“…and really, the only way that someone can score at this point is if the whole team sort of pulls their socks up and use the last bloody play they have. I mean, can you SEE these guys? It’s pathetic!” He clenched a fist and shook it at the screen.
“Oh, I totally agree. They suck. Just not the same this year,” she said, her eyes locked on to the muscular bulge of his arm.
“Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about! You know, it’s my dream to go to London and watch these guys play,” he exhaled.
The core of her being tightened. He’d been droning on about football for the last 20 minutes. And all she’d had on her mind was footsie. His slightly bulky body, his hands, his lips…she couldn’t take her eyes, and mind, off them. She just needed to check one more thing out.
“Wow, London. I’ll tell you the quickest way to get a visa. Say you’ve got a secret Chicken Tikka Masala recipe,” she smiled and stuck her tongue out at him playfully.
He stuck his tongue out back in return. His long, lusciously pink tongue. Mission accomplished.
She tapped his arm lightly, using one finger to smooth over the forearm. “You know, I’ve been thinking. These guys are so…hot. It’s so weird, how infrequently we, you know, ordinary people, run into other people that we think are…hot. And well, when that happens, how do you sort of make everything..hotter?”
He tilted his head at her. “What do you mean, exactly?”
She smiled. “I mean…”, she waved her arms about. “Hot. You know. When someone is hot. Sexy. And you can’t take your eyes off them. Or your mind. And you keep thinking about what you’d like to do to them. Climb them like a fucking tree. You know? Push them against the wall and grind up against them. Or run your fingers through their hair. Kiss them. Suck their lip. Run your hands all over them. That. Kind of stuff. You know?” she finished, slightly breathless.
He was staring at her, mouth open. Then abruptly, he shut it. Looked around and leaned into her. “Dude.”
She leaned forward too. “Yes?” she husked.
He whispered, “Who told you?”
She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Who told me? Who told me what?”
He smiled, shaking his head, “Don’t play dumb dude. All that stuff you just said. Who told you I said all that?”
Her this-is-hopefully-sexy smile froze. “What?”
He exhaled. “Okay. Look, I know I got drunk last night at the office party and said that I was majorly lusting after the new intern, but she’s a kid. I can’t do all that stuff to her. She’s only 20 man!”
The smile morphed to this-is-not-happening-to-me….-again. She widened the smile, showing more teeth. “Right. No, you’re right. She is too young. Anyway, I think I can hear my phone ringing.”
She flounced back to her seat. Fuming. Himbos. What was the point?

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Posted by on February 10, 2015 in Fiction


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I watch you as you dial the phone.
I am filled with malevolence that seethes inside me like water bubbling over in a pot.

I am angry. I don’t want to go see my relatives either. But I must. I’ve agreed and I consider myself a man of my word. Even if you and your mother don’t think so. I am tired of making conversation. I am tired of making small talk. I just want to sit in front of the TV and look at transformers and Macaulay Culkin celebrating Christmas in a hotel.

You’re speaking woefully, as if the excuse you’re making is real. As if you really are being held back by an unnamed client. As if you’re not lying to have your own way. I loathe it when I have to lie for you. No matter how many times you point out the fact that I seem to lie effortlessly when it suits me, I dislike it immensely when I must do it for someone else.

You put down the phone, your face in smiles. “I’m free! I’m off the hook!” you squeal.
I try to stop my lips from moving but I can’t. I open my mouth, and the words, “Why are you so happy? If this is the way you want to conduct your life, then what can anyone do?”
You stop moving abruptly. I know I’ve hurt you, and I take some pleasure in it. Why should I suffer alone tonight? They’re your family too. It’s your duty to come. So what if they’re boring?

You look at me steadily. You are upset…but you’re trying to hide it. “If you say so Daddy,” you say and walk away.
I want to stop you but I won’t. I will my eyes back to the TV as you disappear past dining room.
I know this will be another thing you will remember for years and I will forget in an hour.

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Posted by on January 30, 2015 in Fiction



Death by inches

I walked up to her. “Hey. How are you?”
She said, “I’m fine.”
I looked at her. “Still in love with a married man?”
She smiled and corrected me, “No. Still having an affair with a married man.”
I smiled back and teased, “In the olden days, you’d have been pelted with stones.”
She looked at me. A beat later, she said “And tomatoes too.”
Our giggles made other people look up from their books.

