Authors: Tillie Cole
How could this be
happening to me? It was all going so well and to plan: move to the
city – granted it’s only Newcastle-Upon-Tyne and ten minutes from
home, but it was what I'd always wanted. I planned to get a good job,
make good money and enjoy my well-structured, traditional, normal
life. There was not a part of the plan that involved my
less-than-monogamous boyfriend power-driving a stick insect!
Could this day get
any worse???
It had all begun with
being late for work: another jumper off the Tyne Bridge had caused a
huge tailback. Then I walked into school and
boom – parental
attack!
I received a bollocking from a student’s mother for
supposedly introducing her child to the 'Dark Arts'. Yep, the Dark
Arts. After setting a book report on a Young Adult thriller novel
(that was written specifically for use in schools, may I add), the
horror-filled face of Mrs. Reilly blindsided me as I made my way into
my classroom.
Apparently fictional
vampires and wizards taint the sanctity of blood, encourage magic and
give children impure thoughts that could result in evil behaviour.
Naughty Ms. Munro, swaying the youth of today to the dark side with
child-friendly and demographically-appropriate English literature.
Just call me the modern day Darth-friggin’-Vader of the English
private school system!
Then the day had
concluded in spectacular fashion with Nathan having his unfaithful
fun on my much-loved sofa; the one saving grace was that we had at
least paid for the Safeguard coating and the love-fluids currently
being spilled on the chocolate-brown upholstery could be easily wiped
away.
Every cloud...
I bowed my head and let
the sorrow wash over me. I had never been one to wallow in self-pity,
but given the day’s events and finding out that my ex was a closet
exhibitionist who couldn't stop nailing his tramp for two minutes to
kindly explain what the fuck was happening to our relationship –
I
mean that’s unheard of, surely?
– I was going to allow myself
a short reprieve and have a pity party for one!
So with a sombre gait, I meandered
down Northumberland Street and the many dark and dingy roads of
central Newcastle, trying to come to terms with the fact that my life
had just been flipped on its head.
After ten minutes of
aimless wandering, I tilted my head and smiled in confusion at where
I had ended up. The cinema. My mother would bring me here every
Saturday growing up to see the current 'picture show', as the oldies
called it.
I walked to the grandly
decorated foyer and looked at the walls plastered with posters of
current films and all their stars. I moved from poster to poster and
studied the actors and imagined their lives. I bet they didn’t have
a care in the world. They had it all – fame, fortune and the job of
their dreams.
Lucky bastards.
What did I want to be?
What were
my
dreams? It was so long ago since I’d thought
about that sort of thing, I couldn’t actually remember – how sad
is that?
I walked back outside
and tipped my head to the sky. Then, like a crazy person, spread my
arms and began to sob, begging the gods for a sign of what to do
next, where to take my life.
I waited in silence,
the only sound coming from my heavy breathing. Nothing. No shooting
star or flash of divine intervention, just the sound of a bottle
being smashed in the rowdy pub across the street.
With a huff of a laugh
at my desperate cry for a mystic solution, I took one last look at
the theatre and flinched as a light bulb on one of the poster frames
popped, almost in my face. Even slightly less illuminated, I could
see that the man on the poster was perfect – muscles, tattoos,
brooding expression and pure gorgeousness. I bet right at that moment
he was living in a million-dollar mansion somewhere, making love to
some Amazonian goddess, not a care in the world.
Some people have all
the luck.
As I headed back to my
car, I tried to figure out what to do next. I passed my favourite
bookstore and smiled at the window display – Jane Austen month, my
idol. I took in the famous titles spread on luxurious red velvet, the
most popular perched high on pedestals:
Persuasion
,
Emma
,
Mansfield Park
and of course
Pride and Prejudice
. The
books that keep most women warm in bed
but
ruin our lives when
we realise that real Mr Darcys do not come and save us from a life of
loneliness after swimming through a lake.
Just as I was about to turn away, my
breath caught in my throat as my wandering gaze fell on a small piece
of paper showing a quote by the lady herself, tucked next to
Sense
and Sensibility
.
