Sunday 22 November 2009
18:13 | Posted by
Dale Darley |
The voice belongs to a 50 something bimbette. Blond hair threatened into place frames the face with gold clad bulging eyes and pink lipsticked mouth, out of which comes the ceaseless noise. I wonder why it never stops, endless mumbles which get louder when it wants us to snap to attention.
Too many years of loud music have rendered me somewhat hard of hearing. I always tell the voice I wasn’t aware that it was addressing me, so that I don’t have to be drawn into its shapeless world.
The voice troubles me, I can’t place its owner who lives in Bristol but doesn’t have that West Country twang. There’s a falseness, its hiding its origins, I know because, because is becoorse.
I learn to hate the voice, it criticizes my clothes, tucks me in and its hands touch my body uninvited. Its only been sending shrill messages for a week and I already need to escape. The pink hole is open more than it is shut and after a short while I move my desk to the other side of the room, for some much needed peace. The voice mutters under its breath only to rise to a nasty hiss when it demands ‘how dare I move’ it snarls and threatens me.
It’s too late I lose my temper; its snotty falseness grates me. The voice has landed on a nerve and jars me; the code imprinted on the ganglia, bullets in place the voice pulls the trigger. I can never hear it again without the bile rising.
Its another day, I am deliberately ignoring it. It rises higher lamenting the journey to work, no one is listening, the monkey screeches louder as if to declare ‘you will listen to me’. We all, my colleagues and I continue to tap tap on our computers; no one lifts their eyes, for to catch its eye will give it life. Its stops, silence, but the lingering echo wraps itself around each of us, rubbing harsh salt into our ears. I daren’t look up, until the extra tap tap of its keyboard is added to ours.
Eventually my bladder betrays me and I try to sneak across the uncarpeted room, past its desk. No chance. ‘Oi missus’. The pink circled hole opens and the brittle irritating false notes clatter out. The commentary on the inadequacy of the last person it had barked at flies over my head. I rush by and out of the door. Silence. The temptation not to return is great and I linger by the coffee machine, take a deep breath and eventually head back, I fly through the door and straight to my desk. Tap tap.
We place bets on when will the voice leave, its only been with us a few months. I write its name on a piece paper and stamp on it, then burn it gleefully hoping that my magic incantation will bring the leaving date closer. No such luck. In the office voice speaks differently to the men it wants to manipulate, its light and fluffy, it tinkles girlishly and coo coo’s like a dove. To the women who its thinks are beneath it, it is harsh and wintery, sharp like broken glass as it cuts you with its demands. To the women it perceives as equal it rallies along with jokey anecdotes and giggles sympathetically to their problems and plight. People complain about the voice, it is shocked and sniffles to show that it has feeling. No one cares, too late the damage is done and the voice must leave.
Copyright : Jacqui Malpass : 2008
Too many years of loud music have rendered me somewhat hard of hearing. I always tell the voice I wasn’t aware that it was addressing me, so that I don’t have to be drawn into its shapeless world.
The voice troubles me, I can’t place its owner who lives in Bristol but doesn’t have that West Country twang. There’s a falseness, its hiding its origins, I know because, because is becoorse.
I learn to hate the voice, it criticizes my clothes, tucks me in and its hands touch my body uninvited. Its only been sending shrill messages for a week and I already need to escape. The pink hole is open more than it is shut and after a short while I move my desk to the other side of the room, for some much needed peace. The voice mutters under its breath only to rise to a nasty hiss when it demands ‘how dare I move’ it snarls and threatens me.
It’s too late I lose my temper; its snotty falseness grates me. The voice has landed on a nerve and jars me; the code imprinted on the ganglia, bullets in place the voice pulls the trigger. I can never hear it again without the bile rising.
