Post-Fuck Awkwardness

Post-Fuck Awkwardness

You know, afterwards, do you cuddle? See I’m puzzled because, holding you feels a bit much. Like opening myself up to you, which I know I literally did do about twenty minutes ago and, though you are now very well acquainted with my cervix that still seems

Less…Intimate.

More…Natural.

Than fingersteps traced across your chest as my head rests on your clavicle; your hands in my hair and gentle kisses pressed on my forehead. You turn to spoon but, it feels a bit soon, like, I don’t even know which drawer holds your actual cutlery in the kitchen. I’ve never been there. You just whisked me upstairs, stripped to underwear, my clothes (and yours too) strewn, chaos on your bedroom floor, and they always seem so disapproving the morning after the night before so I hurry them back on. All whispered curses and shuffling limbs in the dark. My bra straps are twisted wrong and I’ve only got one sock so, I flick the light on. Catch your half opening, just-fucked, 3am eyes. And realise. For the first time tonight.

I am truly naked.

Dodgy Pancreas

I’ve got a dodgy pancreas

It’s really got me irked

What’s the point in having a pancreas

If your pancreas doesn’t work

 

The Islets of Langerhan sound right exotic

But they’re there under your skin

Where the beta cells do their handiwork

Producing Insulin

 

Something beat my beta cells

That’s what’s got me so pissed

Around last march I got the flu

And The Islets went ‘fuck this’

 

Now I’m saddled with prescription bags

Needles in my backpack

Shooting up four times a day

And no – it isn’t smack

 

It’s just my dodgy pancreas

It’s really not my fault

But my daily treat of something sweet

Has been brought to a halt

 

I’ve got a lifetime ban on Lucozade

A fatwa on Fruit Pastilles

Some people think I’m bonkers –

That’s a quote from Dizzee Rascal –

 

But they don’t know

The difference between ‘hyper’ and ‘hypo’

Ups and downs like a yo-yo

On a go-slow cos I’m low on carbohydrates

Makes me weak, sweat, shake, confused, irate

And what I hate the most

Is having to stop mid-coitus for a slice of jam on toast

 

And drying my toes with talcum powder

‘always wear clean socks’

If you don’t do it your feet might smell

But they might have to chop mine off

 

And ‘ooh do you have to inject yourself?

‘I couldn’t do that’ they cry

‘okay, fair enough’ I say

‘then you’d just die.’

Like Ella, Bob Marley, Jonny Cash,

It’s a fucking long list, I’ve read it

It’s not quite the 27 club,

more a dancehall for dead diabetics.

To The Girl

To the girl whose relationship to me

Was somewhat ambiguous due to her ‘heterosexuality’

But who I was fingerblasting on a regular basis.

 

It’s taken me five years to know

Just how to write this letter

To decide whether I saw you as a threat, a regret, a stressor

I’ve had that time to think though

And I reckon I’ve got your measure

Roll credits, have I got news for you:

You’re a big fat fucking lezzer

 

Okay so you’ve had eyes for guys

Dated, kissed, whatever

Got your hands on him but you don’t fool me

You’re a big fat fucking lezzer

 

Have you still not realised

Or does the truth upset you?

The closet door is open wide

Come out you big fat lezzer

 

I want you to know that it’s okay

I’m not here to depress you

Liberate and celebrate

You big fat fucking lezzer

 

There’s really no need to cry cos

You’re  big fat fucking lezzer

Is it really such a surprise that

You’re a big fat fucking lezzer?

Has nobody else realised that

You’re a big fat fucking lezzer?

 

You’ll say I just imagined it

But I’m not gonna let you

Forget how real I made you feel

You big fat fucking lezzer

 

You think you’ll get away with it

But you can’t pretend forever

Your breasts were pressed beneath my palms

You big fat fucking lezzer

 

Say he’s the best you’ve ever had

But you know I was better

You loved my head between your legs

You’re a big fat fucking lezzer

 

You came so hard you cracked my ribs

You big fat fucking lezzer

 

You’re a big fat fucking lezzer

 

You big fat fucking

Liar liar

Pants on fire

I make you so wet you need a tumble drier

Your about as straight as a donut mate,

In that we both took pleasure

I see you for what you truly are

You big fat fucking lezzer.

