I’ve enjoyed myself immensely.

Can I recommend to all parents who don’t do so already, to please keep EVERYTHING your child creates. It will provide hours of fun when said child is at home very much an adult and who should know better than to be sitting on the floor pouring over old drawings and the like.

I’ve selected the best of the worst for your viewing pleasure and will post about each piece in due course.

Today’s selection is a short story I wrote at the age of four.

A while back, one of my oldest friends asked me where my sudden desire to write had come from after reading some of the novel I’d written. To her it was sudden; being that all throughout childhood I never showed anyone my writing, so saying it came as a surprise to her when she found out I’d been writing for years is an understatment. It was something I did in the privacy of my own company. Writing isn’t exactly a social pastime after all.

I told her about the first story I ever remember writing: It was about two bees. My brothers were at school and I was due at nursery later that afternoon, but I‘d found some time that morning to churn out a story. I was 4. It was bad.

I honestly thought it was thrown away but as already mentioned, my mum keeps everything and I recently found it much to my horror.

I dread to think what a psychologist would say about this piece. If you are a psychologist and happen to be reading this, please don’t feel the need to tell me. Some things are best left unsaid.

The Bee by Tracy

Once upon a time there lived a bee. It was called Bong. It was the funniest bee in the country and ate anything and was big of course, bees are big.

I just want to tell you this story.

It all began when a bigger bee came, it was called Rong. Bong knew it was his brother. He came from Italy. He looked a bit different because he had bee surgery. His eyes were smooth, his back was smooth too but Bong’s body was crinkled.

They had a fight. Bong nearly got killed but he survived. They were mates again. They lived happily ever after.

The end

Perhaps that’s what inclined me to go there in the first place.

If I’m honest, the sort of honest you don’t want to admit to, I went into the desert with little understanding of what to expect. I had no idea of what I wanted out of the experience, and even less so of what I wanted to put in.

All I knew was that I needed to do something that was completely different to anything I’ve ever done before. I wanted to be pushed outside of my comfort zone. I wanted to be excited and scared. I wanted to learn but also to share.

I wasn’t disappointed.

At times I was completely isolated from what I liked to call “the real world”, because the barren land I was currently inhibiting couldn’t have been real, surely? It was far too magical and endless to be anything other than a dream. Standing atop the golden dunes filled my vision with an infinite view of the Sahara. If I closed my eyes and let the sound of the desert fill me completely, I could hear only the steady beat of my heart and the rushing waves of the wind.

Watching the heavens turn from day into night evoked a reaction in me so physical, I was momentarily blinded by the onslaught of tears that wouldn’t stop.

Clearly I didn’t deserve to witness such a wonder. Why else would I deny myself the chance of watching the sky darken from the setting sun, only then for it to be enlivened seconds later by the full moon rising?

I couldn’t stop my tears from falling any more than I could stop the moon from rising. Some things are just supposed to happen.

It’s true in a place so vast you can become lost, but what’s also true is that you can find.

And what I found was how to let go. The trials and expectations of my life thus far lay abandoned someplace on the horizon. They were still there of course, but I no longer had the burden of carrying them around. Instead, I was content to simply be.

And by simply being, I found myself. It turns out I was there all along, I was just looking for someone else.

But then it’s easy to find the time to do so when time doesn’t exist; the Sahara being a boundless sandglass with an indefinite trickle of sand.

I had all the time in the world.

Until I rejoined the real world, that is.

But it’s a new year, and I can pray.
That I can and will, get through each day.
And thinking not, of the year gone by,
I will not miss you, I will not cry.

Goodbye 2010, I won’t miss you. You’ve been a trying year. I’m ready for 2011 and all it may bring.

But last night I did go. And as both my housemate and I enjoy drinking tea, she came with me.

I arrived straight from work, quickly dashing into the toilets to change out of my work clothes. I don’t think wearing a top bearing the logo of a worldwide corporation really projects the sort of cool, sophisticated arty type I fail to be.

I made myself comfortable in my high-backed wooden chair, dainty little tea cup in hand and sat amiably whilst listening to people read their poetry.

After the first half I wanted to read something myself. Only I didn’t have anything on me.

Except I did!

Some months back I sent a poem to a friend through Facebook, and after hastily searching through the messages on my phone, I quickly scribbled it down onto the back of a piece of paper which had all my shift times on for work.

And after putting down my little tea cup which was now rattling in its saucer on the table due to stage fright, I walked up to the front and read out one of my poems.

It’s about a bear, a mean spirited little bear who very much enjoys his food.

(Un)Fortunately, my housemate was there to catch it all on her iPhone. And after a little bit of indecision, I’ve decided to put it up on here. It’s rare I share my work with people I don’t know, and rarer still to read it aloud to them.

But you know me, I get a thrill from doing things which scare me. I guess that’s why I still work in retail.

Tubby and the one legged egg.

No more, no less.

I touched upon the subject of my personal crisis in my last update. And I now feel the time’s right to elaborate, not because I wish to have all eyes on me, but because this blog has always been my outlet. Just because I usually post humorous things, doesn’t mean I don’t have other feelings. Just because I make light of situations, doesn’t mean things don’t impact me.

