A house is just a house? Bricks and mortar?


My grandmother's house has always fascinated me. From the outside it's nothing grand; a two up, two down coffin terrace in one of the busy railway towns of the northwest. Closer inspection is rewarded with the discovery of some beautiful original features, although they're definitely showing their age. The victorian stained glass is fading, the chipped gloss on the picture rails allowing the delightful 70's olive green paint that went before it to peek through a little, the coving cracked and yellowed.

Inside every surface, every corner packed with a lifetimes worth of memories. Snaking alongside the staircase, picture frames fill the wall. Eighty or so years laid out against dreadful duckegg blue wallpaper. No particular order. No chronology. Her late brother in his military uniform. My mum, aged six or seven, with a sulky face and a skew-whiff fringe; the result of one of my gran's infamous DIY haircuts. Me and my brother opening our Christmas presents. My grandfather looking very surly but quite impossibly handsome. And my favourite: my grandmother and seven or so of her friends; sat, legs dangling, on the edge of a stage. Gran is seen in profile, looking away from the camera. Her hair set in tight pincurls and her head resting on her hand, she's laughing across at one of the others. She looks so striking. So elegant. The women of our family are always tentatively described as having "strong features" (read: big noses) or as being "interesting looking" (read: odd) but never as beautiful. But, in the moment that photo was taken, my grandmother was more beautiful than anyone.

She was a dressmaker. A seamstress. For a long time she worked as a costumier for a theatre company; spending hours intricately beading, pinning and stitching dancers into their costumes. I hear snippets of stories now and they never fail to make me smile; how for a long time she carried a torch for one very obviously gay member of the chorus line ("I thought he might change his mind, darling. Theatrical folk are very fickle!") to how Richard Beckinsale bought her a gin and tonic ("long hair and a dirty laugh, that lad.") Even now, knocking quite loudly on the door of eighty-five (years old, that is. She hasn't taken to randomly annoying the neighbours), she still has such an elegance about her. A way of carrying herself. A knack of placing a brooch or scarf just so as to look effortlessly stylish. That laidback style is echoed throughout every room of the house. Sixty year old handmade silk cushions tossed on to the sofa. The bamboo screen she "painted scarlet after taking two purple bloody hearts. I should throw it out but it's good for hiding tat." A heavy brocade antimacassar thrown over a battered old wicker chair. On a card table; two rather chichi, yet utterly bloody broken, typewriters. Faded show cards pinned to the back of the kitchen door. Sepia photographs.

Her home became something of a safe haven for me when I was growing up. Ironic really that such a completely bloody bonkers house should provide moments of such calm. Such safety. Depending on how bad things were at home, whether i'd stay for two days or two months, I always loved spending time there. I'd lie on the hearthrug, tracing its swirly patterns around and around with my fingers. Shortly after discovering that I could unzip the yellow velvet cushion I realised that I could fit my entire head in it. This led to me believing it looked like some kind of wonderful turban and that I, in turn, naturally looked exactly like a jaunty exotic princess.I'd pretend I could play the two guitars that, for reasons best known to her, were propped up against the pantry wall. My uncle had left them behind years earlier; each only had three strings and, as I strummed them incredibly badly, i'd ask about their handwritten inscriptions: 'T-Rex' ("his favourite band"), 'Hodders' ("his nickname") and 'Bollocks' ("Oh. Erm. Something to do with farming I think, my darling.")

I had my own room there. It had belonged to my mum at one point. Somehow lying in her bedroom, amongst her ballet shoes and bellbottoms, made me hopeful. She had been happy there. She'd be happy again. It made sense; in that house there was nothing but colour and laughter and love.



At the end of November my gran is leaving her house to move into a smaller bungalow nearby. The stairs have become too difficult for her to manage and the house too big to maintain. Next week she and my uncles begin the unenviable task of emptying the place. Taking down the photographs, boxing up all the rather bizarre clutter.

I rang her earlier and rather than seeing it as a loss, she is quite wonderfully pragmatic about it all. It'll be empty, she said. Someone will probably paint all the walls magnolia. Pull down the picture rails. Replace the creaky stairs. Empty. But not dead. Instead it'll be a blank canvas for someone else to paint their memories on to.

I like that idea. In early December The Vegetarian and I will be getting a blank canvas all of our own. Well, blank but for the addition of a chipped scarlet bamboo screen. It's always wise to take a bit of colour, love and laughter with you wherever you go.

My mobile rings. It's my little brother. He never, ever calls.

