Hi, I'm a first time poster - just found this site! :) I know it's a bit presumptious, seeing as I haven't done any book swaps or anything, but I wanted to share what could be the first chapter of my book (if I could ever work out where it was going...) It's sort of semi-autobiographical, (eek!) and draws on my experiences and feelings of having had cancer when I was 29. I wouldn't normally share any of it, but seeing as you don't know me... Let me know what you think. Thanks :)
Today is the beginning of the rest of my life. Today is the beginning of the rest of my life. Today is the BEGINNING of the rest of my life. Today is the beginning of the rest of my life. So why, why, WHY does it feel just like yesterday?
Okay, so I suppose there are a few differences. Yesterday was a Sunday, today is a Monday. Yesterday I stayed in bed until after 11am, and had time for a little bit of… well, you know what I mean, because He was in the bed with me. Yesterday, chilling out was good, mess was fine, and work was unimportant. Yesterday we pottered round the garden centre for two hours. Admittedly we didn’t buy any plants, but we looked lots at the pet section. He wouldn’t buy me a rabbit, and I got upset by the birds in cages. But we did it together. Oh, and yesterday it didn’t matter that I hadn’t done the ironing or cleaned the bathroom. Trouble is, today it does matter.
Let me introduce myself. My name is Kate. I’m thirty-five. Yes, that’s right, halfway to seventy. I live in a lovely apartment, open plan with two large bedrooms and bathroom, which (when clean) is my favourite room in the house. It’s pretty plain – a couple of pictures on the walls – real ones, on canvas, not prints – and plenty of knick-knacks brightening up the magnolia world we live in. Our bedroom, which should be a sanctuary, is a mess. I don’t believe in wardrobes (even though we have two) and my clothes live happily on the floor until it becomes too much to bear. The laundry basket tends to live in the kitchen, while the laundry lives on the bedroom floor (a different pile from the one I mentioned earlier.) He has magazines. It’s a collection of magazines that any self-respecting anorak would be proud of. I don’t mean dodgy ones with pictures of semi-naked lovelies, in fact, if I were honest, I would probably prefer it if he had one or two of those. He has proper anorak magazines, planes, trains and automobiles. It would be fine if they were monthly publications, but they’re weekly. Still, I’ve put up with it for 10 years; the rest of my life won’t make much difference – until one day he’ll come home and find me buried under fifty years worth of Traction magazine – not my ideal way to leave this planet!
The bathroom is white. It’s plain, functional and my refuge. Where would my life be without baths? It’s my luxury and I’m gonna use it! But it needs cleaning. Well, the whole house needs cleaning, and the ironing needs to be done, and I have to wander down to the post-box to post last week’s timesheets. Did I tell you that I’m a supply teacher? It’s great! I don’t work, I don’t get paid! Yet people think that it’s the easy option. I can take holiday in term time – yes, but I don’t get paid for it. I have time to do other things – yes, but I still get up before 7am in the hope that work will happen. If I don’t like a class then I don’t have to go back – yes, but I still have to teach the little darlings for the rest of the day. That’s another thing… why am I blessed (or cursed?) with an inbuilt sense of duty? Why can’t I just pack my bag, go to see the head and tell them I’m not staying in a school where a bunch of eleven year olds think it’s fine to call me ‘Fanny-flaps?’ I blame my parents.
Still, I digress. I was telling you about my home. Well, OUR home. He pays the majority of the mortgage, and I give a token amount when I can afford to. Our open plan area is considered to be ideal for parties. Yes, I suppose it is. Stick the table in the kitchen area and move the sofa out from the middle of the room and you’re sorted! There’s a large space for everyone to sit on the floor and chat. That’s what people do at parties when you hit your mid-thirties. (Well, usually they sit on chairs, but we’re a bit short of those.) You moan about the building site at the back of your house, about the parking situation at the front of it. You complain about how much tax you pay and the never-ending road-works. You discuss childcare and the absolute genius of your child who has now managed to say mama and is able to stand up – if they hold on to the sofa. The kitchen area is functional. We have a crappy white sink which leaks round the edges, a gas hob and an electric fan oven. Pretty standard I suppose.
So why is today the beginning of the rest of my life? Because today is going to be the day when I recover my ‘get-up-and-go’ from wherever it ‘got-up-and-went.’ Supposedly. Today I’ve been up since 7am. I made sandwiches for Him and Me. I’ve made a couple of birthday cards. (I like to think that I’m artistic and that people would like to buy them, but I think I’m just deluding myself.) Er… I’ve tidied up, vacuumed the living area, drunk a hot chocolate and ate some pretzels. Wow! What a fantastic life I’m having.
