|Yorkshire Puddings (standard:humor, 1376 words)|
|Author: Atticus||Added: Oct 25 2002||Views/Reads: 1939/1175||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A surreal and ironic look into a person with quite an incredible identity crisis.|
YORKSHIRE PUDDINGS Jean lived in an unportable cabin of a house; an ornamental (you'd be surprised how jumble sale nic-nacs and Boyes' clutter can spruce up a place), prehistoric (unfortunately, nothing 'en vogue') cave; dark, secretive, and hotter than a ring-piece the morning after the night before. Walls were garlanded with curlicular tapestries (car boot this time; six for a fiver), the ceiling nicotine-stained, of course, and carpeting was of the stick-to-your-feet variety. Yes, a most interesting house. But there was more to this house than met the eye. Lurking within the shadows was their family secret, Marina - hidden away from prying eyes, a 'recovering' actress, born from Satan, and pricklier than your skin after two hours on a fast-tan sunbed - one of two sprogs now largely forgotten, the other being the notable Fat Sam; a bilious individual, devoid of endearing traits. Both a permanent fixture in the Bronx (Jean's Houses' Estate, in Scarborough not America); a run-down reflection of how not to run a country. But Jean, ever the icon of purity, sense, and strength in her crazy, crazy world, healed the demons wandering freely around her house, and kept her children well out of sight. But Sylvia didn't know this. Sylvia Wannabe, dressed gaudily, like a Xmas bauble - elaborate, shiny, and effervescent - tremulously opened Jean's House's garden's gate; for the effect on herself (ever the drama Queen), not the twitching curtain owner's over the road. Nervously eyeing her surroundings (and there was no need; but you can't explain things like this to someone like that), Sylvia tapped on the M.D.F. front door, acting up the part in the film in which she had psychologically created; seeing herself outside herself on celluloid; a heroine; a secret-agent; a double-agent rather. A cuckoo child, unhinged and desperate, if ever there was one. Once inside Jean's territory, the warmth cracked Sylvia's foundation immediately, unbeknown to her. Jean gurned a toothless smile, showing off typically, and welcomed this identity-less soul encouragingly. Sylvia asked Mystic Jean (as she was known thereabouts), who was also a visionary, who she was, and would she find out from the cards. To be precise, "I'm here to find out who I am." Jean doubted it, but would try and fail regardless. "You mean you're not a woman? Streuth. Do you know about the woman who forgot about her washing on the line? Two weeks and much rain later found mildew and rot as remnants of a time before. Sang a Dixieland chorus for the next two weeks, so she did. And all because a neighbour, Mrs. Nesbit, from No.32, forgot to remind her. I say - a fortnight without a thought for your bed-linen is worse than leaving your kids at Disneyland; although, in some respects, the latter would be more desirable than the former. Our Marina once said, two years before she was born - I heard her even then, like a foghorn - the same thing, but you can't answer, for it would be like jumping into a bull-ring without training; all rhetoric; wind and piss. It'll kick you in the head soon as look at you." Before sighing, "She was always bright." Remembering when she went to strip her singularly papered wall of paper; a garibaldi-scented affair, but resolute. You see, with a paperless wall she was free to ruminate effortlessly on what was left. The bare minimum. "Yeah?" Sylvia, restless to distraction by now, wasn't getting the point at all. A blank expression replaced the former interested look; she wondered if she'd done the right thing by coming here, and couldn't pin-point a bull on a wall anywhere. "Who do you want to be?" Jean shrieked, suddenly, causing Sylvia to spill her tea onto the dog (an already unforgiving beast) that had taken to sitting under her size 9 stilletoes. Sylvia replied, dramatically, "I want to be a woman." Jean had heard that line somewhere else before. But Sylvia knew, even with implants and 'that' removed, that she could only ever acquire an identity, not a life. For that, 20 odd years of physiological and social calamity stood in her way. But why couldn't she try and fail, it would be much more sanctifying; like the trip to Disneyland, but without the kids in the first place. Or even arriving, Click here to read the rest of this story (78 more lines)
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