Culinary Corner: The Problem with Gnocchi

Culinary Corner: The Problem with Gnocchi

Mmm Gnocchi. Said no one. Ever.

I mean, I should love this stuff. I LOVE Italian food. I love food in general come to think of it. So I was super excited to try something new, something which promised to be so simple to make and easy to ‘sauce up’ (so to speak!).

I’ve made pasta before and gnocchi seemed like the next, grown up step in my repertoire. Cooking is an exercise in de-stressing for me, so when I scuttled in from the cold after a full-on day at work, the bus home having eluded me twice, I was in serious need of some relaxation. And things seemed promising. I’d done my research, I knew all the tips:

‘Use an egg to stop it being gloopy!’

‘Don’t overwork the potatoes!’

‘Why not try reverse cowgirl?’…Oops – *ahem* wrong tips!

So, potatoes mashed I added the flour and egg and set about rolling a potato sausage. I’d advise waiting until the potatoes have cooled in future  – always a bit disconcerting grasping a warm, firm sausage on your chopping board if you catch my drift. If you don’t catch my drift IT FELT LIKE A WILLY OKAY OMG EEEWWWWW BOYS! Anyway, now that’s out of the way, once cut into little pillows they looked quite cute, the phallus was forgotten, I was feeling rather proud. They didn’t look quite like the cookbook photographs but oh well, nothing ever does right?

I boiled for 1-2 minutes as per instructions. Why anyone boils anything for 1-2 minutes I have no idea, you may as well just leave the food near a fresh teapot all the cooking it does. Safe to say boiling had not improved the look. When is anything ever improved by being soggy?

Still I gave it all my culinary love and no expense was spared – parmesan, thyme, extra virgin olive oil, all yummy things. I settled in for my sophisticated meal for one. It almost even looked good.

It was so bad.

Seriously. Not only did it look like an army of miniature, beige, flaccid penises (penii?) had invaded and set up camp in my pasta sauce, they had the texture of blu-tack that’s been accidentally left out in the sun. I could’ve watched a whole episode of Breaking Bad in the time it would’ve taken to chew through them all. They were gloopy yet firm, soggy yet chalky, tasteless yet foul tasting – bad things. They were ALL THE BAD THINGS. Observe.

gnocchi

The worst part is it’s just too late to do anything else.

Jamie Oliver promised it would be ready in around 20 minutes. I always approach that with a little scepticism, but this shit took hours.

So my ‘glamorous’ tea has consisted of oily mushrooms and peas, fished from around and in between the perpetually phallic potato beasts.

Now there’s a sentence you don’t hear every day.

Yours, Hungry

Faye

 

I Wanna Be On Top

The sauce and sprinkles on your 99

The tallest ladder you’ve ever climbed

A jackdaw perched on your telephone line

I wanna be on top.

 

The double knot in your rollerblades

The ice-cream float in your lemonade

Your bank balance when you’ve just been paid

I wanna be on top.

 

The pointy bit on the Eiffel tower,

The hands holding clocks in the midnight hour

Flying should be my superpower

I wanna be on top.

 

A BBQ sausage sizzling over the coal

Sir Ranulph Fiennes when he reached the north pole

The icing sugar on an arctic roll

I wanna be on top.

 

Top like the crown on the head of the Queen

Or the bathroom window you can never clean

Or the shelf, home to XXX porno magazines

I wanna be on top.

 

The mercury rising in hot august sun

Top deck of the bus that you’re hoping will come

Top of the pops, and I’m number one baby

I wanna be on top.

 

The crusty roof on your home baked bread

Forget the assistant I’m the company head-

stone, laid over you when you’re dead

I wanna be on top.

 

A jumbo jet hurtling through the skies, past

those skyscrapers that the hippies despise

“The way you feel between my thighs” she said,

“I wanna be on top.”

Top Shop

Top Gear

Top Banana

Top Class

Not for your personal gratification

But for my own personal stimulation

I’ll never drop

Until I pop, baby

I wanna be on top.

