One woman’s day(-to-day)

Two days ago a teenage boy in the street belched loudly and threw the bottle top of his radioactively blue drink at me. Last week (same street) a middle aged builder shouted down from the scaffolding ‘hello love, it’s good to see a woman smile.’ Today I was crossing the road next to my house. A man (late 20s) driving a white van clocked me accelerated towards me bounced over speed bumps swerved at the last minute and laughed as he drove off. To clarify: a man pretended to run me over for lols.

I’m not going to sermonise pontificate or shout. I am not going to state the bloody obvious. But I wonder -

Why was it funny to van-man to give me a scare? So he can go down the pub with his mates and say ‘yeah, boys, gave this blonde a bit of a fright didn’ I. I was like going full pelt over the speed bumps and shit putting my foot down steaming towards her, and then – [hands smacked together] –  swerved at the last minute. Shoulda seen her face. A proper picture. Fuckin’ effin and blindin at me mate.’ Swigs slams and splashes pint to a chorus of bants and laughs.

The builder turns to the scaffold crew and says with warming sincerity, ‘it’s just nice when they smile, boys. Women. Got to be always so effin miserable! If I have to look at the face on my missus every bloody night, least I can have is the smile of nice looking girl to brighten my day.’ Here’s his laugh. He’s got his.

And the teenage boy. (Struggling to invent something for this one). But anyway, here he is, combining his penchant for littering and distaste for unknown women. Not a sophisticated display, but original(ish) – a new generation of ‘lad’, with his mates and blue syrup drink, in a succinct display of not giving a shit.

I am pretty used to getting my narrative written by someone else, getting my self told to me. So today I’ve had a go at writing the narratives of those that made me feel uncomfortable.

It didn’t feel good – presuming and assuming, guessing accents and backgrounds, guessing words. It didn’t feel good speaking for another. But then I want equality – which is not the same as getting even.

Last Night in My Garden

This isn’t much of a story.

I was standing in my garden last night. It was dark and the damp, distilling air was drawing, pooling in on on every fibrous, soily, frondy, leafy, and metal surface. Light from my french window cut up the shadow. I stood in both zones, talking on the phone, because it’s the only place I get reception. A blur in the shadow dashed into the light. Stealthy and textured. Eyes. Two tails. One worm-like, flopped at the front, gripped in a mouth; the other big and brushing at the back. A little pink claw-like paw too, hanging from the mouth. A rat in a fox. Being carried into the light.

I saw a fox with a rat in its mouth. It tried to come into my house.