I sat down next to her. “Hey. What’s up?”
She said, “I’m fine. Still having an affair with a married man.”
I smiled. “Stones and tomatoes and potatoes.”
She looked at me. A beat later, she smiled, “Mmmmm, soup.”
Our laughter made the Dean come out to shush us.

She sat down and sighed. “We’re fighting. He won’t commit to me.”
I looked at her, unsure of what to say. “Um.”
She looked at me. “You must be so happy.”
I stared at her. “No, I’m not. Why would you say that?”
She looked at me, her mouth a grimace. “Because you’ve been judging me since this began.”
“No, I haven’t. I just don’t know how to react. I don’t think its right. But I would never judge you.”
She walked away, even before I’d finished.

I heard a cough. I turned.
She stood there. Slightly unsure. “Hi.”
I sat up. “Hi.”
She gestured. “May I join you?”
I picked up some books and put them to the side. “Yeah, of course. Please.”
She sat. “How’ve you been?”
I said “Good. Not bad. You?”
She said, “I’m good. We’re getting married. As soon as he divorces his wife.”
I struggled to keep my face expressionless. “Oh okay. Congratulations..?”
It was the first time I hadn’t known whether to say it as a statement or a question.
She smiled, “Thank you. I’ll catch you later.”

We ran into each other in the corridor. “Hey!” “Hi!”
She clutched my hand. “Want to go and get some soup later?”
I looked at her, puzzled. “Soup?”
She smiled. “You know. Stones and tomatoes and potatoes.”
She laughed. I smiled back. I couldn’t laugh. I was almost afraid to laugh.

I walked up to her. “Hey. How are you?”
She snarled, “I’m fine.”
I almost backed away. “Okay…um.”
She looked up at me. “Come here to judge me? You must have heard. He dumped me.”
I looked at her. My hand wanted to jump up and slam the table. “I hadn’t heard. I’m sorry, I know this must upset you.”
She rose with a loud screech of her chair. “Don’t presume to know how I’m feeling! I’m NOT upset. Speak for yourself.”
Our voices made everyone else stare at us.

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Posted by on January 12, 2015 in Fiction



Back to Black

“If I were single, I’d be pretty sad about now.”
140 characters? Try 140 emotions.
This is why you shouldn’t stalk your ex on Twitter. You find out suddenly, with no warning, that he’s not single any more. What? When did that happen? You’re still supposed to be mourning me, you bastard.
Who is she? Where is she? When did she…how did she…?

He’s dating someone. He’s. Dating. Someone. And I’m…not. Why?
Why am I single? Why isn’t someone tweeting about me? Is because I’m a nag, like he said? Or is it because of that jiggle of fat, that I hate?
It’s because you’re a horrible person.
What? Who said that?
Whose me?
Your brain.
You can talk?
Um, I’m in your head. So make that a horrible and stupid person.
I’m NOT stupid.
Okay. If you say so. Though frankly, I make all the decisions around here so I should know.
Okay….so, you’re telling me I’m a horrible person. And that’s why I’m single?
Care to elaborate?
Sure. You’re a horrible, disgusting person. You’re selfish and your maggoty core is visible to anyone who sees you. You’re so low down, you’re disgusting. This is why you’re alone all the time. And when you do invited out, you complain about being alone. You’re a boring, ignorant bitch who knows nothing, does nothing and inspires nothing.

I…I. If you’re my brain, how can you be so mean to me? How can you think these thoughts?
I just do. And you’re stuck with me. I’m making the decision to sob for a few hours now. And post that, we’ll look at some more tweets.

But…maybe I should stop. And go to bed. Life still lies ahead of me. There’s still hope.
There is no hope for you. All hope and all light and everything good is over for you. Cry. Then I’ll think of something else to numb the pain.

I cried.

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Posted by on December 16, 2014 in Fiction




I watched her as she ate, her fingers working steadily, plate to mouth, plate to mouth. Specks of spit flow on to her hands and I shuddered in disgust, slightly. How could she do this? Didn’t she know other people were watching?
How could she eat like that with someone else watching?

I looked away and ate the last of my bread. Stood up and took my plate to the sink.
I picked up the frying pan to soak it in the sink when she said, “Fry me another piece, please?”