"Why not seize the pleasure at once, how often is happiness
destroyed by preparation, foolish preparations?" Jane Austen
Was this my sign? Was
this the sign that I had asked for? Was Ms. Austen sending me a
message from the grave that the anecdote to my current fucked up
situation was to seize the day? Or was I going completely nuts? I
knew it was likely to be the latter, but who isn’t just a tad
off-kilter? So hell, I went with it!
I grabbed my handbag,
which I’d dropped to the floor during my impromptu séance, and
tottered off down the street. A short way down, I turned a corner and
walked straight into a homeless man sheltering in the alcove in
between a row of bars.
He steadied my wobbling
frame and smiled at me with a toothless grin. “Alreet, pet? Ya look
bloody miserable, like. Life’s never
that
bad.”
I stared at the man for
what seemed like an eternity and proceeded to… laugh my flippin’
arse off!
Here was a man with no
home, no job and no real prospects attempting to cheer
me
up.
Oh, the irony!
"You’re
right!"
I shrieked, causing several magpies to scatter
around me.
I stood there in the
rain, overlooking the Tyne Bridge and the twinkling blue lights of
Greggs The Bakers down the road.
I took a calming
breath, inhaled the delicate Newcastle aroma of cheese and onion
pasties and Lambert & Butler cigarettes, and thought of the many
legends that this town had created – Sting, Jimmy Nail, Ant and Dec
– and said to out loud,
"Man up, Natasha;
you are a true Geordie: strong, focused and as hard as nails! If wor
lass Cheryl Cole can get through this kind of shit, so can you!"
“
Atta girl!
"
my new hobo life coach shouted. "Don’t suppose you could spot
me a fiver for a pack of ciggies?” he shrugged.
Laughing, I pulled out
my purse. “Here's a twenty, splash out on me!”
I set off walking again, knowing
there was only one place to go from here –to my best friend John.
He would sort me ‘reet out!
"Natasha!"
shrieked John, as he opened the pink-and-purple door with superb
dramatic flair, wearing his trademark white drainpipe jeans, yellow
muscle T-top and thick guy-liner rimming his big blue eyes.
Before I continue, let
me briefly fill you in on John Weallans. Erm... John. How to describe
John...?
I know!
Think pink, glitter,
unicorns and fabulous! That’s him in a nutshell, and he is my
soul’s significant other, minus the sex and any form of physical
attraction. He's the Ying to my Yang, the Ben to my Jerry and the
Ziggy Stardust to my David Bowie.
John and I became best
friends in High School after we met in a
'Beat-the-Bullies'
group in Grade Seven. I know what you’re thinking: surely these two
amazing kids were in the popular crowd? But alas, John was as bent as
a butcher’s meat hook, and I was as fat as a pig. Not the most
sought-after attributes when picking your mates in the harsh
corridors of Newcastle Tyne High in 1995.
One day, after I had
been sacrificially rounded up and captured by the Grade Ten boys and
symbolically roasted on a manmade spit (this really only consisted of
a set of rugby posts, extra-strength electrical tape, a hockey stick
and two boys rotating the device), it was 'felt' by the headmaster
that I should seek comfort in a group of fellow bullying victims, and
by 'felt' I mean ‘forced to go’, because obviously
this group
would prevent further bullying!
John was in the group
after he decided to appoint himself as the head, and by ‘head’ I
mean the
only
, cheerleader for the boys’ rugby team. One
look at John in a triangle-cupped bikini top, strap-on fairy wings
and matching pink tutu ignited the long-lost aggression needed in the
players. However, the aggression did not take place on the pitch as
preferred by the coach, but on John’s face and groin.
We had been best
friends ever since, aptly naming our little pairing the 'Oink
Fairies'.
I ran into John’s
arms. "The shit has hit the fan!" I said, shaking my head.
"Oh, my Gods of
glitter!" His hands began to flap, and he jumped up and down on
his welcome mat, which read
'Please Enter if you are Pretty and
Witty and Gay'
. "You’re a lesbian. I’ve always
suspected, what with your love of khaki and your k.d. lang obsession.
It's okay, Wilbur,”
Pig-related nickname.
“I’ll guide
you through this transition, and let me just say on behalf of the
LBGT community, welcome to the land of unicorns and rainbows,"
he said with a graceful bow.
