I wake up with the light on my face and my legs in the place I left them last night – I haven’t moved them at all. Time has stilled about me and my fringe clings to my face. I put too much hair oil on last night in the bath and I can feel the mistake along the nape of my neck, but the shower forgives.
It’s beginning to look like the sort of weather that doesn’t allow this – I eat breakfast with wet hair dripping down my back, gathering in a puddle at my waist. It’s a warm croissant, it’s salted butter and it’s jam we made two years ago. The lid is so tight I have to stab through it with a knife just to pop it open, and it tangs like a perfectly timed joke.
We made the jam together in the kitchen with plums from the farm down the road, and two teenagers who spoke to us about growing up, the internet, and glitter. We shook the trees when our arms couldn’t reach any further, and brought the little purple and green pellets back in boxes. There must have been thousands of them and there are still hundreds of jars under the sink.
I decide to eat my fridge bare.
I roast the beetroot. I fry the broccoli. I coat the butter beans and roast those too. I chop up the carrot I have, sad and not quite turgid, along with the heel of the cabbage. I find the last of the avocado and spoon it out. I swirl olive oil with mustard, vinegar, honey and the last of the garlic. I put it all in a bowl.
After, with the rain outside, I set the bubbles in and fill the sink, watch the suds burst, watch the skins of vegetables swim. I think of Llandysul Leisure Centre, where I would hold my breath for length and lengths, feel the way my lungs threatened me, pushed passed it, pushed forwards and emerged with one big outbreath, looked around, then did it again. I think about how delicious those big breaths tasted, full of chlorine and warmth and shampoo, and about how much more delicious the hot chocolate from the vending machine used to be, with that pocket of unmixed powder at the bottom of the polystyrene cup that baffled me everytime. I think of milkshake before school, fruit after, spaghetti for dinner and a mars bar, cut into four pieces for me, mum, dad and leia. I think about the ways I ate mine, slowly in front of the telly, trying to make it last.
Then, the dishes drain on the rack, and my hair isn’t wet on my back anymore, and I fill my cup with more water, and I swallow it.
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thanks Hattie for taking part in The Fortified Gazette, we hope all readers have enjoyed!
you can find Hattie at instagram.com/hattie.mrrsn/
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this week we have upcoming ‘a day in the life of Dot,’ an excellent almost 2 year old who lives in Glasgow, as recorded by Kate.