Patches

Four days proper in Horsham. Decided to spend time with the cousins - namely the pickle. Notwithstanding I didn't have a place to stay, I haven't seen him since winter where I visited after my excursion to central Europe and the Balkans. After the past few hectic days, it'll be good to relax and recharge for my trip around southeast Asia.

Day 1: Friday. Spent the day around town where an authentic French market was being held in conjunction with the French Horsham Fest. Spices, flowers, dried fruits, olives, green plants, onions, garlic, pancakes, biscuits from Brittany, French bread, tarts, croissants, cheeses, charcuterie, tartiflette, garlic mushrooms, prawns, cold sausages, basketwork, wooden toys, jewellery, scarves, bags, sunglasses, Parisian handbags, Provencal soaps, sweets. Boxes of sweets like quilt patches. Patches of sweets.

Day 2: Saturday. The pickle's school holds a summer fete. I find out from his parents that it's a Catholic school but keep my reservations to myself. Pretty quaint little thing with stalls selling second-hand books and toys; burgers and hotdogs; as well as cakes and tea. I salvage my deprived boyhood by tinkering with the fire engine that's dropped by.

The pickle goes off and does his thing: playing footie with his mates. I go off and do my thing: check out if there are any good books on sale. Before leaving, I challenge him to a race on the obstacle course meant for ten year olds like himself. There's no way I'm going to go through the sramble net, the tires and collapsible tunnel.

We both end up with green patches on our jeans where the knees are. I give him a piggy-back all the way to the car to stop him from feeling too disappointed. At least, he's back to laughing now.

Day 4: Monday. Weather forecast: intermittent showers. Woke up to windless rain today. Made my way to the local park where the sun peaked out from a break in the clouds. Wind started blowing rain underneath my umbrella halfway there.

Now on the swings. Patches of blue amidst dark rainclouds above. I was just thinking: I'm quite glad to be on my own. If I were to be in a relationship, I'd run to my boy, cry myself in his arms whilst feeling sorry for myself. Most likely end up not doing anything about my problems because I take comfort in knowing that everything'll be alright as long as I've got my boy. But now that I'm single, there's no point in feeling sorry for myself. There's no time for helplessness. I take control of my future and change it where possible. I guess I feel happier but I still wish for a pair of arms to fall asleep in.

Waterfowl

There's something rather endearing about British weather. I woke up to bright sunlight streaming through the sky window. Tad bit annoyed. I throw open the covers and windows in response to the stifling heat. Sky was a cloudless blue and it promised to be gorgeous day.


After brushing my teeth and a shower later, I was breakfasting on buttered toast over an article in the Economist. Interruption: soft, even patter of rain on the moss- and lichen-covered roof. The leaves on nearby trees danced gracefully to unseen winds whilst the grey clouds raced above.


Having packed everything after breakfast, I set off as the sun shone through a break in the clouds. The damp gravel crunched softly beneath my feet as diamonds glinting in the light of the sun showered down on me from the leaves as I made my way through Burrell's Walk.


Ten minutes before the train station, it begins to pour. All around me, people open their umbrellas and pull their raincoats over. I try my best to walk under the cover of the trees lining the road but within minutes, I'm drenched to the bone.


Anger overcomes me for a brief moment: it's easy to think that even the universe conspires against you. The feeling goes away just as quickly when I rationalize to myself that the universe is not conscious, let alone has intention. It's really least of my worries to be honest, albeit very uncomfortable and a pain up the arse.


Calling at its stations, I see people in short khakis and Bermuda shorts and polo shirts and t-shirts. Large black aviators offer protection from the glaring sun which has decided to show its face once more. Inside the train, I'm feeling slightly cold under my wet clothes as I roll my eyes at the irony of it all.

The pickle

Easter Sunday today. Everyone gets a big chocolate Easter egg. The symbol of new life. Yummy. The pickle devours his egg almost immediately and then steals some of my smaller ones from the hunt around the garden. Cheeky little tyke.

He learnt how to tie his own shoelaces yesterday. He'll be getting 10 quid and a new pair of sneakers for it. Those were the days, when anything done well earns praise or reward. At my age, it's all about self-motivation and fulfilment.

The pickle drags me away from my latop despite my addiction to the stranger. He gets me to play football with him despite my superior physique, swapping between striker and keeper. Bored, we turn to his diabolo 空竹 where I manage to toss and catch it four times in a row. The pickle gets jealous after trying many times but his cuteness redeems him.


I take him to the park in the evening while the sun shines in all its majesty and glory. The pickle tries to out-cycle me with his six-gear mountain bike while I run in loose jeans and converse shoes. He learns how to swing himself on the swing and tries to out-swing me. His naiveness gets the better of me. He beats me on the obstacle course but only because it's designed for small little pickles like himself. He outwits me at the maze and I finally concede defeat.

I buy him ice pellets and have an ice cream myself. He's only seven years old and already talking to me about Cambridge's winning strategy on the Thames and the gene which confers obesity to some people. The pickle reminds me of my dreams.

I'm here to fulfil them.
To achieve my destiny.

I've got my edge back.

You can't go back

You've changed so much.

We were the best of best friends. We'd play house on the school grounds every lunch break. We'd leave the house in the mornings and work the afternoons before coming back to the house for a nice quiet dinner together. We'd sleep in the same room although we never had any kids. I still wonder why. She was pretty and sweet and we were best friends. That was all I knew. And I was happy.

You've changed too.

With a smart tap of her thumb, she flicks the cigarette between her second and third fingers. And as she exhales the foul smoke, the unkempt locks of her bleached hair falls down around her shoulders.

Our conversation is shallow and meaningless. Like the ash which falls from her cigarette only to get lost in the sudden gusts of wind. Insignificant.

I was aching to hold her in my arms. But to do so would be to acknowledge the fact I already know so well. And yet, am trying so hard to deny.

Her boyfriend appears at her door from within the house. He wraps his arms around her fleshy waist and frenches her in front of me. I look away. Not out of disgust but out of a lack of anything else to do.

When they're done, I reach out my hand to shake theirs. I pause a little longer over hers, as if it could give us back the time that was stolen from us. I was disappointed.

I guess we've all changed.

I'd cry if I could but nothing comes. Not even a sob. I guess deep down inside, I was expecting it.

I wonder what happened to all the dreams we had? The hopes and dreams we shared. Where did they die and how did they die along the way?

All that is left now is a framed class photograph taken more than a decade ago. And this is how I will always remember her. Her warm brown hair tied behind her back as she sits so ever gracefully with her legs pressed together and slanted at an angle. As she sits, with her slender hands on her lap, smiling defiantly against the very essence of time that would change us forever.

It just shows. You can't go back. It won't be the same.

Melanie was right.