"Hello. Well this is a rare treat."
'Is microwave mashed potato supposed to be runny?'
"I beg your pardon?"
'Microwave mash. Runny or not?'
"I'd say not."
'Fuck. Must be because I put in some chicken soup. It's that Campbells shit. Said on the tin you can make meals and stuff with it.'
"Why are you - and I use this word loosely - cooking? Where is dad?"
'Something to do with taps.'
"Sorry?"
'Taps. Y'know, Spanish taps or something.'
"Tapas?"
'Yeah, probably. Is that, like, the Spanish for plumber or something?'
"...."
'This mash looks foul. Like fucking spew.'
"How are you anyway? How's college?"
'hjfkrkhfufflefuffle art jkdfhkidu changethefontslkjdflkdjfphotoshop'
"You're eating the pukey mash, aren't you"
'Yefff.'

Apparently we're related. I suggest the next call he makes is to the Jeremy Kyle show to request a DNA test.

There was a time, four or five years ago, when I lived only four days a month. Four days of really living. Of feeling alive. Four enchanting, intoxicating days. The rest of the time, I just existed. And it was a strange existence; wishing days away. Scribbling dates on the calendar. Existing only in relation to him. Viewing a beautiful sunset as nothing more than being another day closer to seeing him.

He was everything to me. Literally. When I was summoned, I took the opportunity to drink in every sight, every sound, every word. Every single sexy, blissful, exquisite moment of it all. It'd ensure i'd have something to sustain me through those meaningless moments without him. Those horribly arid dry spells.

He didn't feel the same. And I knew it. And he knew that I knew. He thought I was funny-ish. Pretty-ish. Sexy-ish. For him, it was always all very "ish". It was that simple. I envied him for that. And hated him. And, god, did I love him.


I'd walk home, knowing damn well that I wouldn't hear a word from him again until he wanted something. Casual sex is only that is both of you are, well, casual. And I wasn't. Love just isn't casual, is it? It's inconvenient and all-consuming and overpowering. I'd tell myself that this would be the last time. Every time was the last time. I've never known a feeling quite like it; never had anyone make me feel so incredibly stupid. So stupid i'll never be able to find the words to do it justice. I'd watch as I made a fucking fool of myself time and time again and then trot back for some more. So, quite simply, I pretended. For a long time. I perfected breezy. I mastered nonchalance. Shrugged away the pain creeping up my chest as he talked about his other women. Added another few layers atop of the already papered-over cracks.

And I had everyone fooled. Friends would marvel at my wonderfully cushy arrangement. Sex on tap, they'd marvel, no commitment, no worries. I'd smile suggestively and nod; glad that they never saw me painting on an extra coat of mascara every morning, in the hope that it would stop me crying. Never saw me curled up, head in hands, in the bath; my heart so heavy that I was sure it would pull me under the water.

No, they never saw that. To them, to him, to the world I was always nonchalant. Indifferent. And, more importantly - boy, I was breezy.

Then breezy became cold. Cold became icy. And icy ensured I always had bloody great glaciers floating around; perfect for keeping people at bay.






On Sunday morning my boyfriend brought me breakfast in bed. Doughnuts and hot chocolate. He motioned to a pile of work i'd been avoiding and smiled a knowing smile, ducking as I threw an exercise book at him. Later, as I wandered around in kitchen in one of his old t-shirts complete with jam splodge, he told me I was beautiful. And he meant it. I've never known anybody want the best for someone without expecting a single thing in return, fight for them, strive for them, step aside for them.

We scream sometimes. We argue. I roll my eyes and swear. He sighs and looks to the heavens. But, right from the start; right from the very second I met him, i've never felt stupid. Not once.

And those glaciers are starting to melt.

Outside there's such stillness. The perfect antidote to the chaos inside. Even the breeze seems to know the rules; nothing too bracing, no great gusts to rock the boat. Just enough to provide the gentle rustle of leaves, a momentary second of calming coolness.

Outside the hospital; neat rows of flower beds. A veranda. Benches with plaques to remember those who won their battle. And those who didn't.

One of those near-perfect crisp, sunny October mornings.

And yet somehow everything is not quite the perfect picture postcard it was clearly designed to be. The grass isn't quite as green as it was yesterday. The sun not quite as bright. Nothing is ever black and white, they say. Instead there are a million shades of grey. What they don't add is that grey, no matter what the shade, is still grey. And, at times like this, tired eyes eventually become accustomed to leaden tones muddying the view. Everything always a little tainted. A little dirtied.

What i'd give for a little black and white right now. We knew where we were then. The blackness brought despair, wretchedness, catatonia, sleep. The bright white light studded with mania, laughter, frenetic activity, obsession. Those thick lines of black and white defined her. They were her outline. That's all she was most of the time; an outline. Black. White. Black. White.



Now there is only greyness. A whole palette of shades to play with. Pick one, they tell her. Or pick them all. Mix them. Embrace them. Create new shades of your own. Variety is, after all, the spice of life.

I want to help her. Guide her. But I can't. Because she doesn't know who she's supposed to be.

And neither do I.