Letters

Dearest, Darling Angela,

I am writing this letter because I feel compelled to tell you how I feel about you.

I have admired you from afar for far too long. I yearn for you. My heart droops when you’re not around – like the ears of a sad bunny rabbit who has been robbed of his carrot.

And unlike this sad bunny rabbit, Angela, my heart cannot simply be shut in a hutch. It will continue to beat through my prison of hay. I shall not be content with a replacement carrot.

I think I’m in love with you.

I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re so beautiful on the outside. Like rainbows. I bet you’re just as beautiful on the inside. Hypothetically speaking, if I cut off your skin, and pulled back the fleshy curtains, I assume your blood would be made of rainbows.

I wish I was as beautiful as you. I think about this too. It makes me more than a droopy, carrot deprived bunny rabbit…It made me angry. For days. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat…not even liver, and that’s my favourite. I cut the tail off next doors cat, and that cheered me up for a little while; long enough to replace all the mirrors in my apartment.

I just have pictures of you instead now. It’s definitely brightened the place up.

If I did cut your skin off, still hypothetically speaking of course, I think I’d try it on, and then you could see me be as beautiful as you are, and maybe then you could find it in your heart to love me, because I’d be on your level.

I want to bring you tea and toast served on my finest Edwardian china.

I want to know what your elbows smell like.

Sometimes, I want to rip out your intestines and feed them to an angry hyena.

Because that’s what love feels like Angela.

I know that you feel it too. The connection we have. It’s like electricity flowing through a  power drill, or a nail gun, or other weapon…erm, I mean, household appliances.

I’ve seen the way you look at me when you’re signing for a parcel. I can hear your ‘thank you’ is laced with lust. I know, when I push the mail into your mailbox, you’re on the other side of the door thinking ‘hot damn, I wish he’d post his male into my malebox’.

And I can’t blame you Angie baby…I have this effect on many women.

But unlike those other women, you can have this male delivered to your door within 24 hours. You can thank me later.

I would never stand you up and not return your calls for months like the last 7 men you invited over (not that I’m counting Angela). I can’t understand why anybody would be so mean as to just…disappear from your life. What happened to them? It’s a mystery.

I hear that nobody knows, but that they definitely weren’t killed by the mailman.

So my dear, sweet sweet Angela, filled with rainbows and vital organs and sexual desire, please no longer let my love go unrequited. We could take things slowly. Maybe you could come to my apartment, have a couple of drinks, we could watch the texas chainsaw massacre or something.

I’d really love to show you my collection of spleens. No woman has ever seen that before. I bet you have a beautiful spleen. It would take pride of place in my spleen display.

Would love to hear from you soon. Otherwise I’ll have to cut my own hand off, one finger at a time, and then I’ll run out of fingers and I’ll have to start cutting up other things, like lettuces and penguins and shop assistants and children and you’ll read about it in the Times and see it on the news and I’ll send shreds of lettuces and penguins and shop assistants and children to you in the mail like a salad, and you’ll know what you did Angela.

But I’m sure that won’t happen.

All my love

Hector

(Your mailman)

 

Tiny Travel Guides: #1 – Burnsall

Tiny Travel Guides: #1 – Burnsall

 

 

Hello beloved reader!

Welcome to Faye’s Tiny Travel Guides. As the title suggests, this is a whistle-stop tour of what I love (and think you would too!) about the places I visit. It’s not comprehensive of course, but it won’t cost you £4.99 and take up valuable pants space in your travelbag! And you can never have enough pants. I’m just saying…

Starting close to home with issue #1, i’m featuring Burnsall, a small (and quite lovely) village in the Yorkshire Dales. I’ll start by saying this is definitely a place for walkers, nature lovers, and those wanting to ‘get away from it all’ – ‘it’ being a phone and wifi signal, mainly. If you’re after livelier activities like shopping or bar crawling then this is not for you! Anyone else, do continue…

Personally, i’d begin the day with a brew (thus confirming northern stereotypes) at the tea hut in the main village car park. If you head for the river you can’t miss it, as it’ll probably be surrounded by a queue of cagool-clad ramblers and their pets – walkers = doggies, which is always a highlight! The coffee here is really good, plus they serve it in mugs so you feel like you’ve gone camping without the horror of not showering for 4 days. As to be expected, bacon sarnies and ice creams are on offer, with added home baked goodies to, *ahem*, ‘fuel’ your exercise.

