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Authors: David Staniforth
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sixty watt bulb. I’ve been wondering, as I’ve stewed in my bed, if this is the day my life will take a turn for the better. Was it really less than a week ago that my heart struck like that hammer, fast and furious, as I listened to the music that’s already escaped my memory and left me feeling wound down.
Things need to change.
I rise from the bed and pad across the landing, scratching a boil on my bum through y-fronts, which have worn and washed baggy and grey. Today is my birthday. It is also a Wednesday. Mid-week. Today, I will have a shower. Bath on Saturday night, and a shower on Wednesday afternoon. Strip wash on the days in between. Waste-not-want-not. I should bathe everyday, just to spite the old bitch.
The bathroom door proves difficult to open this morning. Inch three through to five has a springy resistance, as though the door is attached to strong elastic. Beyond five inches the door’s movement firms to the point of immobility. Frosty air escapes the room and strokes my cheek like a kiss of death as I attempt to peer through the gap. Seeing nothing, more so, knowing there’s nothing in there that could be blocking the door’s movement, I firm my shoulder against the panel and push more vigorously. Gradually the door moves a fraction. Suddenly it gives, and I tumble into the frigid room. Sprawled on the floor, I turn to see a triangular patch, torn like a tongue from the lino, and realise I should have glued the small rip before it got any worse. As with most things, I ignored it, pushed it to the back of my mind.
Things have to change.
What would Sally make of this? And like the kitchen, it’s as if I’m seeing the state of this room for the very first time.
The ripped lino does nothing to worsen the look of the room. It matches the peeling blue paint on the walls – blue which was once duck-egg, but has now yellowed toward a rancid hue bordering on vomit-green. The numerous gaps where the paint has peeled show plaster peppered with a sooty looking mould. Amber stripes descend the toilet’s white pan. I’ve often intended to clean the bath, but the vignette of grime around the tub gives the room its finishing touch and perfectly accents the ginger line descending from calcified-tap to fossilised plughole. I let it get like this thinking She wouldn’t be able to stand it and would go away. She didn’t.
Having spent twenty minutes in the bathroom, showering, shaving and towelling myself dry, I now feel even more depressed. A girl like Sally won’t want me. Why would she? The thought unwinds my spring further. Appetite for life is a wound up clock spring. This philosophical realisation fails to please me in the way it once would have. My uniform still feels a little damp, but to be honest I don’t really care. The curtains are still closed, and the naked bulb still harshly lights the room. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror of an old wardrobe. Solid oak, like the furniture downstairs. Once quite valuable, sought after but now extremely unfashionable. I had considered selling it. I had considered selling all the old stuff, but in my usual style I left it too late. Maybe I’ve left it too late to change, and if I can’t have Sally, I wonder if I can even be bothered to. Maybe I should stop winding myself up; let my spring go so slack that I eventually stop. How long would it take before someone discovered me? Unwound. No longer ticking.
Outside a dog barks, a deep loud boom that makes me start. Another dog, higher in pitch, joins in. Shoving a mountain of clothes to the wall with my foot, the once white pants on top tumbling like a crest of polluted snow, I open the curtains. The two dogs are on the other side of the road, no longer barking but now growling, playing tug-o-war with a chicken carcass. Mrs Seaton is on this side of the road, lounging on top of a car, watching them with contempt, her tail swishing over the windscreen. I once read that dogs can choke on
Things need to change.
I rise from the bed and pad across the landing, scratching a boil on my bum through y-fronts, which have worn and washed baggy and grey. Today is my birthday. It is also a Wednesday. Mid-week. Today, I will have a shower. Bath on Saturday night, and a shower on Wednesday afternoon. Strip wash on the days in between. Waste-not-want-not. I should bathe everyday, just to spite the old bitch.
The bathroom door proves difficult to open this morning. Inch three through to five has a springy resistance, as though the door is attached to strong elastic. Beyond five inches the door’s movement firms to the point of immobility. Frosty air escapes the room and strokes my cheek like a kiss of death as I attempt to peer through the gap. Seeing nothing, more so, knowing there’s nothing in there that could be blocking the door’s movement, I firm my shoulder against the panel and push more vigorously. Gradually the door moves a fraction. Suddenly it gives, and I tumble into the frigid room. Sprawled on the floor, I turn to see a triangular patch, torn like a tongue from the lino, and realise I should have glued the small rip before it got any worse. As with most things, I ignored it, pushed it to the back of my mind.
Things have to change.
What would Sally make of this? And like the kitchen, it’s as if I’m seeing the state of this room for the very first time.
The ripped lino does nothing to worsen the look of the room. It matches the peeling blue paint on the walls – blue which was once duck-egg, but has now yellowed toward a rancid hue bordering on vomit-green. The numerous gaps where the paint has peeled show plaster peppered with a sooty looking mould. Amber stripes descend the toilet’s white pan. I’ve often intended to clean the bath, but the vignette of grime around the tub gives the room its finishing touch and perfectly accents the ginger line descending from calcified-tap to fossilised plughole. I let it get like this thinking She wouldn’t be able to stand it and would go away. She didn’t.
Having spent twenty minutes in the bathroom, showering, shaving and towelling myself dry, I now feel even more depressed. A girl like Sally won’t want me. Why would she? The thought unwinds my spring further. Appetite for life is a wound up clock spring. This philosophical realisation fails to please me in the way it once would have. My uniform still feels a little damp, but to be honest I don’t really care. The curtains are still closed, and the naked bulb still harshly lights the room. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror of an old wardrobe. Solid oak, like the furniture downstairs. Once quite valuable, sought after but now extremely unfashionable. I had considered selling it. I had considered selling all the old stuff, but in my usual style I left it too late. Maybe I’ve left it too late to change, and if I can’t have Sally, I wonder if I can even be bothered to. Maybe I should stop winding myself up; let my spring go so slack that I eventually stop. How long would it take before someone discovered me? Unwound. No longer ticking.
Outside a dog barks, a deep loud boom that makes me start. Another dog, higher in pitch, joins in. Shoving a mountain of clothes to the wall with my foot, the once white pants on top tumbling like a crest of polluted snow, I open the curtains. The two dogs are on the other side of the road, no longer barking but now growling, playing tug-o-war with a chicken carcass. Mrs Seaton is on this side of the road, lounging on top of a car, watching them with contempt, her tail swishing over the windscreen. I once read that dogs can choke on
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