7.30 pm - pub with recently dumped friend. She cries. A lot. I tell her she has lost fourteen stones of Snappy Wanker. She cries some more. I decide that 'Snappy Wanker' sounds like something you could order in Yo Sushi. "I'll have two tuna rolls, some sweet shrimp and a grilled snappy wanker." She says it's like having a drink with Billy Crystal. I ask her whether it's the beard. She buys a double vodka.

10pm - we play Bullseye on the quiz machine. I laugh mockingly at how ridiculously easy the questions are and then promptly get one wrong. Incensed, I call the machine a "cheating twat". We decide to go elsewhere. A place without swindling electronic devices.


10.30pm - "Remember, I have to be at work in the morning." I say, as I buy another round of drinks. She nods; "i'll have you home by midnight."


12.10 am - we both shuffle uncomfortably to the terrible R&B music of the club we appear to have paid three quid to get into. All around us, white men in tracksuits dance like they have ferrets in their very baggy pants. "I need something to make this bearable" pleads my friend. "An uzi and some quicklime?" I offer. Instead we plump for black sambuca. And lots of it.

2am ish. very ish - "Ahahahahaha. Slack bambuca testslike slomasses. Molasses! Like treacle. Smell my tongue. Haha. Ha. Tongue. Ha. Let's get some chicken! CHICKEN!"

2.30 am - Suddenly finding chicken is the only thing that makes sense in the whole world. All wars would be over, all poverty wiped out, all diseases cured if only we find sweet sweet chicken. And eat it stood next to a dustbin outside a grotty bar.

2.40am - We eat chicken, stood next to a dustbin outside a grotty bar.

2.50am - The Power of Sambuca instills in us the ability to dance like that bird out of Saturday Night Fever. We strut, we wiggle, we bop like we've never bopped before. Using our phones, we make incredibly arty films of ourselves spinning and dancing like goddesses. People are understandably agog.

3.30am - The grotty bar, somewhat rudely, decides to close. I lean my head against the brick. Mmmm, cold brick. Mmmm. My friend decides we need a taxi immediately. I put my hands against the brick to stop it melting.

3.33am - 6am - your guess is as good as mine.

6.01am - I wake in my bed, fully clothed. Including shoes. Dizzy. Dehydrated. Decide to get up. Must shower. Must wash. Must take dead badger out of mouth.

8.30am - Incredibly smug. Lalalalaaaa. No hangover. No hangover. I am the supreme drinking champion! I will be given the keys to the city! I will keep them in a satin pouch! I am using way too many exclamation marks!!!! I rock. I am GOD.

10.15am - Charlton Heston arrives with the Ben-Hur of all hangovers. There are romans and chariots and extras wearing wristwatches. Fuck you, Moses. Fuck you and your dodgy rug.

11am - Thick yogurty vomit coats all of my vital organs. And some of my not so vital ones. It moistens my eyeballs. It flows through my veins. Envelopes my brain. Snakes its way around my tonsils.

12pm - Urgh.

12.30pm - Some drunken skanks seem to have used my phone to make a video of themselves dancing like utter, utter twats. How incredibly undignified.

1pm - Ack.

1.10pm - Sudden, intense hunger. The sandwich shop is hot and smells of egg. The only sandwich left in the entire shop is a coronation chicken, carrot and egg noodle wrap. That's not even a sandwich. It's an insult. An INSULT. Angry, I leave it in the chiller and instead buy four packets of crisps. Mmmm, salt.

1.30pm - Urgh. Ack. And also ick.

2.30pm - Cannot be sick during meeting. Cannot be sick during meeting. Cannot be sick during meeting.

2.32pm - sick during meeting.

3.50pm - switch on phone and find a text message from an unknown number asking "Is Josh with you?" I do not know of any Josh. Wibble.

4.50pm - home. Argument with vegetarian boyfriend over my alleged attempt to forcefeed him chicken at 4am. "Man cannot live by leeks alone!", apparently.

5pm - sleep. Sweet sweet sleep. Sweeter than chicken. Sweeter than cuddly vegetarians. Certainly sweeter than tracksuited men who are to rhythm what Gary Glitter is to babysitting.





Oh, and Unknown Texter - I wasn't with Josh. But as of ten minutes ago, I know who was. Looks like she's found herself another fourteen stones of Snappy Wanker. I wonder if she got sticky rice with that?

Dear Shakespeare Garry,

"Sex without love is an empty experience, but as empty experiences go it's one of the best." -
Woody Allen.


