My housemate recently pointed out that I can only consume culture when it’s in short form; this can now clearly be said for my writing too. So, this is for you, Lou.
20/06/2023
My room has accidentally become a shrine to Elvis Presley. I enjoy the tackiness of memorabilia, especially when its focal point is a mid-century heartthrob. However, mentioning a fondness towards something like this, with it being readily available to the average consumer, results in it becoming your entire home aesthetic. My first purchase was an oversized t-shirt featuring an airbrushed image of Elvis – his name in Vegas-style lights situated above his blemish-free visage. I love this top and wear it often around the house. This was the only Elvis merchandise I bought myself. Next came a gifted black and white portrait of the King, placed in a garish gold frame, that rests permanently on the dining table. Following this, I was bought a mug, a pillow case, and a set of pens from my boyfriend. Though greatly appreciated as separate gifts, when all placed together in my three-by-two-meter room, my ordinary liking of a musician turned to an intense fandom.
27/06/2023
Last night I was on the tube, minding my own business in a melancholy state, when I noticed a woman staring at me through her half an inch thick bifocals. I’d just been cracking my fingers when I noticed her stare, though it continued once I’d stopped. There was something about her poor sight that made her less intimidating. Or maybe it was her tight knee length skirt and open toe sandals that assured me of her lack of threat. During these daily commutes, I am forced to analyse my current state of living. I’d just been told that my job was “at risk”. Whilst I can escape the incessant anxiety at home as my housemates continue to entertain me with their romantic disputes, I’m alone on the district line. I’ll lean my head against the yellow hand rail, and contemplate what’s next for me. Sometime I wonder if I’m actually sad or if I have an all-consuming awareness that somebody in my situation should be woeful. So, unable to work out what is true, I bow my head and continue in my sombre state.
By this point, I look up and my poor-sighted admirer has decided to rest her eyes, for the day ahead must not be weighing on her mind as mightily as it is mine. Clearly my obsessive knuckle cracking was the most excitable moment of her day thus far.
28/06/2023
Today, the Blackfriars platform smells like hairspray. Sweet and all-consuming. I’m transported back to my ballet years, specifically the latter ones when I’d decided that ballet wasn’t cool. This happened when we’d all become aware of our bodies and became reluctant to stand up straight with our bums tucked in – we wanted to show off our small peaches that rested on our gangly bodies. These weekly lessons were a chance to mess around and snigger when my friends would get told off in place of me. It was uncool to be seen ‘trying’ during classes, just like it was lame to be noticeably putting in effort in any forms of education during this period. My friends would go into each exam claiming they hadn’t revised, and I’d naively accept this as the truth; I’d then be baffled when they’d come out with high grades. Sadly, many of us were cheated by teenage politics when exams came around and it dawned on us that it was even less cool to do badly in said exams.
So, in the formative few weeks prior to my ballet exams, I’d focus on my balancing and spotting, and just prayed that I’d manage to remember the routines when asked to dance them solo rather than amongst the class ensemble. Nevertheless, it was always too late. The damage had been done – bums remained stuck out and spines stayed curled. All that was left to salvage was my presentation. I hoped to dupe the examiner into believing I was in fact a sleek and elegant ballerina, which could only be achieved through a lot of hairspray. Our aggressively straightened hair had lost its silky, youthful innocence and was beginning to split, so bottle after bottle of drugstore hairspray was spouted to tackle the strays. The room quickly turned into a sweet and chemically green house, which I guess would be a suitable description of a tube stop too.
29/06/2023
Today I saw two magpies in the garden. I know the saying is that it’s ‘two for joy’, but I see this as a sign of luck too. Later that day I saw our local fox with a magpie slowly dying in its mouth. There isn’t a verse for this in the nursery rhyme.
Beautifully observed and a delight to read❤️
Your dead pan honesty and description of the mundane has a soothing quality on the reader.