The order of the day after this is always the same: walk, sit, lunch, walk, sit, pub, and is often interspersed with ‘admire wonderful view’, ‘get lost and shout at boyfriend’, and ‘wee in prickly bush’ – that isn’t just us, right?

So where to walk? 

We’ve done a couple of different walks from here now. Both are around 4 hours, but one is definitely more strenuous (and has less cafes) than the other. I’ve picked out the main features below, but to keep my guides ‘tiny’ they’re sparse on directions, so of course planning a route before you head off is a good idea.

Linton Falls and Grassington

Image may contain: sky, tree, outdoor, nature and water

This is the gentler of the two walks! Follow the path of the river from Burnsall right to the impressive Linton Falls – with lots of flat land and a well trodden path to follow this is an easy route and there’s not really any potential to get lost, which i know is a worry for many people walking. Leaving Burnsall you’ll walk through a woodland past impressive rock formations, bubbling streams and the odd duck or two. On the whole a very calming route.

Coming out of the woods you’ll need to cross a suspension bridge. It is a bit disconcerting when you’re wobbling above a river on a bridge with 20 other unstable tourists, but a bit of excitement nonetheless.

The path opens out onto fields at this point, leading to Linton Falls, formed by the river Wharfe taking a series of drops over a weir and crumbly rocks. They’re not the mightiest of features but, I’ve got a real soft spot for waterfalls, and there’s something soothing about the rushing force of the rapids when you stand watching for a while. But if you don’t dig falls like i do, you can head straight on to Grassington.

Grassington has a lot more going on than in Burnsall, so if you fancy making a weekend of it, staying here and doing the walk in reverse might be a plan. We’ve stayed at Grassington Lodge (students/the unemployed/anyone else watching daytime TV, it may sound familiar, won on ‘Four in a Bed) which was fab. There’s also four pubs and a whole host of twee crafty shops. And please go to No.5 for tea – the food is AMAZING.

Grassington is your end point so, once fully fed/watered, just turn it around and back on up the way you came. This may be a down point for some but, everything looks different after a few beers anyway!!!

Trollers Gill & Applestreewick Pastures

Image may contain: grass, sky, outdoor and nature

This photo is here because sheep feature A LOT in this walk. There are so many sheep. All the sheep. Do not go on this walk if you have a fear of sheep.

I’d say this is more challenging because it involves a lot more hill climbs, stiles, and takes more navigating. Or, if you’re my boyfriend, takes somebody else navigating – seriously, if i listened to him we would still be out there somewhere.

If you’re up for it this is a great one because you get a round trip, so every step gives you a fresh view of the striking dales landscape. Again, start following the river from Burnsall, but in the opposite direction (right from the tea hut, Grassington is left) and you get a bit of forest covering followed by, you guessed it, SHEEP, and once through the farmers field it’s a long climb up. But my god is it worth it when you get there. The walk to the top should take around two hours, so we took a picnic and ate it right on the top of the hill. Looking at this:

Image may contain: cloud, sky, mountain, grass, outdoor and natureSeriously gorgeous and so moody in overcast weather.

You finally come downhill again on the path to Trollers Gill but don’t let that fool you – once you get there, the only way is up. On the road you’ll find Perceval hall, a great opportunity for those of you who fancy somebody else making your lunch to stop off!

Trollers Gill is the highlight for me – reminiscent of it’s big brother Malham Cove, it’s a huge limestone (not to be confused with limescale, as my boyfriend called it) formation carving serpent-like into the grassy valley. If you can navigate your way through all the sheep -who were literally on guard across the path – it’s a lovely spot, and if anyone frequents a bit of rock climbing (Who are you?!) i believe that’s on offer too.

Now for a bit of practical advice: up until this point you are unlikely to see any other humans around, and you’re in a sheltered grassy valley. So please, please if you need a wee, now is the time to go. Spoiler alert.

