Jour 6

I’m pretty amazed by the fact I am drinking a dry Asahi and vaping a watermelon flavoured plastic stick. 

My boyfriend is abroad and I am lost. I know, I live in the same flat, and my cup of tea holds the same amount of earl grey and milk. But believe me, I feel like a two years old starting nursery. I remember when I was that age my mum wasn’t working, she was a stay at home mum. Which I thought was a real job, a remunerated job I mean. No offence, always thought my mum had the hardest job, making sure my dad had a slice of turkey and some peas in his plate when he came back from his own remunerated work. Apparently society considered it was just some type of holidays, like waving a broom was some kind of dance you would do in a camping every summer. But yeh, when I was little I remember my mum was taking care of that other child that was hitting me with a spade. Oh god I hated that child. No wonder your mum doesn’t want to take care of you. You’re so unbearable. One day though, my mum came back very quiet. Was she a nanny? I mean I guess she was a nanny in the village. I didn’t think that was a job, compare to being a mum. Yes I had some misconception about the world. She was quiet. I guess she cried. I guess she felt sick. But at the time I had no idea that it was so important. The baby she was suppose to take care of, has died. Sudden infant death syndrome. I remember that I understood it at the time, the baby has died, when he – she was little. A bundle of bones and skin, a smiley little human being, just dead in its sleep. I remember feeling sad, for the baby, for the parents, for my mum. How sad it was. And unfair. This baby will never hit me with a spade. And I would have preferred really. As much as I hated that first kid who was craving for my mum’s attention. Instead he went with the fairies. I remember they were in their cradle. A grave before the grave. I hope they didn’t suffer. But yeh I was saying, my boyfriend is abroad, and apparently that reminds me of the dead baby. And I’m drinking straight whiskey in a plastic cup now from the National Theatre, that you’re not suppose to take home, but let’s be realistic it looks quite nice to have this kind of cup at yours. 


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