Windows are open, dust comes in. Windows are shut, dust is trapped. Sometimes you can see the particles dancing in a shaft of light. Are the dust particles in our lungs now, turning and twisting like grit in an oyster? Except it’s not a pearl we are going to get but a tumour. We are dying of dust. And dusting. We are dustgusted. Dustophobic. Dustressed.
You know you are a grown-up when the elements provide socially acceptable excuses not to go out: “It’s too hot, it’s too cold, I don’t feel safe in this weather. I may have a fall. My chest. My sinuses. So I am not going to go big, I am going to go home. I am not even going to go medium, I am just going to go home. Actually, easier for everyone if I don’t leave home in the first place.” And we all just nod in unison and head off to wrestle ourselves out of our bras and onto our slightly crisp-crumbed sofas. There, that’s better. *wonders briefly if that is in fact better*
Swollen. Paw-like. Pink. Ruddy. Must be the tropical heat (19 degrees). May have contracted water-on-the-finger. Will rings need to be cut off? Will fingers need to be cut off? Obsessed with them: fat little sausages on the steering wheel, lifting up the kettle, pouring the wine. Decide a neon manicure will cheerfully herald the arrival of spring and flatter the hands. It doesn’t.
Wifi not working
Hmmmm. Is this where we admit we don’t understand wifi? Is it like electricity? And is this where we admit we’ve forgotten all that school stuff about positive and negative? Is wifi like water in a pipe? Does it freeze when it’s cold? Is it like door frames? Does it swell when it’s warm and damp? Best if we just turn it off and on again and have a nap while it sorts itself out.
It may start with a hive. Brought about by panic. About anything, really. Like bedbugs hopping, biting, breeding Spring energy. And then, when the sun comes out we think, ‘Pollen!’ And then our throats begin to get scratchy. And then, when we stroll to the shops half-naked (no tights), we think ‘Pollution!’ and wonder if we could ever be a person who wore a medical mask on the street. Maybe we could wear one while riding our bike. That would be okay. That wouldn’t look too mad. We’d look like one of those deranged couriers weaving through the traffic. Except we don’t have a bike. OH GOD MOTHS. Panic. Hives. Itch.
We can’t remember why we wrote ‘memory loss’ down. Blame the weather.