Something Beginning With. Sarah SalwayЧитать онлайн книгу.
for being a gossip, but why is it that two men found talking together are thought to be discussing something important but two women are always gossiping?
See Boxing, Glitter, Moustache, Women’s Laughter
Grief
There was a little boy in the park the other day. He was dressed in the full England kit, like a miniature footballer. He even had those long socks on and when he ran, he did that sideways swagger at the hips men do to make it look as if they aren’t properly running. Just getting to somewhere quickly.
But then he fell over and his face went all square. Not just the shape of his face, but every little feature in it went square. His mouth was the most obvious. It turned into a letterbox in the middle of this red block. But even his eyes looked like small angular black stamps. His whole body went rigid too and when his shoulders shook, they turned into straight lines that went up and down, up and down, like a lift. I watched as his mother ran up and tried to grab hold of him. It was difficult for her at first because his edges were too sharp, but then he suddenly deflated into a rag doll and she picked him up and took him over to the bench and made him happy again.
Just like that. I saw how she made him happy. One second he was crying and the next he was pointing at a dog and laughing.
I think the secret is in getting the tears out. Some mornings I wake up, and I know I’ve been crying in my sleep, but I just can’t get the tears out. That’s when you think you’re drowning. You’re not sharp or square. Just an empty outline filled up to the brim with lukewarm water that numbs everything inside you. You’re too full to take anything in, and too blocked to let anything out. That’s grief. Everything else is just sadness, and seeing a funny dog can make you better.
See Happiness, Illness, Why?, You
Gwyneth Paltrow
If I looked like Gwyneth Paltrow, nothing else could possibly go wrong in my life. And that’s all I want to say about her. Basically.
See Breasts, Star Quality
Hair
My hair is very long and black. There’s a little nub of black at the end of each strand. Like a small pool of ink. I can squash it between two pieces of paper so it sticks and leaves a dark streak when I press on it. I can even write with it. Sometimes I find marks I have left in books and forgotten about. Once I even did it to a library book. If I am ever captured, I will be able to write a note with my hair. It is possibly the one advantage brunettes have over blondes.
Actually, I have started to pull my hair out. Each time I tug at a strand, there is a second when I don’t think I am going to be able to bear the pain. It’s the only thing I can think about, but it never lasts long enough. When it’s over, I flick the hair to the ground and immediately pull at another.
I was trying on some clothes the other day and I saw what I thought was a bald patch at the back of my head in the mirror. My legs nearly buckled, but when I went closer I saw that it was just the reflection from the light shining on my hair. I told myself that I would stop pulling. Not that day, but one day soon.
When I was at school, I played netball with a girl called Susan Armstrong. One day she was just standing on the court itching her head and daydreaming. When the ball suddenly came towards her, she put her hands up in a panic to catch it, but she was still holding on to her hair and she yanked out the whole handful. It never grew back. The skin underneath was tighter and shinier than her face. It was like looking at the moon. She couldn’t have minded because she used to show it to everyone.
Mind you, she was a bit of an exhibitionist. When she left school, she went to work in a fish and chip shop and had to wear a little hat over her head. Maybe it was because she couldn’t let us see her bald patch any more that she would let us smell her arm. It was as if the oil and vinegar from all those fish suppers had soaked into her skin. I used to love smelling Susan’s arm, but one day when there was no one else around I couldn’t stop myself from leaning forward and licking her. Not hard. My tongue didn’t actually reach the flesh, it just brushed the hairs on her arm backwards and forwards. I could almost feel each grain of salt in my mouth.
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