romance and impending offspring have given my parents a huge reason to be concerned over me and just how little my life has moved on when theirs has witnessed so much.
Like many caring parents, they took the break-up as badly (if not worse) as I did. No doubt they were concerned what the little girl they’d brought up and poured morals, manners and intelligence into had done wrong not to secure such a catch into a happily-ever-after fairytale.
I’m in no two minds over whether it’s something Mum
still ponders over – I’m one hundred per cent certain that my singleton status is on her mind every time she despairs over my fashion sense (‘Short skirts don’t secure your own husband, just someone else’s, Sarah – likewise, frumpy is too far the other way as no man wants to date his nan’), tuts over one of my friends getting a new job (‘Good prospects equal good husband-catching abilities – without a solid career what chance do you have, dear?’) and is devastated to hear of others my age who have secured their life partners. It’s not good to be left on the shelf so late in my dating life. Even if I’m only twenty-nine …
The room is brightly lit and huge – like some sort of sterile experiment lab. Although it’s completely empty and I’m alone.
I’m high up.
At first, I think I’m suspended in mid air, or flying, but then I realize I’m actually sat on a giant plank of wood that’s suspended from the wall behind me, keeping me miles from the ground.
I’m small, like a little borrower.
I sit there in silence for a moment, listening to the sound of nothing – because nothing does have a sound. A very loud one that is unnervingly full of suspense for something to come along and fill it.
The loud silence is interrupted by the deafening sound of clomping echoing around the empty room, caused by two giant figures walking in through a door to my right.
They stop in front of me, bending over as though inspecting the sight before them.
‘I’m not sure …’ says a male voice – low, grunt-like and displeased. ‘She’s a bit stale.’
‘She’s not a loaf of gone-off bread,’ chimes a woman’s voice, who sounds remarkably like my mother. ‘She’s a pretty little thing.’
‘Would’ve been thirty years ago,’ says the man, although his face is a blur – all I can spot are the frames of his prescription glasses.
‘Very capable,’ encourages the lady.
‘Doesn’t look it.’
‘She’s highly intelligent.’
‘I’ll have to take your word for it,’ says the bemused male.
‘Does she talk?’
‘Used to.’
This causes the male to exhale gruffly.
‘It looks like I don’t have much choice, doesn’t it. She’s the only one left.’
‘Exactly.’
As the faceless man leans further forward I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of his glasses.
I’m old.
My frizzy hair is grey and manic.
My face is covered in deep wrinkles to match those found in an elephant’s leg fold – hard, leathery and crinkled.
My eyes are dark, deep-set and the saddest things I’ve ever seen as they imploringly gaze at the figures in front of me, begging not to be left behind.
‘You know, I think I’d rather just leave it,’ he sighs regrettably.
‘What?’ she shrieks.
‘This isn’t going to work,’ he says with disdain.
‘But …’
‘Being on my own doesn’t seem like such a bad thing, considering the alternative,’ he interrupts, flicking his head in my direction.
‘You can’t just leave her here.’
‘She’s not my responsibility,’ he replies flatly.
‘But, if you don’t take her, who will?’ cries the woman in desperation – confirming that she is indeed my mum.
‘Not my problem,’ he scoffs, walking out of the room – my mum sobbing as she follows, leaving me sat up high on my wooden plank.
Alone.
I wake with a start, realizing that Carly and I are still in my bed – we each must’ve dozed off. Although the dream has already started
Like many caring parents, they took the break-up as badly (if not worse) as I did. No doubt they were concerned what the little girl they’d brought up and poured morals, manners and intelligence into had done wrong not to secure such a catch into a happily-ever-after fairytale.
I’m in no two minds over whether it’s something Mum
still ponders over – I’m one hundred per cent certain that my singleton status is on her mind every time she despairs over my fashion sense (‘Short skirts don’t secure your own husband, just someone else’s, Sarah – likewise, frumpy is too far the other way as no man wants to date his nan’), tuts over one of my friends getting a new job (‘Good prospects equal good husband-catching abilities – without a solid career what chance do you have, dear?’) and is devastated to hear of others my age who have secured their life partners. It’s not good to be left on the shelf so late in my dating life. Even if I’m only twenty-nine …
The room is brightly lit and huge – like some sort of sterile experiment lab. Although it’s completely empty and I’m alone.
I’m high up.
At first, I think I’m suspended in mid air, or flying, but then I realize I’m actually sat on a giant plank of wood that’s suspended from the wall behind me, keeping me miles from the ground.
I’m small, like a little borrower.
I sit there in silence for a moment, listening to the sound of nothing – because nothing does have a sound. A very loud one that is unnervingly full of suspense for something to come along and fill it.
The loud silence is interrupted by the deafening sound of clomping echoing around the empty room, caused by two giant figures walking in through a door to my right.
They stop in front of me, bending over as though inspecting the sight before them.
‘I’m not sure …’ says a male voice – low, grunt-like and displeased. ‘She’s a bit stale.’
‘She’s not a loaf of gone-off bread,’ chimes a woman’s voice, who sounds remarkably like my mother. ‘She’s a pretty little thing.’
‘Would’ve been thirty years ago,’ says the man, although his face is a blur – all I can spot are the frames of his prescription glasses.
‘Very capable,’ encourages the lady.
‘Doesn’t look it.’
‘She’s highly intelligent.’
‘I’ll have to take your word for it,’ says the bemused male.
‘Does she talk?’
‘Used to.’
This causes the male to exhale gruffly.
‘It looks like I don’t have much choice, doesn’t it. She’s the only one left.’
‘Exactly.’
As the faceless man leans further forward I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of his glasses.
I’m old.
My frizzy hair is grey and manic.
My face is covered in deep wrinkles to match those found in an elephant’s leg fold – hard, leathery and crinkled.
My eyes are dark, deep-set and the saddest things I’ve ever seen as they imploringly gaze at the figures in front of me, begging not to be left behind.
‘You know, I think I’d rather just leave it,’ he sighs regrettably.
‘What?’ she shrieks.
‘This isn’t going to work,’ he says with disdain.
‘But …’
‘Being on my own doesn’t seem like such a bad thing, considering the alternative,’ he interrupts, flicking his head in my direction.
‘You can’t just leave her here.’
‘She’s not my responsibility,’ he replies flatly.
‘But, if you don’t take her, who will?’ cries the woman in desperation – confirming that she is indeed my mum.
‘Not my problem,’ he scoffs, walking out of the room – my mum sobbing as she follows, leaving me sat up high on my wooden plank.
Alone.
I wake with a start, realizing that Carly and I are still in my bed – we each must’ve dozed off. Although the dream has already started
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