Pavlova

On the evening of the dinner party my Father was always demoted to little more than a fixture. He was reduced to a useless mass that took up space in the living room with the rest of the inefficient males. It would be a good few years until I joined their ranks, till then my games took on a new dimension. I used to play at being a spy. I’d hide in the same places, but report my observations into the freckle on the wrist of my right arm.
I’d be forgotten about while my Sister and Brothers were sent to bed. I’d be left to observe the drunken stumbling of the adults around me. After a few close calls I’d realise that it no longer mattered if they saw me or not. If my Father saw me walking about he’d mention bed, take another sip of red wine and then carry on talking to his friends.
If I went into the dining room to grab a bite to eat, my Mother would put down her glass of white wine and call me to her. She’d place a hand below my chin and lift my head, then use the other to crush me to her waist. She held me in a way that with one swift twist she could have easily have broken my neck. She’d then turn to her friends and carry on talking. Her grip would loosen. Eventually I’d be allowed to wander off with a large piece of homemade Pavlova.

Demijohns

Whilst my Mother cooked I used to hide below the stairs next to the dusty wine racks; below the hem of winter coats. I used to write my name on the tops of the empty demijohns at the very back. Used to suck on a mint cream that I’d stolen from the jar on the counter. Used to listen to the CD player that my Mother kept in the kitchen as it blasted out Enya at full volume. It was either Enya or Crowded House, or some other CD that was increased to such a level that one could hear it above the extractor fan.
My mother had found the fan a delightful novelty when she had first ordered the fitted kitchen, but quite soon its usefulness was outweighed and it became simply bothersome. The problem was that it lacked a switch and was mercilessly attached to the lighting in the room.
I used to hide myself under the dining table too. Listen to the noise of my parents as they argued about the theme for the party. I used to scoot out from under the table, enjoy the brief intimacy of a tablecloth as it brushed over the back of my neck.
I used to surface as my Father laid his heavy, awkward hands on my Mother’s shoulders from behind. Watched as he attempted to massage her too forcefully, digging his fat fingers into her shoulder blades. He’d always mask his mistake. Pretend that he was being cruel on purpose, but inside I knew that he wanted to be gentler. It was in his eyes, there was sadness. He wanted to relax her, rather than put her on edge. My Father has a hard time being gentle, he was a slim man but his hands always seemed to defy the fact.

Lasagne

“I can cook,” is the catchphrase of every girl who wants a guy genuinely and drastically; it is also the death knell of a relationship. So that was the format of my relationship with Lucy.
We struck up a relationship at the halfway point of my second year at university. She’s my Twerton girl, much to her dismay. I caught her spying on me from across the street while I waited for a bus and when our eyes met she picked up her light feet and breezed over the road toward me, smiling.
We shared a few nights at mine and she lit up that awkward little room with an energy that seemed to linger even after she’d left.
“I can cook,” was a statement that lured me, and my grumbling stomach, over to her house.
After a serving of ‘where our lives will go’ and a portion of ‘I love you’ I didn’t have the appetite for the burnt lasagne.

Hell

Last night was the first time I had been to bed without drinking a bottle of wine and passing out.
I called it an accomplishment and almost overslept.
Tonight I’m off to a dinner party and won’t drink. It’s going to be hell.

Wallflower

I always imagine myself ending up with a complete wallflower. The kind with inch-thick specs and all the social grace of a cockroach. I don’t want it to be like that, but readers tend to develop the need for glasses at some stage and readers tend to be reserved. I always saw myself with a reader, so it goes with the territory.
I see her having cats and long straight dark brown hair with split ends. She’d be eager in the bedroom and often quite over-enthused. Our kids would be bullied because she’d make them banana sandwiches and call them Kingsly and Star. I wouldn’t be able to stop her and would probably be the first to die; with a full head of grey hair and inch-thick glasses.
I don’t want to be with a wallflower, but it seems realistic. Beautiful women like bad guys, and I’m never going to be a bad guy, I’m just nice. Nice guys finish last, get wallflowers and live in the suburbs, gardening at the weekends and reading the Times.

Meal

I don’t eat all that much. I used to, quite a lot in fact, but not so much now.
I have maybe one meal a day. I don’t cook in my house because I’m not comfortable in it yet.
When you stop eating you don’t lose as much energy as you’d think. I’ve been running on empty for a year now and have dropped to 9 stone. I haven’t slowed, just lost a lot of strength, but that will be back; most likely when I get a girlfriend and she trains me to eat three square meals and snacks and we balloon in our early forties.