abtw777

Today’s meltdown all started over a cup of coffee. One coffee plus a cake a day is about all my allowance will afford me – or hoard it up and buy something bigger – the way I managed to save for my phone. Anyway, I’d been out for my regular latte and donut and the coffee seemed a bit cold. So I complained and the woman said, ‘people like you should just have coffee at home’. Not pleasant, but on the other hand, not a reason for a complete meltdown. I left the stuff on the counter and walked out. I don’t even remember if I’d paid for it. And now I’ve been here in the closet of my room for the last several hours. ‘People like you should just have coffee at home.’ I should explain that it was the mention of home that got me. Because, you see, I have no home, and never had. Well, perhaps my single mother, whoever she was, had a home when she gave birth to me. I don’t know – although I may find out before too long. But no, otherwise it’s been eighteen years three months in care....

I know what you’re thinking! How come I, A 23-year-old from Essex, England, have ended up here, one of the remotest parts of Africa, to live with this tribe. This tribe who are known for covering themselves in red ochre and otherwise mostly just wear beads. Considered one of the most ‘primitive’ tribes of the world’s remaining indigenous populations (although I’d call them the most wise and sophisticated beings who have ever graced this planet). Well, it started with a documentary. Put an ordinary English family down into the middle of Africa and see how they cope with a radically different way of life. Great telly! The family was my mum, my dad, two brothers and me. To be honest we had a huge winnebago and plenty of supplies. We could almost have avoided any interaction at all with the tribespeople, if we’d wanted to. And that, indeed, was what the family did! Except, that is, for me. So now, having finished school, I’m back. And this time, I’m intending to stay. No mod-c...

It’s just an opinion – and you might think I’m crazy – but I think the world would be a better place if we all just spent more time in bed! Think of all the pointless work that could then be left for another day! And after a while we’d realise that a lot of work really is just pointless and there’s no reason to be doing it at all! Think of how much more rested everyone would be. So there’d be a lot fewer grumpy and anxious people to deal with. And think how much energy could be saved just by staying under the downie and blankets. Most of us were conceived and born in bed and many of us will die in bed. It’s literally the threshold of both life and death. And of course it is also the threshold to that other world that lives within us – the world of dreams and imagination. Going to bed is like being a pearl diver – plunging down into the depths of our minds and hoping to return to the surface with treasure. These are journeys best taken in the nude. Nudity is the uniform of the ...

It’s late on a Friday evening and I am lying exhausted on the sofa. Rain is falling heavily outside the window. Dad is at his desk, working on his stamp collection. The doorbell rings. I am off the sofa and away to the front door in an instant. It’s very unusual for us to have visitors unannounced. At the door is a friend of mine, Kimberley. She has a bicycle loaded with bags and is soaked to the skin. Hardly before we can speak, Dad has appeared behind me in the doorway. He seems terrified, and staggers back into the house. Since Dad has met Kimberley on a few occasions before, this is a bit puzzling, but perhaps he has not recognised her, or it is just the surprise of someone showing up late at night. I usher Kimberley into the house and we unload her bike and put stuff out to dry on radiators. Then I set about making some food. Meanwhile, Dad has barricaded himself into his bedroom. Despite the lure of wine and extra biscuits, I cannot tempt him out to join us. Then the...

The car had gone. Partly because it needed repairs I could not afford, but also because of my growing dislike for cars generally, and the blight they cause to our towns and cities. I can now look down smugly at drivers, especially those with 4x4’s and SUV’s! So, I am waiting on a bus one afternoon with a couple of other folk at the stop. It is just a short hop between towns to visit friends, but then a longer journey to follow later that same day. The bus pulls up at the stop a little late. The door opens but the driver puts up his hand to hold us back from boarding. There is a drunk man on the bus harassing the driver. The driver phones the police. He gets out of the bus and the drunk man follows him. He is filming the driver on his mobile phone and challenging him to a fight. The driver, a much larger man, is still on the phone to the police. The police suggest to the driver that he boards us new passengers waiting at the stop, and try to leave the drunk man out on the pav...

I had travelled with a group of friends to the small town of Falkland in Fife, Scotland for a green festival called ‘The Big Tent’. A few of us had been involved with trying to establish a Transition Town group in Dundee, and we were keen to attend a talk about the Transition Movement, scheduled for the afternoon. There are hundreds of people at the festival, but when we reach the venue for the Transition talk, there’s only a few of us. The host looks a bit deflated. Even so, she gets going with her presentation. After a few minutes, she mentions a project in Glasgow that had intended to set up a community garden scheme. This is not a Transition project as such, but one of the audience suggests it might be worth discussing. So we chat about this. The land in question lies to the rear of houses. It is frequented by drug addicts. The project leaders, we are told, did their best to spark enthusiasm in the locals to establish vegetable gardens and orchards. Apart from the general ...

I had joined an arts project called ‘If the City Were a Commons’. This is whilst I am staying back at my father’s house – living with him as his carer. Some of us in the Commons Art Group have gone along to a dance performance called ‘Plan B for Utopia’ (which subsequently featured at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival). One of those attending is a friend called Joanna. I suggest we might go for a cup of tea to talk about the Plan B performance, and she agrees. I was very short of money in those days. However, I’m an old-fashioned kind of person and still feel it’s a gentleman’s prerogative to buy for a lady. Every woman is a descendant of the Queen of Sheba, I’ve since told Joanna on many occasions, and the Queen of Sheba doesn’t pay for her own chai and chowder. (I think I learnt this fact from pop legend, Sister Sledge.) There is an anxious moment however, as Joanna considers having a salad. It costs more than I have in cash and I don’t know if any of my bank cards will work. Lu...