"Tinkerbell,”
Fairy-related nickname.
“I am not a lesbian. Firstly, I like
khaki because I feel soldier-strong and like GI Jane when I’m
wearing it; secondly, k.d. lang is an exceptional singer who
unfortunately has a somewhat questionable style in fashion but gives
me no tingles in the downstairs department; and thirdly, I enjoy pork
way
too much to switch to an all-fish diet!"
"Mmm, I like pork
too," he said dreamily while leaning against his doorframe.
"We know, chick,
we know," I soothed, patting his hand and walking into the
warmth of his three-bedroomed Victorian semi-detached in Jesmond
Dene.
Five minutes later,
inside 'Casa Di Tink', away from the prying eyes of the suburban
cul-de-sac, bags dropped in the hallway, it was safe to let the drama
unfold.
Tink, eyes bright with
curiosity, demanded, "Okay, spill it, what’s up?" while
removing the ingredients for my favourite drink, a strawberry
daiquiri, from his kitchen, which was modelled on the Emerald City
from the Wizard of Oz: no joke. It's amazing how much green crap you
can purchase on eBay.
With a fortifying breath I told my
tale, all of the gory parts included.
Five minutes
later...
"Well, butter my
butt and call me a biscuit!" Tink sang with a flick of his
over-spiked jet-black hair, whacking the ice cube bag in earnest,
mouth gaping in shock.
"What do I do?
Where do I go?” I sobbed, throwing my head down to the IKEA green
laminate table.
Ouch, that'll leave a bruise!
"You'll stay here,
you silly cow. We'll be roomies once more, like we were before that
dick came along and took my playmate away," he said sternly,
clearly insulted that I hadn’t trusted him to help with my
accommodation dilemma.
He continued. "It's
no secret that I thought that Nathan was bad news, I just hope you
use this as an excuse to actually throw some caution to the wind and
start living your life, not purely existing, which you've been doing
for most of your days with that slimy-skinned squid. You lost your
sparkle months ago, my little Peppa Pig."
I stared at my
long-time best friend. Was he right? Should I throw caution to the
wind and change my ways? Had I lost my sparkle, my je ne sais quoi?
I thought back to the
movie theatre filled with successful, happy people, and the homeless
man who despite it all, found pleasure in a packet of cigarettes.
Then I thought back to the Austen display and
that
quote –
the quote that was practically talking to me, begging me to change.
It couldn’t have all just have been a coincidence, could it?
Tink pottered around
the kitchen, preparing to blend, when I had an overwhelming surge of
anger that this was my mess of a life – my one life that I needed
to live to the max and make fantastic memories in. If the homeless
man could be happy, so could I – granted, his may have been due to
the
Jim Beam
radiating from his pores, but still, at least he
found joy! I can't remember a time when I was truly happy.
That's it. No more.
I slapped my hand down
on the table top and rose to my feet (imagine me doing it in slow
motion with 'Chariots of Fire' playing in the background) and I
punched a fist in the air. Tink looked on with wide eyes and, feeling
the significance of the moment, gasped in anticipation of my
forthcoming speech, laid his right hand over his heart and fell back
against the emerald-flecked granite work top.
"I am Natasha
Munro and I deserve to be happy. I have a dream that one day the
voluptuous vixen look will grace the catwalks again and I can channel
my inner Marilyn with confidence and admiration; that I will succeed
in life and be seen as the best teacher that ever existed; and that I
will love a man who loves me for me
and
my obsession with fake
eyelashes and tan. Oh, and who doesn't mind that I'll always be a
little bit chunky. Screw all that has happened today! My new life
starts right now, no more foolish preparations – Carpe Diem!"
I tipped my head to the
sky, arms spread wide, "I want something new, something
exciting, I want to get away, I want... I want..."'
"I want to
break free, I want to break free..."
Tink interrupted with
his best Freddie Mercury impression and, ever the committed showman,
made a grab for the emerald-green vacuum from the cupboard, parading
around the kitchen singing at the top of his lungs,
"... I
want to break free from your lies, you’re so self-satisfied, I
don’t need you...”