The path leading from Trollers Gill goes past a disused mine shaft which is super creepy but worth a look. You’ll feel like every teenager making bad decisions at the start of a scary film. We also saw a dead bunny, but i hope you won’t see one of those (RIP BUN-E-BUN). From here you climb and climb until your knees burn like a scotch bonnet, but i promise once you’re up there the view is so spectacular. Try to imagine if Emily Bronte wrote Lord of the Rings, and that’s the picture from the top of Appletreewick pastures. Bask in the breeze and breathe in that view.

It’s another descent from then on back towards Burnsall, and here is a lesson in why you should have gone for that wee. It is really high up with no foliage except nettles, and you are quite literally exposed , both to the elements and to anyone in a 3 mile radius.

Covering my dignity with my waterproof tied round my waist, i had to go. What i didn’t realise is, in shielding the front, what i was acually doing was flashing my bare arse to a field full of sheep and the farmer who had just arrived to feed them.

Anyhow, other than that it should be an uneventful stroll back through those customary dry stone walls that are only like that in the Dales, until you reach Burnsall again. By this point you will almost certainly be knackered and should treat yourself in the Red Lion Pub. Overlook the river and realise you did good!

As with anywhere in the a National Park the possibilities for walking routes are endless, so just pick something manageable for your fitness level and take a map – I Can’t promise there won’t be sheep though!

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Happy Travels,

Faye

 

 

D is for…

D is for…

Dogs? Ducks? Dicks? (NO! What is wrong with you?!) ‘The D’, in this case, stands for Diabetes.

Roll back a few months, if you will, to July 2016. I remember thinking to myself ‘everything is just falling into place’. I had a great full time job, was looking forward to moving into a new house with my amazing partner, and would soon be graduating with a First Class Honours degree. Sure, I was feeling a little under the weather, but nothing to worry about; feeling tired, UTI’s, dizziness… *SPOILER ALERT*  It was something to worry about.

It became a tad more troublesome when I started getting these weird leg cramps. Every night for weeks I woke up, searing pain in my calves, whimpering. One night I also woke up my boyfriend, who asked if I could suffer in silence. Apparently he heard me the next night crying into the pillow to try and muffle the sound – true love. People were suggesting all kinds of reasons for this – I was low in salt, low in potassium, had too little exercise, needed to destress. I tried all of these things and, of course, they didn’t work.

It’s about this point I should have gone to the doctors.

But I didn’t, and instead woke up on the day of my aforementioned graduation after another nights broken sleep, interrupted by cramping and needing a wee at regular intervals. Now I had lots going on, so I needed my strength right? I’m going to run you through what I ate that day:

  • Toast
  • Porridge
  • Pineapple
  • A Twix and a Mars Bar
  • Two Hash Browns
  • Two pieces of Victoria Sponge Cake
  • Various Nibbles at the Graduation Reception
  • A Pulled Pork Sandwich with Sweet Potato Fries
  • Onion Rings
  • Half a battered fish (my nanna was full!)
  • A Piece of Chocolate Fudge Cake with Ice Cream
  • 2 Courses of Savoury Buffet
  • 2 Courses of Sweet Buffet
  • A whole Bar Maroc Pizza
  • A Cheese Toastie

And I was still starving. At this point I should DEFINITELY have gone to the doctors.

I eventually did make it to the GP about two weeks later after my periods went irregular – it’s amazing, that my body could literally wave a big red flag at me going ‘SOMETHING’S GONE WRONG HERE!’

When he said those words to me, ‘you have Type One Diabetes’, I don’t think I really processed it. I didn’t know anything about Diabetes – well, except that it was bad, and that it was probably my fault for eating too much sugar, and I could now only eat special chocolate that costs 7 quid from Thorntons. Before I had to go to the hospital I ate a whole bucket of ice cream, because I thought it would be the last ice cream I ever ate.

Of course that was totally wrong, and after 8 months with the Calderdale Diabetes Centre (who are absolute stars) I have an A Level’s worth of scienctific bumf bouncing around in my head to manage my condition and live normally. But it did get me thinking- I knew nothing at all, and what I thought I knew was totally wrong. So I want to try and inform you guys about what diabetes actually is. And what it really isn’t!

