16 September 2002
George isn't just talking to herself.
Take me with you! Don't make me stay all alone in the house without anyone to talk to!
The hour between getting up and leaving the house is the worst. Outside, away from home, things are less familiar and thus less likely to look at or talk to me. Inside though the familiarity combined with my leaving is - well. After seven forty-five a.m., it's easier.
The first five minutes after waking aren't too bad. Getting out of bed poses the first of the day's minor traumas as my stuffed toys shoot me reproachful sleepy looks. As I go to run my bath, the guilt starts to kick in. Strangely (or perhaps not) very few of the bathroom items talk to me- the Lush shampoo bar and the Pantene Pro-V don't try to guilt-trip me about which one of them I should use. The soaps remain unflappable whether I use them or not. My toothbrushes show little difference in emotion, whether they're or whether they're about to be thrown out. Even the towels have a permanent air of calm about them. I emerge from the tub, dry myself and head back to my room to dress.
Inside it's psychic bedlam. I can already feel tension radiating from my knickers drawer about my choice of underwear for the day, and all of my pairs of shoes are lining up tall and straight in an effort to be picked. Choose me, Georgina, choose me! The atmosphere as I dress isn't dissimilar to that when the lottery balls are chosen. Each item of clothing that I put on decreases the chance of certain shoes being worn; the brown tweed trousers, for example, will never be worn with the grey marl heels. Only the knee-high black boots can be worn with everything but their smugness has been worn down. The boots are at that precarious stage of wearing out, and every blissful outing that they take with me now only decreases the time until they get thrown away. And they know it.
As I don my clothes I avoid looking over to the toys (one large brown teddy bear, one deformed pig) on the futon. I know that they're picking up the subtle differences in my attire - no jeans, no trainers, subtle but flattering make-up - which mean that I'll be leaving the house for work soon. No weekend mooching around today. I am torn by the trauma on their faces (and Jesus, they actually have faces, which makes it so much worse than the guilt from the rest of my belongings) but suppressing my hurt I go to make breakfast.
Food was actually where it started: knowing that if I didn't eat that last green bean then it would sit all alone on the plate, drowning in its own personal beany misery. If you just eat it, darling, then it can be with the rest of its friends in your tummy! Nondistinct amorphous foodstuffs like milk and Ready Brek are OK as there's not enough distinction for a sense of identity. Distinct foods are unspeakable though. On any particular morning the bananas and satsumas in the fruit bowl will vie for my attention, and the rice and the pasta fight it out at dinner that evening. This state of play has led to my weight problem; leaving food unfinished on my plate is on a par with abandoning a new-born baby by a police station with a note: My name is David. Kick me if you want. I tried bulimia briefly but the confusion of my meals - You brought us in and loved us, only to reject us again? - was awful.
Taking leave of the house is done swiftly and with my Walkman on, eighties power ballads drowning out the cries of my belongings. Knowing I'll be back in ten hours isn't enough - I know that they want me to be there full time, loving, nurturing.
The train that takes me into town is getting to know me now. The tickets are friendly, in a fleeting way. My computer at my desk is becoming more at ease with me, as it the desk itself. And I think that kettle in the staff kitchen definitely likes me.
18 December 2003. George writes: This List
Most recent ten:
15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs
11 December 2003. Dan writes: Spinning Jenny
8 December 2003. Victor writes: Rock Opera
4 December 2003. Matt writes: The Mirrored Spheres of Patagonia
1 December 2003. George writes: Charm
27 November 2003. James writes: On Boxing
24 November 2003. Jamie writes: El Matador del Amor; Or, the Man who Killed Love
20 November 2003. Dan writes: Rights Management
17 November 2003. Victor writes: Walking on Yellow
13 November 2003. Matt writes: Disintermediation
(And alas we lost Neil, who last wrote Cockfosters)
Also by this clown:
1 December 2003. George writes: Charm
10 November 2003. George writes: Dead beat
20 October 2003. George writes: Shortening
29 September 2003. George writes: Manhattanites are Cleavage-Starved
11 September 2003. George writes: How to Bring Us in Line With the Future
18 August 2003. George writes: Slashtastic
28 July 2003. George writes: Underground Independent Small Press Comic Fight Club
7 July 2003. George writes: Careering
16 June 2003. George writes: Choose your own adventure
26 May 2003. George writes: Revelations
8 May 2003. George writes: Picture Perfect
14 April 2003. George writes: MetaPirate
24 March 2003. George writes: Preparation X
3 March 2003. George writes: F of x
13 February 2003. George writes: Three is the magic number
23 January 2003. George writes: Recorded Delivery
30 December 2002. George writes: Meat Bingo or Death
12 December 2002. George writes: Royal Inquisitor
21 November 2002. George writes: This Clown is Cancelled
28 October 2002. George writes: Shopping with God
3 October 2002. George writes: SaferSpoony
16 September 2002. George writes: Supercalanthropomorphicexpealidocious
26 August 2002. George writes: The deformed animal menagerie
5 August 2002. George writes: Plaice that Funky Music, Whitebait
15 July 2002. George writes: Safe as Houses
24 June 2002. George writes: Two Lions (DB/DS)
30 May 2002. George writes: Series 8
9 May 2002. George writes: Market Stall
11 April 2002. George writes: I, the Enlargened, Crunchy Product
18 March 2002. George writes: Cakexterminator
21 February 2002. George writes: Fiction Suit
28 January 2002. George writes: Spunk Gunk
31 December 2001. George writes: Fairytale of New Pork
10 December 2001. George writes: Circular
15 November 2001. George writes: A Man With No Ass Is No Man At All
22 October 2001. George writes: One Night in Heaven
27 September 2001. George writes: Uncut
3 September 2001. George writes: Porn Pants
9 August 2001. George writes: Names of the Roses
19 July 2001. George writes: No Fun Here
21 June 2001. George writes: All Your Elections are Belong to Us
28 May 2001. George writes: Pierced as Fuck
3 May 2001. George writes: My Lovely Horse
9 April 2001. George writes: Eight Hundred and Forty-Three
12 March 2001. George writes: Kill 'Em All
19 February 2001. George writes: Formal
25 January 2001. George writes: Sticks and stones
11 January 2001. George writes: A Thought on Morality
11 December 2000. George writes: You can't put that into a soufflé
13 November 2000. George writes: Lyrical Genius
19 October 2000. George writes: Wet wet wet wet wet
25 September 2000. George writes: Built on an Indian burial ground
31 August 2000. George writes: This Way
31 July 2000. George writes: Runt of the Litter
We are all Upsideclown: Dan, George, James, Jamie, Matt, Neil, Victor.
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