Mulled Vine

“Hello, Sweetie!” said Keesha as she hugged her friend enthusiastically. “Long time no see! Life has been such a complete hullaballoo, you wouldn’t believe it! I have so much to tell you. What’s it been? 2 months? I can’t remember. We did see each other at Andy’s 21st, didn’t we?”

Jen nodded and smiled to herself. She was used to Keesha’s whirlwind entrances.

“So,” continued Keesha, pausing for breath. “What are you drinking?”

“Martini,” replied Jen.

“Hmm! Sounds delish. I think I’ll have one too…. Yooohooo!! Bartender! 2 Martinis, extra olives.”

“No olives for me,” protested Jen.

“Bosh!” said Keesha. “You can’t have Martini without olives!”

The drinks arrived and a moment’s peace prevailed while Keesha took a long, deep sip.

“That is really good,” she sighed. Then she turned to her friend. “So, news! You will never guess what I have bought for myself!”

“Shoes?” replied Jen.

“No, better than shoes. A puppy!”

“That’s nice”, said Jen, staring vacantly at her drink.

“Nice!?” exclaimed Keesha. “What’s up with you then? I said PUPPY. Hello??? You know I’ve always wanted a dog. “ Then she paused, feeling slightly hurt. “I thought you would be excited for me?”

Jen reached over and squeezed her hand. “Sorry. I am Keesha, really. Just got a lot on my mind.”

Keesha looked intently at her friend. “Well?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Keesha lifted up her left arm, flicking her fingers loudly and shouted. “Bartender! Two more Martinis. Better run a tab!” Then turning to her friend, “Come on. Let’s have it.”

Jen stared at her drink, tears beginning to flow down her cheeks. “David broke up with me”, she said. “It was almost our 3rd year together … we were going to go away for the weekend … I was sure he was going to propose.” Then she broke down, sobbing deeply.

Keesha’s jaw dropped. “Oh, no… Jen. I’m so sorry. You poor thing.” She flung her arms around her friend’s neck and kissed her. “Me and my big mouth, jabber, jabber, jabber, and here you are hurting!”

I smelled the meal long before it arrived, such was my anticipation: young lamb slow roasted to perfection, stuffed with gilded garlic cloves and garnished with sprigs of tender green rosemary, fresh from the herb garden I could smell on sunny days from my window. I lifted the cold, metallic plate cover and to my delight discovered, along with the soft roast potatoes encased in gorgeous crunch, a medley of fresh, steaming carrots, tender leaks and sweet petit pois. To the side perched a modest glass of chilled white Chardonnay dripping with icy condensation, and a little bowl in which a finely moulded crème caramel still wobbled with thrilling anticipation amidst a sea of bitter-sweet syrup, promising the perfect end to the perfect meal.

I sat quietly while I slowly ate the wonderful repast, pausing to savour every delicious morsel in my mouth before swallowing it ever so gently, so as to not ruin the sublime moment. It seemed even the birds and the sea stopped their incessant noise out of respect for perfection.

One might be forgiven for thinking the room was a tawdry boudoir, so lurid were its dark pink walls. However the large black poster on the wall gave it away: “Come into my lair” threatened a smirking cartoon monster with twinkling eyes, “We have cookies!” The room was tiny, with scarcely any room to swing a fish, never mind a cat. A practical, white single bed filled one side, its compact built-in drawers overflowing with clothing, while opposite a small cupboard formed an alcove for a minute desk which was bedecked with homework books, scraps of paper covered with colourful doodles, a broken MP3 player and a half eaten biscuit. The tiny paper bin beneath the desk spilled its contents onto the unseen green carpet: a paper rubbish trail that morphed seamlessly into heaps of shed clothing. A large white, wooden-framed window completed the scene, opening generously onto a view of the Kent Weald valley below, lush with green, hedge-rowed fields, occasional trees and dopey-eyed sheep.

The pink duvet stirred and a little tousled head emerged sleepily from an orderly dream world.

Anger is such a tame word to describe a state of being that really needs a powerful word to evoke images of toxic fuming, thunderous choleric rantings, dog kickings, effusive profanity and a whole lot of snarling.

I watched as the snow drifted heavily against the window, and knew that soon we would be snowed in for the winter. It happened every year and we were well stocked with food in preparation. Claire loved the snow, but I think what she liked most about winter was the enforced containment of her husband, who during the warmer months would while the hours away doing manly things like fixing the lawn mower, returning at the end of the day to grunt monosyllabically over supper. However, now there were no distractions and he was hers, I was hers, all hers; hours of quality time and conversation.

She sat down at the table and placed the box in front of me, smiling gleefully, “Scrabble?”

I wanted to end my life, but could not be arsed. So I decided to sit down in the middle of the road and wait for death. It was a Sunday morning so I had to wait a long time until someone drove by, but swerved to avoid me, bastard. I asked the nice policeman who eventually came and took me away if he would shoot me but he just drove faster. Now, with these white straps I couldn’t kill myself even if I could be arsed.

Oh, well.

Henry came to faith as an Agnostic at the age of 12 when he discovered that he had been lied to by his parents, and this not for the first time. Ok, he’d forgiven them the tooth fairy story – after all it was a little far fetched: who’d want old teeth anyway – but this was too much, and that on the day before Christmas.

Henry reckoned that if he couldn’t trust his parents to tell him the truth, then nothing could be trusted. And if nothing could be trusted then nothing could be known.

He slept soundly, convinced that if nothing, at least his logic was certain.

I didn’t know much about my first kiss because I was unconscious at the time. You see I had been daydreaming again when a bus knocked me over. I lay sprawled on the floor, blood seeping from my head. A crowd soon gathered, gawping at me silently, until a large man pushed his way through and knelt down. “I’m a doctor,” he said as he leaned over me, roughly fondling my young breasts as he gave me the kiss of life.

He’d been eating onions – I can still taste them today.

He was born on the 79th floor of a rather bland apartment block. It was a home birth because the lift was broken and the midwife said there was no fucking way she was walking up all those stairs. As for his mother, well she had similar thoughts and sat on the sofa watching a rerun of Friends while he was born. His father was drunk again and didn’t really notice his arrival apart from when he tripped over the umbilical cord to take a piss.

Henry waited until he could walk and then jumped out of the window.