 

It’s Not My Fault!

You wouldn’t believe it, hearing the constant news of the strain diabetics put the NHS under. It is true that sometimes (though not always!) Type 2 Diabetes can develop because of lifestyle and weight issues. About 90% of diabetics are Type 2, and I’m in the other 10% of Type 1’s.

Basically I had a virus in March last year which my antibodies fought off. Except that when they’d done killing the bad guys, they destroyed my own cells too – think Arnie in Terminator 2. The antibodies killed off beta cells in a part of the pancreas known as the ‘Islets of Langerhan’ (ooh very exotic!) and hey presto, bye bye insulin production!

 

High/Low Sugars

Before diagnosis I thought the difference between Type 1 and Type 2 diabetes was that one meant high blood sugar and one meant low. *EH EH* (That was my impression of the buzzer from family fortunes). The difference really is that as a type 1, I am unable to produce any insulin. Type 2 diabetics do produce their own insulin but their bodies resist it. Either way, sugar from food can’t access the cells which need it for energy, so it just hangs about in your bloodstream – this is why high blood sugar can make you so hungry!

 

‘She’s Fainting – Quick, Get Her Insulin!’

Please don’t do this. Never do this! Some popular TV dramas (naming no names, but it rhymes with smasualty) have scenes where a diabetic passes out and they treat it with insulin. Chances are, if I’m fainting, insulin is the LAST thing I need! A common side effect of insulin treatment is that if you accidentally take too much, or burn off calories you accounted for, blood sugars drop too low, known as ‘hypoglycaemia’. Early hypo symptoms are shaking, sweating and confusion, and need to be treated with fast acting carbs such as sugary drinks or jelly sweets. Severe hypos can be very dangerous, but mild lows aren’t all bad, as it means I get to have haribos or full fat coke with the justification that it’s life-saving medicine – woohoo!

A much rarer complication of high blood sugar is Diabetic Ketoacidosis (DKA), and this would require insulin treatment, but fainting isn’t a common indicator of DKA. Things to look out for are dehydration and vomiting.

 

‘Should You Be Eating That?’

Newsflash! I can have chocolate. I can have cake. I can have booze!

For years supermarkets and confectioners have been offering ‘diabetic’ products, cutting out those pesky sugars we can’t handle. These products are expensive, high in fat, and contain artificial chemical sweeteners which will probably make you shit yourself. Now that would be a bad day!

The truth is there’s sugar in most foods in the form of carbohydrate, including lots of healthy things like milk, fruit and starchy veg. And I don’t see anybody trying to sell diabetic potatoes. Insulin dependent diabetics have to count these carbohydrates and match them with the correct amount of insulin, mimicking the pancreas with an injection or pump.

So with a little planning and a little maths, I can eat normally. And yes it does mean four or five injections a day – but I’ll take that over a life without ice cream!!!

 

Many thanks for reading to the end! I try not to let diabetes be my identity, because I am more than just my faulty pancreas, so unless there’s some new revolution in my treatment, I won’t bombard the internet with more sugar blogs. But hopefully this little bit of education could help you save a life one day – or at least save a diabetic from being denied a big piece of chocolate cake!

Much Love,

Faye

 

The Jujube Tree, The Cow and The Notebook

The cows are different in India.

It is like the cows and the cats have swapped places. In Buntingford, a cat will happily slink into a neighbour’s garden, its fluffy ears and whiskers pleading for cream from an obliging pensioner. In Delhi, the cats dart frantically about the marketplace. Squawking. Paranoid. Their ears twitch in wake of the tuk-tuks hurtling by, and they raise their hackles at the approaching humans.

The cows, on the other hand, saunter through the hustle and bustle as though legitimately browsing for garam masala. Now, cows in Norfolk are suspicious – and for good reason. Each roll of tyre tread up the gravel path could mean a one way ticket to those mysterious factories, marked with a giant yellow M. They do not know the secrets of this place, but the general consensus is that the M stands for murder… But the sacred status of the Indian city cows gives them an air of arrogance, which rises up and mingles with the sweet incense burning through the market.