Later, as I told the judge, the rage that consumed me was sudden, shocking and a little surprising.
I just stood there, my forearms itching suddenly, the blood there as if armed with knives.
I swung at her head. Her fat, disgusting head. And swung from the other side, after she screamed and clutched her head.
She slumped forward and I swung the pan from the top this time. With so much force.
“Here’s. Another. Piece. You. Fat. Disgusting. Bitch.” Thump. Thump. Slam. Thump. Thump.

I hit her fat, heavy head for all I could and then some. And then I soaked the pan, cleaned up the kitchen and put on a clean shirt and pants and walked out of the house, to the police station.

I explained everything, time and time over. About the only time I didn’t know what to say, was when the judge turned to me, pushing up his glasses and said, “But my dear, she was your twin sister. Your exact double. If she disgusted you so much, how do you live with yourself?”


Posted by on November 6, 2014 in Fiction



Nail against the blackboard

“So where do you want to go for lunch?” he asked.
I gritted my teeth.
Are there 50 ways to kill your lover? I could use them all, twice.

“I don’t know,” I said carefully, “Wherever you want is fine. You know I can’t choose and I hate making this kind of decision anyway.”
“Oh, so I have to be The Man in this relationship?”
“You are the man in this relationship.” Although you act like a boy, I added silently.

“C’mon babe. Just choose a place.”
“Fine. Let’s go to Wang Lee.”
“God, Chinese again! Don’t you get tired?”
“Okay, let’s go to La Italia.”
“Please babe. Seriously?”
I threw down my pen. “This is why I don’t like to choose. You ALWAYS do this. You ALWAYS DO this.”

The problem with fighting in a relationship is that there’s always one fight simmering underneath. And it’s a default setting.
That’s the one that goes from 0 to 100 in 5 seconds, even if it’s not a big deal. The street brawler in you, looking to bust shit up.

“God, why do you need to fly off the handle all the time? What’s your problem, we’re just talking for chrissakes!”
I took a deep breath. I didn’t have time to do this. “Okay, please, just pick a place ok? You know I’m okay with anything.”
“Right, you always SAY that and then you complain about there being no vegetarian options wherever we are.”

I stared at him. “That was once. At a STEAK place. You took me to a STEAK place and what was I supposed to eat?”
“Oh, please. You could have had the side salad. You could have had French fries.”

I looked away. And wondered how many miles further we’d be pushing this thing.
How many times must you hurt someone or watch them hurt you, till you walk away?
How many times must the relationship poke you in the ribs, for you to realise it’s dead?

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Posted by on October 18, 2014 in Fiction




Tap tap tap tap tap.
You know that moment just before you pee? The urge to urinate, to just let go, gets strongest then right? Like your muscles are telling you, ‘Let go. You are not in control any more.’ The problem is the after. After you’ve let go, the shame follows.

I’d give anything to just be ashamed of peeing myself. I wish it were that simple. I wish my eyes didn’t go to that direction every 5 minutes. I’ve been trying to control myself, I really have. But. I. Just. Can’t. Seem. To. Stop. Thinking. About. It.

How good it would feel. How my spirits will lift, I’ll feel happy again. How I will lick that spoon dry.
I can be happy for some time. I can be not myself for some time. And everyone will like me, everyone will think I’m cool and everyone will want to be my friend.

Sometimes I wonder what it is I really crave. This or human contact. The knowing that there’s someone out there who thinks you’re great. Who will like you and know you for the person you are. Who doesn’t judge you by their own standards and lets you be.

My eyes are doing the sideways dance again. My fingers itch.
It’s going to be a long night.

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Posted by on September 12, 2014 in Fiction




Sometimes, I miss you so much my stomach hurts. It aches from all the laughter I haven’t laughed.
I miss talking to you. Hearing your voice, when I call to tell you this “amazing, super cool, awesome” thing that neither of us will remember tomorrow.
I miss knowing that if I died suddenly, you’d be one of the first to know, because I wouldn’t be picking up the phone.
I miss knowing that if I died, you’d miss me even more.
I miss hearing about your day. I miss telling you about mine.
I miss embellishing stories for you.
I miss distracting myself from something awful by thinking about how I’ll make you laugh about it later.
I miss hearing your voice when I’m bored.
I miss hearing your voice when I’m excited.
I missing having a “you” and “your side of things”. I’m tired of thinking in “I”s and “Me”s.
I miss discussing old things with you. And finding out new things through you.
I miss feeling like the world could be our oyster – as soon as we got around to it.
I miss asking you what you thought of something, anything – and knowing what you’d say, outrageous and bitchy, because you knew it would make me laugh.

