The Irish one has decided to start growing potatoes, on our kitchen windowsill.
I paused there so that the full horror of what I am telling you can sink in.
The man has ultimately thought about it long and hard, and has evidently come to the conclusion that growing potatoes, in an already crammed two bedroom flat in the middle of industrial Hell Manchester, is a sensible and normal thing to do.
And it’s not only potatoes.
It’s tomatoes too.
I, once again, am idealizing suicide.
Although the two events seemed to kick-start around the same time, I am almost sure they are not related.
‘What in the hell is this on the windowsill?’
The windowsill, by the way, was the only surface in this godforsaken flat of Doom* that hadn’t already been taken up by some form of clutter.
(*If you are a potential buyer then I don’t mean any of this stuff I am saying by the way, it really is an upcoming area with great potential, filled with lovely people who only carry bricks because it looks cool, and only look menacing because they are tired. Also this Apartment is genuinely in an ideal location for a single and semi blind person about town, who doesn’t mind the odd bit of Cancer, from the tiny industrial estate which really is further away than it smells, and also a small family who don’t tend to use their windowsills to START A FARM!)
My windowsill was glorious.
Half a meter of shiny white, varnished wood that on the one sunny day of the year would shine and glint, occasionally reminding me of sunsets in the Caribbean when I worked on the ships, of a life spent growing up in Spain free of the doldrums of this existence and occasionally in my darker moments, it would remind me of wood worm.
And then I would want to smash it to smithereens.
Because, seriously how can the very thought of a worm that eats wood just not freak you out?
It cannot be natural.
Does the worm go hard?
And if not?
It is EATING WOOD!
“It’s Potatoes! Addy and I are starting a mini allotment! Isn’t it a great idea!’
I had been at work 4 hours.
This is how long it took for an indoor allotment to be created in my kitchen.
Can you imagine what would happen if I left them to their own devices for longer than this?
Doodle would be sharing his bed with chickens, that is what would happen.
We are only one step away from chickens!
And I have a phobia of EGGS!
Are you bored with listening to me go on about my illness yet?
Blah blah blah, I want to hang myself, or suffocate myself, or maybe tie bricks to my feet and go for a swim in the Quays, blah blah blah… change the record.
I am bored of talking about it, but even more tired of feeling this way, of shuffling my dusty feet around and around in circles seemingly making absolutely no progress further than the occasional bout of euphoria, usually only caused by accidentally taking too much medication or perhaps spotting that Selfridges stock a new Marc Jacobs handbag.
I am sinking here, again.
I am so bored of sinking.
So What the hell is he thinking?
Is he trying to push me over the edge?
Our flat is tiny and already has four heartbeats crammed in to it.
8 if you count the Guppy fish we inherited from the neighbor who randomly moved to china in the middle of the night.
(*Seriously, LOVELY area.)
Do fish even have heartbeats?
Wouldn’t a heartbeat in something so tiny put them off their stroke?
I am not going to be as predictable as to regale you with how I feel I can relate to those fish if I stare at them long enough, endlessly swimming around their prison, stuck, being able to see what life is like on the other side of the glass but never being able to reach it, with no hope, completely reliant on a small pair of bum smelling, 2 year old hands to provide their happiness, their sustenance.
But I will be honest.
Sometimes I think they may be communicating with me.
Boc Boc Boc Bo BOC BOC, basically means; ‘Kill us now you miserable bitch, or at the very least shave your damn legs and get off the Sofa.
(Boc Boc Boc is how fish talk. I am also aware chickens talk like this. DO you see a pattern emerging here? BECAUSE I DO!)
But I can’t.
I have no energy left.
And the energy I do have I am certainly not going to waste on getting up off the sofa and shaving.
The Irish one is growing potatoes on the windowsill.
And most of my time is spent trying not to take an overdose.
Although the two may not be related, they definitely kicked off around the same time.
And also, rather significantly, he recently told me he would never even consider moving to Spain.
May just be a Game changer.
Because if I don’t even have a hope of ever going home?
Never getting out of this fish tank?
What is the point?
All I wanted was a tiny particle of hope.
The thought of one day going home, of heading back to everything i know? Well, as unrealistic as it may have been, it kept me going when things got very dark.
It was hope.
But now he is happily growing potatoes on the Windowsill,
And I don’t feel so lucky that I have something so precious to me, that he makes saying goodbye feel so much harder, than being forced to stay.
Even if his hands do smell of Bum.
So for now,
I will Just Keep Swimming and pray I don’t come home to poultry.