys, videos. She had pleaded, bent herselfover the kitchen table and pulled up her skirt. âFuck me, Colin. Teach me a lesson.â
With every effort Marion made, Colin got colder and colder. As if he was just some debris drifting in space; an old flag or a piece from a shuttle, floating away from the world of touch and love. Heâs barely been touched since Marion, even the bouncer had held him by the collar while escorting him from The Bar. Occasionally someone will brush past him in a busy place, or heâll be forced to shake the hand of a new colleague at work. But apart from the odd social nicety, Colin remains completely untouched.
Jeans still warm from the iron, Colin is walking down Wilmslow Road towards the bus stop. Itâll be hot today. Chesty vests, mini skirts, what is he missing? Even the most slender and beautiful of girls leave him with an inexplicable rage. Is it simply a question of hatred? Does he simply hate women because theyâre stupid, weak and shallow? Heâs not sure, and in truth, you can care about these mysteries too much. Fuck it. Live with it.
Oxford Road is bathed in early morning sun. Students on voguishly battered bikes weave between the buses. Colin drifts. The Wishing Well has been on his mind since he ate there yesterday morning, with Boy 1 and Boy 2. If he looks east, out towards Upper Brook Street, he can just make out the glass structure of the hospital. But the hospital has to wait. He takes a short cut through a car park behind the Union building, avoiding the crowds of chilled idiots that slouch around the front door. He manages to get to his building without encountering youth. But the Wishing Well, yes, heâs desperate to dine there again.
Because pregnancy is on Colinâs mind. Heâs never really considered the reality of childbirth before, and in somesmall way, believes he couldnât possibly have been pushed into the world from his motherâs womb. He climbs the stairs of the Arts Faculty, oblivious to the girls, thinking only of the women at the Wishing Well. Their bellies like Allied helmets of the Second World War. Their horse-head tits. The children living inside them; shouldnât we all be a little bit more amazed by this? he thinks. Those women walk differently, they lean back in order to bear the weight of their baby. Colin likes their slippers and their moth-eaten dressing gowns. He feels, perhaps, that they possess a rare kind of honour.
âHello,â he says, as he enters the office, making for the relative sanctuary of his desk, as if under gunfire. It is certainly summer. Thereâs not too
âWould I?â
âYes, you would.â
âOh goodness, I dread to think.â
âYouâd be amazed how naked our behaviour makes us. Your movements will always betray your mind.â
âOh, I feel so embarrassed. Am I really so transparent?â
âYes, Iâm afraid you are.â
The guy reckons he can discover what a personâs like in bed just by shaking their hands. Dominant, submissive, playful, shit. Shake my hand, thinks Colin, shake my fucking hand, you twat. Of course, the guy canât, because heâs on TV. Too bad, thinks Colin, looking down at his hand. Itâs gripping the iron, smoothly guiding it over his jeans. What does this mean?
âTits,â says Colin to himself. The iron hisses steam and Colin coughs into his fist. âNothing,â he says, continuing to iron.
Along with football, bird-shagging is a major national pastime; itâs odd that Colin no longer gets involved. He tries to ignore his feelings. He remembers Marionâs cellulite. How it began to shimmer and quiver on her thighs towards the end of their time together. How it reminded him of enormous blisters; the scars that the victims of fire are left with. She had tried so hard to win him back. She bought gels from Versus, toys, videos. She had pleaded, bent herselfover the kitchen table and pulled up her skirt. âFuck me, Colin. Teach me a lesson.â
With every effort Marion made, Colin got colder and colder. As if he was just some debris drifting in space; an old flag or a piece from a shuttle, floating away from the world of touch and love. Heâs barely been touched since Marion, even the bouncer had held him by the collar while escorting him from The Bar. Occasionally someone will brush past him in a busy place, or heâll be forced to shake the hand of a new colleague at work. But apart from the odd social nicety, Colin remains completely untouched.
Jeans still warm from the iron, Colin is walking down Wilmslow Road towards the bus stop. Itâll be hot today. Chesty vests, mini skirts, what is he missing? Even the most slender and beautiful of girls leave him with an inexplicable rage. Is it simply a question of hatred? Does he simply hate women because theyâre stupid, weak and shallow? Heâs not sure, and in truth, you can care about these mysteries too much. Fuck it. Live with it.
Oxford Road is bathed in early morning sun. Students on voguishly battered bikes weave between the buses. Colin drifts. The Wishing Well has been on his mind since he ate there yesterday morning, with Boy 1 and Boy 2. If he looks east, out towards Upper Brook Street, he can just make out the glass structure of the hospital. But the hospital has to wait. He takes a short cut through a car park behind the Union building, avoiding the crowds of chilled idiots that slouch around the front door. He manages to get to his building without encountering youth. But the Wishing Well, yes, heâs desperate to dine there again.
Because pregnancy is on Colinâs mind. Heâs never really considered the reality of childbirth before, and in somesmall way, believes he couldnât possibly have been pushed into the world from his motherâs womb. He climbs the stairs of the Arts Faculty, oblivious to the girls, thinking only of the women at the Wishing Well. Their bellies like Allied helmets of the Second World War. Their horse-head tits. The children living inside them; shouldnât we all be a little bit more amazed by this? he thinks. Those women walk differently, they lean back in order to bear the weight of their baby. Colin likes their slippers and their moth-eaten dressing gowns. He feels, perhaps, that they possess a rare kind of honour.
âHello,â he says, as he enters the office, making for the relative sanctuary of his desk, as if under gunfire. It is certainly summer. Thereâs not too
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