And every time I miss you, I remind myself of all the reasons I must miss you.

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Posted by on August 30, 2014 in Fiction


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Beep Beep

It sat silent. No lights blinking, no sound. No movement. No vibrations. Nothing.
She stared at the phone. Willing it to light up. Willing a noise. Willing something. Anything.
Willing him to message. To think of her. To reach out and let her know he was thinking of her.
To tell her, by just saying “Hi” that he wasn’t with someone else. That she was important to him.
As important as he was to her.
Even though she didn’t know him. She hadn’t ever met him. She hadn’t ever heard his voice.
All she had, was the loneliness of a dwindling life. The knowledge that slowly but surely, the world was forgetting about her. Forgetting she mattered, in any tiny capacity. Forgetting she existed.

Most mornings, she woke up wondering if anyone would know if she didn’t. She woke up and faced the long, yawning abyss of another day without meaning.
Every night, she messaged him. Wanting him to reply. To say “hi” back. To encourage her in her desperate attempt to find meaning for her life, in his replies. And most nights, she found none.
The nights he did deign to reply, she slept the sleep of the content, weaving dreams of waking up happy, living a life someone else noticed, living a life in which her existence made someone else smile.

The clock ticked on. She checked her phone again. Opened a browser to see if the net was working. There was still time till midnight, when he usually fell asleep. She fell back into bed, wondering what the morning would feel like.

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Posted by on August 28, 2014 in Fiction



Robinson Cursed

I wake up everyday, to blue skies and sunshine. This island doesn’t know the meaning of bad weather.
It helps to wake up to light every day, unlike England – dark, gloomy and brooding, always making my moods worse.

Mother must be crying everyday – I feel a pang of guilt at the thought. I doubt my Father is crying, though he must feel bad – I think. Selena and Brian too. They must think of me…but I think that their thoughts are spurred by the way in which I’ve disappeared – and less to do with me, myself.

After all, in all the time that I was there, all I ever heard them do was complain about how shiftless I was or how downcast or how pessimistic. What is that new-fangled saying? My glass is always half empty.

Over the years, I tired of it. It’s hard enough being me, it’s hard enough waking up and going through each day and the cumbersome waltzes human society puts in place – but add to that the crushing expectation of having to be like that Pollyanna woman all that time?

When I heard of the ship leaving, I knew this was my chance. I bribed the captain and told him to tell everyone I was lost in a pirate skirmish. When we landed here, his crew helped knock up a house and a garden for fresh vegetables, left me with supplies and a flare kit – and left.

A year later, the captain came by – to check on me. And with him came new books, new supplies and more. I’ve willed my estate in Brazil to him as payment. And his son started the tradition this year.

I’ve been here 4 years. And I haven’t regretted it once.
I wake up, I tend my garden, I read my books, I write. I walk around the island four or five times a day.
No one accuses me of being a fusspot. Or a pessimist. Or unhumourous. Or uncouth.

Here, I am perfect.

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Posted by on July 28, 2014 in Fiction



Rules of the game

It started like any other argument. I was being flippant, careless with words and saying things that I didn’t mean, that I thought would be funny.
And he was being over-analytical, obsessing over each word and its hidden meanings because he’d gotten so used to that, so used to assuming there must be more behind the puffs of hot air that human beings emitted without thinking.
And all of a sudden, we were in the middle of a maelstrom.
He was screaming. As his voice rose, so did my temper.
I started freezing into stubbornness, its twin sister righteousness welcoming me with open arms. I had a right to have an opinion, even if it was wrong by everyone else’s standards.
He started castigation and then taunting, two tried and tested tools in his arsenal.
I responded with icy disdain and told him to stick his libertarian views where the free-ranging sun didn’t shine.
He said I was the reason children were starving. I told him it was karma, it wasn’t like I was eating their share.
It was the usual fight. The usual corners. And our usual routine.

And just like that, the game changed.
He raised a hand and hit me.
And even though, truth be told, this wasn’t even the first time – this time it felt different.
It felt like he meant it. It felt mean.
It felt…like it was actually tearing my face apart?
I looked down. There was blood trickling down my shirt. I just kept looking.
He’d cut me with a blade. And sliced my cheek open.

