Sometime last year, I experienced what could possibly be the worst day of my life.
That night, my sister and I laid in bed side by side: talked about anything and everything, nervously making plans that we hoped would never materialise. We spoke about the unsettling quiet in the house, the expectations, and the love that is almost indistinguishable from resentment and exasperation. The most suffocating thought came with the resignation that we cannot erase our lives - that we couldn't change our family nor our circumstance. We can only change who we are in relation to them. We can revise how we narrate the stories in our lives, and no more.
I guess it is easier to speak about it now because I can finally see myself moving on (in more ways than one, and quite literally as well) I've never been a person to miss a place, and I'm glad that I can finally say there's nothing left here for me. Change hurts, but I'm glad it is really, truly over.
Growing up, my favourites were the Witches (examining the scalp of every woman I meet) and TheTwits (gave me anxiety attacks every time I was offered tomato spaghetti for fear that I am actually eating worms). Eventually, I graduated to histwisted short stories like Lamb to the Slaughter, which thrilled and terrified me in equal measure.
Today, I thought about how I probably only have 300 more books to go before I die (assuming that I live to be a 100, and that I read on average 4 books a year), and got very cross because I was at work looking at excel spreadsheets. Well, I guess it's time to toss out all the icky finance stuff.
The Wormy Spaghetti, aka the my biggest fucking nightmare as a child.
His granddaughter, Sophie Dahl, wrote about him here. The man calls his cigarettes gaspers. Swoon.