V, W & X


V is for Vintage

Her daughters’ clothes puzzle her, enourous, bagy 80s jumpers, some with shoulder pads.
Tie -dyed t-shirts with rave slogans and mad smiley faces.
Army boots, black, scufed, the laces replaced with pale pink ribbons.
Silver wedge sandals, they leave a trail of glitter as she stopms up the stairs.
Prom dresses, imported as emormous expense from specialist web sites, worn, not for parties, mixers, hops, but to the corner shop, the park and ocassionally to sleep in.

W is for Waking

Every morning when I wake, i am horrified that the night has already gone, that sleep is over, that another day is ready to begin.
i bargain with the dieties of early morningness – just 5 more minutes, just another 5……..
I calculate complicated mathematics in my head – if i get up in 10, 15, 20 minutes, I can still walk the dog, feed the cat, skip the shower, make up at work, eat later.
There is a second, a pause and then shake like a dog, feet on floor, head hits knees, the last moment of denial [ be careful here, its all to easy to reverse the process at this point] and then up.
The secret is movemment, constant movement.
Corridor, bathroom, bedroom , stairs, kitchen, pets, coat, bag, keys and out.

X is for X-Ray Specks

Polly Styrene – almost prety, a diva for the unconfident, I wanted your hat so much it almost hurt, but had just enough sense to know that i would be even more inane than usual, so bought a army greatcoat instead

The remaining minutes left for this story were used up in watching this instead,

Sorry.

About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

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