A PIECE OF BUTTERED BREAD

When I wake from a bad dream or I can't sleep


because of pain and I lie in the dark wondering


if the stove element has been left on, I get up to


butter a piece of bread and fill the hot-water bottle.

And while I'm up I look to see if Randle's touched


the jellymeat I left out for him on the saucer


at the back door. And if I'm lucky I'll catch him in


the yellow light scuttling under the geranium.

I make a strong cup of tea with no milk.


Instead of a real hottie I use a lemonade bottle.


They tell me to get a proper one. The Warehouse


has them cheap. The plastic will burst and you'll


scald yourself, they say. But the trick is not


to use boiling water, and don't fill it to the top.

I check to see that all the switches are off in the kitchen


before going back to bed to listen to talkback radio.


An interesting man rang up the other night


and went on about rhubarb and nettle tea


and remedies for thinning the blood.


I wouldn't mind something to help keep


the food down. Since I had the hip done


I've never quite felt the same. . .


The others say I don't eat enough healthy food -


but I do! I'm eating it all the time!

It wasn't that long ago I was still able to walk to


the shops - with the help of pills. Lots of pills.


You should cut down on them and get more


exercise Mrs Black, the doctor says.


That leg won't get better if you don't use it.


Maybe he's right - but I'm tired. So tired.


I tell them I haven't the energy I used to have,


the pain's so bad. All I want to do is sleep ­-


but they make sure I don't get it!

They say I dwell too much on the past.


Those things that happened should be forgotten -
­

they're gone. You can't change anything -­


so forget it! But every morning I look from my


bedroom window out over the flat houses towards


the beach and cemetery and the small patch of grass


next to Dad's. . .

You shouldn't feed the hedgehogs, they go on -
­

we can't afford it.


Why don't you watch more TV? -
­

you couldn't get enough of ShortIand Street once.

It's better when everyone's in bed and the house is quiet


and the TV's off. It's a time I can have to myself.


I can feed Randle whenever it suits me


and butter as much bread as I like.


And if I die in my sleep - who cares?

BUTCHER SHOP

I'm in the Rhubarb Cafe drinking delicious English Breakfast
tea when in walks the most beautiful woman in the world (with

an equally beautiful child), at the same time as the Chiffons begin
singing 'She's so fine' on the sound system - and I'm thinking:

Why does tea in cafes taste so much better than tea at home? . . .
Anyway, Roslyn is well today, and we're looking forward to the

hottest afternoon this summer, and I've just been to the doctors
who, despite my slightly high cholesterol and anxiety level, says

I'm in quite good shape. This cafe's a converted butcher shop -
­no paintings on the walls. You can imagine blood splattering up

the pretty white tiles, the sun beating on striped shades, and
an aproned man with fingers like fat saveloys taking Mrs

Grundy's order with a crude joke chucked in never too far
from a sausage and kidney analogy . . . Trini Lopez begins to

shout 'If I had a hammer' as I walk out into the blinding sun and
across to the bridge to the spot where I last saw L, late one night

just before Christmas, drunk, looking like she was about to jump
onto the cars below - and we walked together down the length of

Highgate shouting and yakking our heads off, and hating Christmas.
And three weeks later they found her dead in someone's woodshed.

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