Monday, 11 August 2014

Note Book Of A Girl

A half filled glass of bandy sat on the white top coffee table the condensation drops run down the out side of the cut glass, creating a puddle on the table surface. The only light, lighting the dimly lit room  was from the stifling suns rays burning through the closed curtains of the apartments  first floor windows. They snuck thought the a small space at the top of the rail curtains stubbornly  would not meet. The slow moving cigarette smoke could be seen moving in The light beam that shot from in between the curtains lighting up the photos on the opposite wall. A collage of black and white images and the odd colour photo or postcard, half covering a once white wall, now stained  a yellowish brown from cigarette smoke.
Laying on the sofa wearing just a short black summer dress, I blow smoke in to the air, fro the newly lit cigarette, watching it dance in the light. Not  even the tarnished chrome fan on its highest setting seams to be making no difference to this hot hummed sticky air, apart form adding a drown walling noises, as it cuts though the air.  

It is July in London, England. It is every man for himself as the city fights for a small piece of grass in  any park, beer garden a space a canals, anywhere that means that they are outside.
The tubes, hot  sticky places with a constant smell of BO and piss. One cleaver person that decides to spray  themselves with a body spay, choking everyone one the carriage. The flickering lights in the darkness as the trains rush through the tunnels below the city.
No wonder Neil Gaiman called it London below in his never where series.
Its almost a city down there, buskers playing guitars, saxophones and keyboards, echo through the stations tunnels and walk ways to suddenly to be drowned out by the rattling thunder of metal, as a train rushes in to the station. Small keos’s  selling over priced sandwiches on their date and  bottled drinks.
Pushy, sweaty, impatient, business men. All of witch best avoided on a day like to day.

I push myself up and sit on the sofa, very un-lady-like with my legs parted, trying to keep cool, and my thighs from sticking together from my own sweet. Not really caring as I am here alone. Sitting the half smoked cigarette on the side of a heavy glass  ash try, something that you might have expected to find in a pub back in the 70s or 80s, before smoking was deemed a taboo activate and an anti social pleasure. 
The smoke rises up then is caught by the vacuum of the fan and is broken up and pushed around the room.
I look to the blue note pad sitting next to the watered down bandy and coke. All the miniature ice burgs almost gone, now just small ice chips floating in a vast ocean of a brown reddish liquid.
The pages marked by a blue ribbon and the pen still inside, pushing the book slightly open. The open ring binder with its dog eared pages with tea stained rings and hand written notes amongst the print on the pages. Reminding me that there are things to be done. Yet each time I sit down with good intentions of working, something distracts me. The washing, the cleaning of nothing, music, tv, friends or the internet.
The World Wide Web. The anti social, social networks. face book, twitter, tumblr, myspace, tinder, link in, stage 32, and so on. All created to connect us, yet it drives us apart. The idea of communicating with some face to face or even just over the phone becomes a challenge, with people not quite able to communicate or social interact with a living person.
Its not long be for the distraction becomes the wok, distracting you from a conversation on twitter or face book. From watching other peoples misfortunes on You Tube. And before I realise it I’ve got plains for the next 3 days, leaving me with no time to finish what I need to.
Pulling head phones out of my ears I am greeted with the booming bass from a car passing down on the street below, reminding me of life outside my first floor apartment, which I have not left in since my return home late on Saturday night from work, and it is now Monday afternoon.

I look at the time on the phone sitting on the back of the sofa. 4:30 pm. An hour since I decided to lay down and try and keep cool, and about 20 minuets since I decided to pour myself a brandy. Its my week off. To hell with it I’m aloud too.
Picking up the wet slippery glass, and tacking a sip. Drips of cold water, drip off and down the front of my dress, slightly refreshing.
Pulling a face at the taste of the coloured water. Picking up a pencil and using it as a cocktail mixer. Mixing the heavy alcohol that had sunk to the bottom of the glass, below the full fat coke and melted ice, followed by the chime of the pencil on the side of the cut glass. On the second taste it tasted better, rather then a watered down cocktail.
Reaching for the note pad and placing the glass back down on its coaster of water, I remove the pen and begin flicking through the pages, faster and faster, their movement creating a breeze, moving the warm air around my face. Stopping at the front of the book and beginning to turn each individual page looking at its content.
Where to begin. Where to begin.
Stopping a few pages in I take the pen and mark the page once more.
Picking up my lap top from the floor beside the sofa, hitting the enter key to wake it back up.
It re awakes on the half completed document which I was working on over an hour ago.
File. Save.
File. New.
I listen again to the booming distorted echo of the cars sound system passing once more, so loud. I see the movement in the drink and for a moment I wondered if it is the music making it dance.
I place my fingers on the key board and begin to type another distraction…
“A half filled glass of bandy sat on the white top coffee table….”

© sarah patel

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