It pains me to start this with a quote. No, really it does. I hate people who think using the words of truly funny people somehow makes them witty. In fact, I hate anyone who uses quotes in general which, as you can imagine, made history lectures something of an experience. What is particularly galling is if they accompany them with the use of air quotation marks. I have never in my life felt the need to use an air full stop. Or a floating comma, for that matter. I've never even succumbed to air guitar - not even during Bohemian Rapsody. Yes, even to that headbanging bit. Never mind the argument of inate promiscuity, surely holding aloft an imaginary Fender and rocking the fuck out is the act which truly separates the sexes?
So just where did this horrible affectation originate? A genius i'm not but I think I know enough to realise that you - a balding, somewhat stinky fiftysomething taxi driver are not the first person to use the expression "it's all Greek to me" so your addition of finger-punctuation wasn't strictly necessary. That isn't even the correct quote, a fact I might just have pointed out was I not mentally plucking the floating quotation points out of the air and embedding them deep in your eyeballs.

So what was it, Oh Whiffy One, that was all Greek to you? Rocket science maybe? I imagine that can be bloody hard to understand. Not for me, obviously - I am of course incredibly knowledgable when it comes to sprockets, meteors and, erm, y'know, screwdrivers and weevils and stuff. If not something of a scientific slant, perhaps it was more literary? Do you have something of a mental gap when it comes to deciphering the socioeconomic metaphors littered within Peer Gynt? You and me both, mate - to be honest I always thought Ibsen was a make of fountain pen. Ah - maybe you meant it was literally Greek to you. It's got to be taramasalata, hasn't it? Don't let the fish roe put you off, dude - give it a whirl.

Oh. Not taramasalata then? Right.

Not rocket science. Not Ibsen. Not even fishy pink goo. No.

"Blokes sleeping around is in their blood but birds doing the same is just goppin', innit? Bunch of slappers. Can't understand what they get from it puttin' it about. It's all Greek to me."

I've agonised over a possible reaction for hours. Checked off a mental tick chart of all possible angles for and against your learned argument. Gone through many an emotion trying to sum up an intellectual, fiercely impassioned response.

And then I thought, nah. Let's level the playing field.

.
.
.

"Fuck off, cuntbubble"

And, Garry baby, I even used floating quotations - just for you.


Lots of love,
Vic xx

I met her last February. On a Tuesday. I disliked her almost instantly; rolling my eyes as she waxed lyrical about a recent argument with her husband, I decided she was brusque and mouthy. I briefly contemplated asking her if she'd like a coffee but decided against it, preferring instead to imagine repeatedly slamming her head in the photocopier. Two birds with one stone: an act of mindless violence with the added bonus of a warm, satisfying stack of keepsake copies of the attack to thumb through at my leisure.

It appeared the feeling was mutual, she later told me she originally had me down as "an uptight, foul-mouthed ice queen". I don't know how on earth she came to that conclusion and fully intended to tell the bitch to fucking well fuck right off only there were people watching and, y'know, I didn't want to lose control in public or anything. They might have stared at me.

It's funny how wrong a person can be. Meaning me, obviously. Forget mouthy, she instead proved herself to be warm, funny and welcoming; taking this uptight, foul-mouthed ice queen under her wing.

Eighteen months isn't that long a period of time. At least it isn't in the grand scale of things. True, it's about three times the length of the average boy band career. And I suppose if the hairs on my legs were left to cultivate for a year and a half....well, let's just say The Hendersons would be filling up their petrol tank with glee and excitedly revving their engine in the prospect of running me over. But, for a friendship, eighteen months isn't all that long is it? You don't have the 'we've known each other since we were kids' element or that 'remember that night during Freshers Week when you vomited into a fishtank? You killed an eel' factor.

No real sense of reminiscence. No vast shared history. No 'remember that?' or 'where are they now'? And maybe that's what was so lovely about it. Maybe the newness, the freshness, the recency of it all refreshed us both.



It was ten months ago that she found out she was ill. On a Tuesday.

Four months ago when it was confirmed that she would die. I can't remember what day it was she told me. Just the static sound of the phone. And a metallic taste in my mouth.

My role, especially since things became serious - ironically, was of the clown. She had so many serious conversations ith her husband, her son, her parents, her doctors. So many things to put into place. So I was summonsed occasionally to tell her her new hairdo was less Mia Farrow and more Charles Hawtrey. To tell her to stop being such a malingerer. To ask whether MRSA was a division of the Russian military. Or just to generally gawp at doctor's bottoms. Those women should really wear longer skirts, especially with so many weak-hearted blokes cluttering up the place.

See. Clowning I can do.

And then it stopped being funny.


I said goodbye on a Wednesday. Yesterday. Although neither of us acknowledged it, we knew this would be The Last Time. The last time we would speak. The last time we would spend together.

There's a danger of painting a dying person as saintly. Celestial. An angel.

Well, she isn't.She's as fucked up as the rest of us. Always talking instead of listening. Usually late. Occasionally surly. And, my god, I will miss all that more than I can ever say.

I will miss her.

I don't want to have to refer to her in the past tense.



Her name is Tania. She's 29. And I met her on a Tuesday