I was a painter, then an astronaught and then a wrestler.
I would be Delia Smith and cook with dandelions, chopping them up with slate from the garden and then garnish my dish (also made from dandelion) with coriander. She put coriander in everything.
I would drink my Ribena wine and shout at my brother for saying 'yeah' instead of 'present' during registration and mock him, and the other children, with my reflection in the mirror. We had such a good rapport.
My mother only ever bought me two Barbies my whole life, a grudge I still hold today. One's hair turned pink when in contact with water, and the other who rollerskated (though really she just fell flat on her perfect face). This forced me to hang around with my brothers and think punching in the stomach is a perfectly acceptable form of play.
I had the wildest imagination and spoke with such conviction that others believed me when I told them my cardboard box was a portal into a world where bears walked around with their handbags and would make a broth-like dish for the nearby privileged white girl. I'm sure that's Goldilocks-inspired.
Now.
I burn toast,
I get pissed on rosé,
I look in the mirror to check I look okay,
I walk past all the toys bundled in carrier bags
And say 'bye' to my brothers without looking them in the eye.
Every statement is a question and
Every wandering thought is disturbed by a prevailing reality.
Everything is vanilla.
I thought you're meant to improve with age?
No comments:
Post a Comment