I stared at him. He stared at the blood and then his hands.
And then told me it was my fault. I was too negative. I was too strident. I pushed him into it.
I was too full of myself. Too full of hate. I always thought everyone was stupider than me. I always made him feel small. I always did this. And that. And other things too.

I was still staring at him. My lips seemed welded together. I couldn’t speak.
My cheek burned, blood dripping down.
Was there any point speaking? All the words hovered around us like moths.
Could we even go back from this?
If he started cutting me and I retaliated, what would be left of us?
There’d be no kiss and make up now.
There was no way backward.
There was just the blood on the floor, a reminder of how he’d suddenly changed the rules.
There was just forward, without each other.

I grabbed a towel and held it to my face, staunching the blood.
He stared at me. I stared back.
I picked up my bag and left for the hospital.
They would stitch up my cheek.
My heart, however, was another matter.


Posted by on July 25, 2014 in Fiction



Cats are bastards

“And? What happened?”
I sighed. “What else? In the cesspit that is my life, I’ve just met another turd.”
I could practically feel her smile across the phone lines. “Dramatic much? What exactly do you mean?”

I stared out the window. “He likes rough sex, we’ve never met, I’ve never heard his voice, he keeps posting pics of cats and he disappears unless he wants to talk dirty.”
Silence. Then, “Yes most of that would qualify him as a turd. How do you meet these people?”

I smiled. “It’s the homing device in my head. They can’t resist the signal of the mothership.”
She laughed. “And how do you know he likes rough sex if you haven’t even heard his voice?”

I said, “When we sext. It’s always rough. It’s always him in control.”
She paused. “Sweetie, I thought you said you weren’t going to do this to yourself anymore…”

I sighed. “Yes I did. I said I wasn’t going to let someone else do this to me. But I gave in because it felt so good to…even if it is sexting…have someone take control. You know?”
“I know.”

“I’m going to die alone aren’t I? Die alone and be eaten by stray cats.” I said quietly.
Then, “Why is it always cats that are supposed to eat dead people?”
I smiled. “Cats are bastards.”

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Posted by on June 23, 2014 in Fiction




She turned in her bed, wincing at every movement. Carefully, she shifted from right side to left side, feeling the pain change sides as well. She couldn’t remember what it felt like to be pain free any more. It had been too long.
It was her birthday today. She hoped everyone would forget. It was just plain embarrassing now. She hated birthdays, always had, since childhood.

She raised her left hip a fraction, her body adjusting to the slight freedom and let it down, the flesh cushioning her hip better now. She wondered if she should put on the TV. Or maybe listen to some music. Get her mind off her agony.

But which programs? And what music? She no longer knew any of the latest bands or songs. She had no idea what was on TV or who the actors were any more. Everything seemed to change every day. With the exception of terrible programs that is. Two and a Half Men was still on, apparently – that was one thing that could cause more pain than her injury.

She sighed. Old music, old books, old programs, old movies – the keyword was “old” wasn’t it? She was old. She felt old. She wondered how old she looked. And it was all just going to get worse. Or older, depending on what word you used.

She lay on her left side, staring at the wall. And heard whispers.
Just in time, she stopped herself from snapping her head up – that movement promised hours of pain. Instead, she carefully tilted her head this way and that and raised it, slowly.
Only to see her sister bearing a cake – and her parents singing “Happy Birthday” to her.
Her eyes filled with tears. She had to be grateful – but she really wished everyone could just forget about her birthdays and her. And she really was happy they hadn’t.

She looked up and slowly started to raise herself up.
“Happy 34th birthday baby girl,” crooned her mother.
She smiled. 34. Was so deceptively young.

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Posted by on June 9, 2014 in Fiction




She turned to her left. And then her right. She could hear dripping. She just knew a tap was broken. What if all the water in the house drained out? What if she had no more water? How would she bathe and get to work? Drip. Drip. 
She got up and opened the bathroom door. No sound. She switched on the light and ran her hand under the taps. Nothing. Switching off all the lights, she went back to bed. 

A door creaked in the house. She’d forgotten to fix it. “I can’t get up to oil doors at 2 am,” she thought. Creak. Creak. “Fine, I’ll just do that so I can get to sleep.” She got up, hunted for the WD 40. And sprayed all the doors in the house. She turned off all the lights and got back into bed. 

