My First.
The room was small and insignificant. One of those sad back-of-the-mall jobs. The guy, whose name I didn’t bother to enquire, was middle-aged, unkempt, not particularly friendly, yet somehow entirely trustworthy in the eyes of this 18-year-old. He pointed at his wall of frames and, in a thick East London accent, asked me which one.
“That one,” I said, pointing to a pair of tribal-looking lizards intertwined in a 69 position. That’s exactly what I want to be inked on my lower back forever.
For a mere £25, my wish was granted. Thankfully hepatitis-free.
Blossoming.
I’m not entirely sure how and why this happens. It just does- to all of us, across the board. Suddenly and without warning, I have come to know tree and plant names. Finding a cleaning solution to pesky toilet limescale became the highlight of a weekend and a topic of gleeful discussion among friends. Didn’t we used to talk about whatshername and whatshisface hooking up, as opposed to working out the crossword clue for ‘hook’ (6) that starts with P and ends with E (pirate)?
I used to spend my money on going out. Now I own 24 indoor plants.
Everlasting.
A boat ride crossing from Thailand to Laos, 2011. New York, 2008. The central Line, 2002. My bedroom, Mile End, 2006. The Library, Kfar Saba, 1993. This is what comes to mind when I think of some of my favourite books. Not what their covers contained inside, but rather where I was reading them, where I got them or who gave them to me.
The storylines are fuzzy now, but I can still smell the lunch served on that boat, feel the rain I was protecting my borrowed book from, annoyed at that signal failure making me late for work.
Lulu.
Turning my key in the door, I can already feel his paws on me, jumping up and rotating around me with his wagging tail and cone of shame like he hasn’t seen me in a week when in actual fact, it’s been three hours. The welcoming committee was in full force every time anyone entered the threshold of Tebbs HQ.
That was the drill for many years. But he’s older now- a senior. Or maybe he used to give more fucks about the human that feeds him. These days he barely looks up from his bed when I get in.
Wild.
I have an unreasonable fear of rats. And mice. In fact, anything small that breathes and comes into my vicinity or living space uninvited.
I like birds, though. Especially magpies. They’re pretty, intelligent, and fucking savage. Once, I witnessed two magpies playing with a dead rat by flinging it as high as one could for the other to catch it mid-air in a tournament of catch-the-dead-rat. In the moment, I was thankful there was one less rat in London to be scared of- while running away screaming like a little girl to try and avoid getting hit by said rat.
CREATIVE NOTES 