Raj was a city cow. Though often he would wander in spring, leaving the sweltering Delhi heat behind him. Each afternoon, from the first day of spring to the great rains, Raj would plod into the countryside in search of a place to cool off.

He settled under the great Jujube tree, as he had done so many times before. Raj was now eleven summers old, and had spent ten of them resting under the Jujube’s jade canvas. He did not know how many summers the tree had stood there, but thought it to be a great many more than eleven.

The Jujube was a humble tree. It did not bear fruit, as the mango or the coconut palm did so deliciously. Nor did it shout in oranges or reds, like the dazzling Gulmohar. It did not smell sweet as the Jasmine, nor grow so tall as the mighty Baobab. But the Jujube was wise. Raj and he had become great friends.

The first summer they talked of the earth and the trees. The second they talked of the rivers and seas and skies. Two more summers were spent discussing politics, and the fifth concerned the gods. Over the next four summers they had talked of humans and traffic and markets and trains and music and tourists and laughter and love and Raj couldn’t remember what they had talked of in this tenth summer because it had gone too quickly.

Elephants sounded their symphony over the horizon. The sun bowed its glowing head in response, and thunder announced the monsoons were on their way. Raj knew what they must talk of before the tenth summer was finally gone.

“What is wrong?” the tree whispered, leaves rustling under its soft words.

“I am old, friend” Raj replied.

The tree laughed in his usual way.

“You are far younger than I.”

“The sun is setting.”

“Yes.”

The dimming light cast a long shadow from the Jujube to the place where Raj stood.

“Will we ever meet again?” the cow asked. The Jujube tree thought for a while.

“I am going to tell you a story” he said.

Raj said nothing. He had always loved hearing the tree’s stories, and laid himself down to listen on the bed of long grass.

“In Delhi there is a village. And in that village there is a little blue house. And in the little blue house lives a little girl. A girl with coffee-brown eyes and delicate hands, clutching a pen decorated with white elephants. Tomorrow is that little girl’s birthday.”

Raj did not know who the tree meant. After all there were many little girls in blue houses in Delhi. He also did not understand how the Jujube knew of this girl, when he was so firmly rooted here. But still he said nothing, and the tree continued.

“And her mother will spend the day teaching her the ways of cooking, and her sisters will help. And her father will come home late. He will hand her a parcel, and press a finger to his lips. A small, square parcel, carefully wrapped into gold and black paper. When she opens the package the girl will find a tan leather notebook, printed with patterns and fastened with a gold clasp. Inside will be crisp white pages, waiting patiently for the little girl and her elephant pen.

After all, dear friend, words are not consumed, as the mangoes and the coconuts are. Their colours do not wilt and become pallid with the winter, like the fiery petals of the Gulmohar. Words are alive.” The tree said.

The thunder grew closer, applauding the Jujube. The moon kissed goodbye to the dusk as the sun sank lower still in the Delhi skyline.

“And that little girl will see life. She will see the earth and skies and markets and gods and tourists and politics and traffic and water and laughter and love. One day, in the summer, she will take a bus out of the city, with her notebook of leather and parchment, and her little white elephant pen. She will pass through the fields. She will see a cow, settling underneath a Jujube tree. And she will notice.”

“Oh.” Said Raj.

And the rains began.

 

The Colour of My Name

My name is dappled sunlight, slinking through the grasp of the trees to caress the forest floor. It purrs like a satisfied cat on its favourite cushion, ginger paws curled up and tucked away under all the fluff. It tastes of rich, melted butter on hot crumpets, its texture the froth of a cappuccino on a breezy April morning. It is the pavement outside a smoky bar in New Orleans, the honeysuckle tones of the trumpet daring you to peek in.

If I had been Annabelle, feeding baby ducks in the pond with granny, I would be a delicate forget-me-not. I would tie mauve ribbons in my pigtails and wear navy skirts with pleats. The sound would be a little girl running down the road, giggling. A girl tasting of parma violets, or candy canes, or sherbet lemons.  I would take ballet, tap, modern; my smell little black polished tap shoes, clicking together in glee.