Katherine was not like us. Not ever. She liked dresses. With flowers. She brushed her hair and wore socks.
I failed exam after exam. Dates of important events muddled. Sums confused and incomplete. The world conspired against me. Everything had a 3 or a 5 in it. Or both.
Then one day it stopped. Just like that. 3 and 5 were suddenly not the same any more. They were different. Individual. Unique looking. I don’t know how it happened. I was eleven. Nearly. I remember. It was the same day that Mr Everson from across the road backed his caravan over our tortoise. He said it was an accident. I don’t know if the two things are linked somehow. I doubt there is a correlation. Nothing that I can prove now anyway.
Helen had been in my office again. I could tell. I don’t leave traps or anything. That would be childish. I used to though. I could tell because there was a card waiting for me on my desk. It had ‘I Am Sorry’ written on it in silver glitter with a picture of a sad hamster holding a wilting daisy. It wasn’t signed. I knew it was from Helen. She left the price on the back.
Helen and I have a love hate relationship that is heavily skewed towards the loathe and detest end of the spectrum. Apparently I have a better office than her. It has a window that overlooks the canal. The canal is a toxic slick of greeny-brown water full of traffic cones and paper coffee cups, topped with a thick layer of oily scum. Occasionally a rat will float by. On its back. Legs in the air. Usually with another rat trying to eat it. Or mate with it. It’s hard to tell. Helen’s window looks out over the allocated parking in front of the building and the main road. Somehow my view is superior.
Helen likes to ‘borrow’ my things and leave them on her desk in plain sight - daring me to come and reclaim them. Proving ownership of a stapler can be a difficult and time-consuming process. Now she has begun to write her name on the bottom of things that don’t belong to her.
So have I. She uses a marker pen. I have a UV security pen that can’t be seen under normal light. I may have written something rude about her on the bottom of my desk organiser. I know it will be her next target. She can’t lift my filing cabinet.
Helen has been where I am now. Twice. I would have expected her to be more understanding. She still has both of her wedding rings. And a tattoo. I haven’t seen it. I’ve heard about it though. Apparently it says something about undying love with a heart in the background and some poorly drawn butterflies. Romantic. Only one problem. To my knowledge, she was never married to anyone called Derek.
Her first marriage lasted an impressive nine days. The argument started at the reception. It escalated during the taxi ride to the airport. They were asked to leave the Executive Departure Lounge when other passengers complained about the shouting. Free champagne on the flight calmed things down, but it was only a temporary reprieve. It all kicked off again when they reached the hotel. They didn’t even make it to the end of their honeymoon. Her husband flew home early with a budget airline and got diverted to Stockholm. Helen decided to stay behind. The resort was all-inclusive, with three vast swimming pools and an attractive bar manager with taut abdominal muscles.
Helen’s second marriage lasted a little longer. I am not sure how. The pair lived entirely separate lives from around the third month. He came to one office party, but we weren’t sure who he was, so no one talked to him, least of all his wife.
By the time she was twenty-eight, Helen had been a Mrs Drake and a Mrs Cortes. Now she is using her maiden name again. Miss Cook. The sign on her door just says ‘Helen.’ It was easier for everyone to remember.
In case you were wondering, the average marriage lasts around 8 years. Not an exact figure. 64.726% was therefore an approximation based on limited data. Here is how I worked it out:
(y1 - x1) + (y2 - x2) = z
(z x 8 x 365)/100 = 64.726%
But that isn’t why it’s funny. It’s a statistics joke. It’s funny because it’s accurate to three decimal places. See?
I don’t know why I bother.
Daniel Bearing had seven identical suits. They were grey. And seven identical ties. They were black. And seven identical shirts. They were white. They hung in a row in a purpose built, humidity-controlled wardrobe on identical hand crafted wooden coat hangers. They were Italian walnut. He had seven identical pairs of shoes. They were handmade black wingtip Oxfords.
Daniel had a nice car and a nice apartment in a nice area and nice neighbours and absolutely no social life because he was never at home.
Daniel worked for twelve hours a day, six days a week and only took a holiday when he was told to. He lived alone. He was too busy to live with anyone else. They would never see him. They would never notice he had been and gone because all his clothes were identical.
Daniel’s life was a carbon copy of his father’s. His father had worked for over thirty years to build Bearing Foods into an award-winning company with an annual turnover in the millions.
Daniel didn’t have to think for himself. It had all been done for him. Right down to the colour of his socks. They were grey. Like his suits.
Daniel Bearing knew one thing though. He didn’t want to end up on a puffin-infested island wearing a hat like his father.
Dear Matilda
Just a quick note to say that washing machine No.76 has settled in nicely and is behaving itself – so far. Bailey Southerton did an excellent job of installing it. He turned up as arranged and was not what I expected at all. He has mended some other things around the house, too. And he found the lawnmower. He has taken it away as it requires new parts and a full service. He says he might even have some wooden spindles to replace the ones on the staircase that are broken or missing. Bailey Southerton really is a very nice young man. I think you will like him. Mr Southerton (Snr) sends his best regards.
Sidney is recovering from a bad cold. He is asleep under the apple tree in the garden as I write this. He does so love the garden. Despite his illness, he could not be persuaded to stay in bed this one time. He was overjoyed to hear that Bailey might be able to fix the lawnmower. He remembers the garden how it was when your grandfather was alive.
Your brother is back from his trip to South America but has now flown to Italy, where he is working with a cosmetics company who are looking for a new blue. I didn’t think there was a such a thing as a ‘new blue,’ but Jack feels confident that he will be able to come up with something that they haven’t seen before. He started talking about wavelengths and nanometres and the optical spectrum of visible light again. That’s when I stopped listening.
Katherine is buying handbags again. Oh dear.
Your father will be at the 3rd Annual Sand-athon at Cabthorne beach all weekend. He has high hopes this time. I’m fairly certain he will be disappointed. Bloody dolphins! Washing machine No.76 will have its first real test on his return. We would all love to see you.
Love
Mum x
5 things about washing machines
Washing machines usually lasted about six