A dog barked in the quiet of the night. She realised she’d forgotten to add dog food to the grocery list. “This is ridiculous. I can’t keep getting up again and again. I mean, I’ve got to drive to work and back and to the doctor’s and back. Oh God, I forgot to confirm the appointment with the doctor. What if its cancelled? I better make a list of things I need to do tomorrow. And add dog food. NO. NO. I’m going to concentrate on sleeping. I’m not getting up again. I’m not. I’m not.”

She turned on her back and crossed her arms. The dog in the distance howled. The sound was full of pain. “It must be hungry. Why would it cry out like that otherwise? I didn’t add dog food to the list. What if our dog starts to howl like that? What if our dog dies from hunger?”

She felt something running down her cheeks and clapped a hand to her face immediately. Bugs? “I need to add bug repellent to the grocery list as well.” She realised her face was wet. “Am I crying? Maybe I should just get up and add this stuff to the grocery list. I’m just getting stressed for no reason.”

She got up again and padded into the living room. She turned on the light and started to hunt for the notepad in which she’d written the grocery list. 
“What are you doing baby?” said her mother from behind her. 

She turned. “Ma. Sorry I woke you. I’m hunting for the grocery list. I just…I can’t explain it, I just know that our dog is going to starve if I don’t add dog food to the list. I’ll just do that and we can go back to bed.”
Her mother came up to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Sweetie. We don’t have a dog.”
The girl stood still. “We don’t?”
The mother shook her head.
The girl said, “Are you sure?”
The mother nodded. She took the girl’s hand to lead her back to bed. 


Posted by on April 8, 2014 in Fiction




I shifted the car into second gear and pressed on the accelerator. Just a little to make the car go faster. It was only my second or third time and I didn’t want to have to call my dad and cry about having had an accident. I wasn’t entirely sure that even if I did, if he’d be more worried about the car than me.

A van swung into the road ahead of me, moving very slowly. “Speed up, ya bastard,” I said, enclosed by windows and the AC and the music running full blast. Shockingly, he didn’t hear me and heed my advice.
We went down the hill away from my house and then the hill started to rise again. “Quickly, idiot, I don’t want to shift back to first gear.” Barely seconds later, I shifted into first. Safe than sorry right?

A couple of seconds later, the absolute idiot moron fool of a donkey stopped. I wanted to bite the steering wheel. We were so close to the lip of the slope. MOVE!
He started to move and I started to let the clutch breathe a bit. And….nothing?
The car stalled.
I turned the ignition, holding the clutch down, and then started to release.
Ignition, clutch, release.
Horns started up behind me. Now I was the idiot on the road.
Ignition. Clutch.
Ignition. Clutch.

I rolled down the window and motioned for other people to go around me. I felt like a fool. But there wasn’t a choice. A few cars made their way past me. And I let the car roll back down the hill, figuring I could maybe do it better with a headstart.
Ignition. Clutch.
I felt the tears well up. I was an idiot after all. No wonder I hadn’t learned to drive all these years. I was a fool. All the men muttering “Lady driver” and zooming past me were right. I was a moron.

I looked up and saw a tall, slim guy in khaki board shorts walking towards my forlorn car. I braced myself. I was going to get yelled at. He motioned for me to pull down the window and my mind flipped through the expressions of “Imperious” and “Helpless”, ready to use either one.

He smiled and said, “Hi. Turn off your AC. Give it some gas and it’ll work.”
I stared at him. “What??” He repeated the sentence.
Oh my God! The car stalled when the AC was on! I turned it off. And while releasing the clutch, pressed the accelerator down cautiously. The car moved forward smoothly.

I turned the corner of the slope and wondered how to thank him. He came up the slope and motioned to his car parked there. I leaned across the car, the seatbelt nearly strangling my middle, and gasped out, “Thank you! Thank you so much!” He waved at me and smiled.

I released the clutch. The car stalled.
I was mortified. The stupid car stalled twice more before I was able to pick up the tattered remains of my dignity and calm and drove half a kilometre down, stopping at a signal. I looked to the side, and it was Mr Board shorts. He motioned for me to pull down the window again and I did. “Use the handbrake. Put it on, then press the accelerator and then unbrake once you’re moving.”
I smiled at him and thanked him again. When the light turned green, he went ahead.

And since then, I’ve been a little bit in love with my Sir Galahad, knight in shining chrome for distressed driving damsels everywhere. I doubt I’ll ever see him again or be able to find him. But thank you so much. I cannot say that enough.

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Posted by on April 1, 2014 in Ponderings, Raves


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