Its another day, I am deliberately ignoring it. It rises higher lamenting the journey to work, no one is listening, the monkey screeches louder as if to declare ‘you will listen to me’. We all, my colleagues and I continue to tap tap on our computers; no one lifts their eyes, for to catch its eye will give it life. Its stops, silence, but the lingering echo wraps itself around each of us, rubbing harsh salt into our ears. I daren’t look up, until the extra tap tap of its keyboard is added to ours.
Eventually my bladder betrays me and I try to sneak across the uncarpeted room, past its desk. No chance. ‘Oi missus’. The pink circled hole opens and the brittle irritating false notes clatter out. The commentary on the inadequacy of the last person it had barked at flies over my head. I rush by and out of the door. Silence. The temptation not to return is great and I linger by the coffee machine, take a deep breath and eventually head back, I fly through the door and straight to my desk. Tap tap.
We place bets on when will the voice leave, its only been with us a few months. I write its name on a piece paper and stamp on it, then burn it gleefully hoping that my magic incantation will bring the leaving date closer. No such luck. In the office voice speaks differently to the men it wants to manipulate, its light and fluffy, it tinkles girlishly and coo coo’s like a dove. To the women who its thinks are beneath it, it is harsh and wintery, sharp like broken glass as it cuts you with its demands. To the women it perceives as equal it rallies along with jokey anecdotes and giggles sympathetically to their problems and plight. People complain about the voice, it is shocked and sniffles to show that it has feeling. No one cares, too late the damage is done and the voice must leave.
Copyright : Jacqui Malpass : 2008
Wednesday 18 November 2009
I open the car door and lift my legs out and suddenly I am struck by the cold on my bare feet, I quickly stuff them into warm socks and boots head off. Its freezing, I am not properly dressed as I push my hands into my jeans pockets and zip up my top. The early morning crispness is refreshing as it hits my face like a slap from cold flannel. The peace swirls around caressing my senses. There are just a few early risers walking their dogs, we greet each other, me with a smile hiding the hurt I feel, they matching my smile, I am a good actress they don’t see the turmoil I feel.
The dirty mustard sand gives way to dewy grass and then pitted dark concrete as I head towards the coast path. I pass through the gate and into the mist. The sound of the waves crashing on the grey stern rocks draws me towards them. They stand stubborn and unmoving as the water batters them. I clamber down and get closer to the murky water, my life rushes in and out in time with the ebb and flow. Looking around I find small pebbles smooth to the touch, wet like the tears on my face which I hadn’t noticed which taste of saltiness as I lick my lips. I hurl the pebbles into the water, my anger unabated as I scream at the sky, ‘fucking fucking bastard’. It feels so good to let it all go. The stones hit the water and disappear, plop, and still the wave’s crash on the rocks, they don’t care.
I sit exhausted on a rough wet boulder, my shoulders drop and I cast my mind back to the table still laid and the food I have cooked, now frozen in sad single person portions, ready for another day. I laugh, you don’t know but I haven’t cooked in 15 years, I am amused that I tried so hard, the irony of it all, I cooked and no one came.
Its time to march, release pent up energy, back to the path and on towards the gully. The sun starts to rise above the houses that skirt the beach, its strong yellow rays hit my eyes and blind me temporarily, it’s a new day and a new start, no time to be sad. I greet mad Mike out with his 10 dogs, we shoot the breeze and then I am off. In no time at all I am at the gully. Memories flood in as I remember that I used to run up there 20 years ago, but there is nowhere for me to run today.
Turning around the sun’s warmth hits my back, my shadow is cast forward, I am 10 feet tall, and the years of darkness are behind me. Holding my head up, I am proud to be me, I am glad of this walk I am alive and I can feel.
Did life give you what you wanted? No of course not, you are supposed to go out and grab it.
If you had grabbed it, what would you be holding, love, life and laughter
Let this be your lesson, your path, your journey
If life was to be treasured, would it glitter and shine, would it sparkle in your eyes, fill your soul, lighten your step?
Touching me, loving me, respecting me, did you ever? What kind of possession was I, a rare jewel or a crunchy biscuit dunked, soggy and forgotten.
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