Truth is, I’m bored and I’m lonely. When I’m at home, it’s often the case that I talk to nobody between 7.30am and 6pm. Television and the Internet is my company. I talk to people across the other side of the world. But I can be who I want, feeling what I want, and when I want. I don’t cheat. I’m not going to tell them I’m some gorgeous piece of skirt looking for some cyber action with a hunky Hollywood lifeguard. I wouldn’t be able to keep that up. I mean, I’m just an over-weight female who is starting to gain wrinkles and has noticed more and more of her hairs going grey. (Thank goodness for hair dye and great hairdressers!) We just chat about life.
“Hey! How r u?”
“gd ty, n u?”
“yeah gr8”
“wot r u doin”
“nothing much. U”
“wots weather like”
“raining L”
It’s great isn’t it! You know what; I’m a cyber-girl, in a cyber-world. But its not real company is it. What else do I do? I walk to the shop and strike up a conversation with the checkout girl.
“Oh yes, this sausagemeat is great – you should try it!”
“Busy today, isn’t it!”
I’m the last of the great conversationalists! Sometimes I go to the shops, imagining that I’m Nigella or someone. I’ve checked out a recipe and realise that I need some odd ingredient - something that I wouldn’t have in my store cupboard, or fridge. (New two bedroom apartments don’t stretch to walk-in larders like Nigella has…) Last week it was capers. I used them in the recipe. I don’t know what flavour they added to it. In fact, I have to admit, I don’t even know what capers actually are. He wasn’t too impressed with them. I think I’ll just have to leave them at the back of the cupboard waiting for when I get inspired to give it a clean. At that point I’ll look at the defenceless little jar, and decide it has to go. Thanks Nigella.
When He gets home, around 6pm, the kettle has boiled and I’m ready to make him a coffee. He gives me a kiss. If the radio is on then we’ll have a little dance around the kitchen. (I know, sweet isn’t it!) He has no sense of rhythm and I just like to twirl around under his out-stretched arm, or else have a bit of a smooch while the pasta or something bubbles over! Still, it’s part of our life, and I like to think of it as the real part of our day starting, where I can be dynamic and chat about our days, and about life and about our love for each other. In reality, I ask “good day?” He replies “Yeah, and you?” I answer “It was OK, I didn’t do much.” Then he watches The Simpsons, followed by me watching whatever dodgy cookery programme I can find, while he plays on the computer. It’s the same every day. We used to meet up with the neighbours once a week, but they got on with life, had babies, and now don’t have the time. We go to the pub on a Thursday. I drive, he drinks. It’s the same every week. I mean, I know routine is good, but sometimes you just need that break from monotony.
I’m sorry; you must be getting this dreadful picture of me. You probably think that I spend my life either moaning or living in a virtual world on the computer. Although close to the truth, it’s not entirely true. I like to think there’s more to me than that. The problem is, I just haven’t quite found out what it is yet.
You know, I’ve always had a couple of burning ambitions. The first one is to appear on Big Brother. Why? Because I’m normal! I’m not like the weird and wonderful people they get on the show. I’m just little old me, with no pretensions (or none that I can think of right now) and no hidden agenda. I don’t want stardom. I don’t want to be one of those people who turn up to the opening of an envelope, and I know that NUTS magazine will never want to a photo shoot of me in my sensible M&S undies. I just want to take myself out of my comfort zone. What holds me back? The possibility that people might see me on the toilet, and that when I fart, the whole country will know about it.
What else? Well, sometimes, just sometimes, I think I have the X-Factor. Yes, I do! I can hold a tune, I have that twinkle in my eyes (not quite as attractive as Robbie Williams’ twinkle though) and I can be charismatic. I CAN! I know you don’t believe me, but come on, you must have realised by now that I’m not living in a fantasy world, and that my feet tend to be placed firmly on the ground. Why haven’t I done it yet? Well, have you seen what they do to failed contestants? Have you seen the humiliation in their eyes when Simon Cowell tells them that he’s heard cats on motorbikes (or something) sing with more tune and feeling than they did. I don’t do rejection. It scares me. Perhaps that’s why I’m stuck in this rut. Perhaps that’s why I often feel that my life has no meaning. Perhaps that’s why I want today to be the first day of the rest of my life.
Hasn’t got off to a great start has it. I’ll get going once I’ve played on the computer for a bit.