Right now my room is a mess. I have clothes lying haphazardly all over my floor. Packaging from recent DVD purchases lay scattered about in a careless manner. These things reflect how I’m feeling. For the past couple of weeks I haven’t wanted to make any effort to get up and go to work; it’s probably the closest to depression I’ll ever allow myself to feel.

And yet I did go into work. Every single day I went, even when my itinerary for the day was one endless, mindless task of shifting books into a more orderly fashion. I would rather throw myself into a shitty job then allow myself to physically wallow.

Rejection is a bitter pill to take; most of the time it’s forced upon you. No one wants to put themselves out there just to be knocked back, or down – or crushed. And yet it happens in everyday life, it’s a part of life. Without it, we wouldn’t know what we’re capable of. We would have nothing to compare to that feeling of knowing what getting what we want feels like, if we didn’t know what it was to be rejected.

In that sense, I can appreciate the sentiments of rejection.

The whole point of it is to figure out where you’re going wrong, or what you could do better. It’s about objectifying your actions into a way that improves you as a person.

I’m not saying I’m perfect, far from it, but what if you feel that everything you gave to someone was everything you could possibly give, that it’s everything you are – and yet you were still rejected for it. To the point where that person doesn’t even acknowledge your existence anymore?

How am I supposed to get my head around that?

Objectively speaking, I should realise that this person isn’t worth it. Surely if they can’t even give me the time of day, then why do I continue to fill my time with thoughts of them?

They said they were honest with me from the beginning, if that’s the case, then why do I feel as if every feeling they said they ever had towards me, was a complete lie?

Because if they didn’t lie, then why weren’t their feelings enough to keep the friendship alive?

He said my words were too strong.

I am anything but weak.

Which is why I hate the fact I’m feeling this way over a guy. I’ve been through much worse and I’ve let it affect me much less.

He said he doesn’t regret knowing me, only the ugly way in which it ended.

It only turned ugly when he rejected me completely from his life.

He said I was too forceful in pursuing the friendship after he ended it.

I thought you were supposed to fight for the things you wanted. For the things that meant something to you.

I am tenacious, not desperate.

I can’t make somebody like me; I just thought at one point, they actually did.

And that it was enough.

Remember to love without limits; your capacity is fathomless. Never be afraid to show someone the depths of your feelings; just ensure you wet their toes first – you don’t want them to drown.

Keep beating.

Keep living.

Keep loving.

Love,
Teesee

For my sanity has left me, or perhaps it’s just arrived.
I never knew the difference until you looked into my eyes.
And as my world began to turn; I found you caught me by surprise.
With every passing moment, we come closer yet, to our goodbyes.

You stayed only for a second, I’ll remember you longer still.
I’ll try and count forever, but I don’t think I have the will –
To see that far ahead as I keep on looking back.
Know only this, I miss you; I watch our curtain fade to black.

You ask friends and colleagues for book recommendations. You nod emphatically to their suggestions, taking care to remember at least one of the titles they suggest; only that joke you read this morning from the cartoon section suddenly makes sense and you laugh, completely forgetting what your colleague just said. But that’s ok; you remember the gist of it, right?

Time flies, and before you know it you’re off on holiday and you still haven’t managed to buy that book that YOU MUST READ. What was the name of it again? You make a quick stop in the airport bookshop. You approach a member of staff and you say: I want to buy a book. My friend recommended it to me. I can’t remember the title exactly, but it was something funny.

Oh wait no. That was the joke you laughed at.

You can’t work out why the staff member is giving you a blank look.

They’re asking you if it’s a new book. Or if you know the name of the author. Or a word from the title. But all you can remember is that stupid joke, and before you know it you’re saying something about “a joke book,” just to stop you from looking stupid.

It’s too late.

The staff member eyes you suspiciously, they know, you think. THEY KNOW you’re making this up.

You follow them anyway to a particular aisle, and you both stand there. They pull out a couple of books for you to look at. One of the titles reads: Busty, Slag and Nob End. You are OUTRAGED. You are not that sort of girl. You look at the other book, it reads: Potty, Fartwell and Knob. Well you think, I did say a funny title.

They get called away by another customer and you’re left holding a couple of knobs. You shove the books back into the shelf, not caring where they’re supposed to go. You’re about to turn around and head straight out of the shop, but something catches your eye.

A book – THE book. The name of the title has suddenly come to you. You pull it out and flick through the pages. It’s full of cartoons. The same cartoons you read every morning on the way to work. That’s why the title looked familiar.

Oh what the heck. You buy the book.

The holiday was that good, you never had a moment to read the book. You decide to take it with you to read on your way into work.

You finally get that cultured, I’m-so-clever feeling that comes from reading a book on the tube. And that person still continues to look over your shoulder. You laugh. You still don’t get it. But that’s ok.

You’re reading a book. Mission accomplished.

I walk to one end of the airport to clock out, then, trek to the other side to retireve my bag and jacket. I battle my way through check in and finally exit the building. My journey is far from over. I then brave the travelator and try not to get annoyed when people just stand there on it. Helpful advice: You go faster when you WALK on the damn thing.

I wait impatiently behind a tourist at the ticket barrier in the tube station, watching as they swipe their PAPER ticket against the Oyster card reader. Because of this, I’ve missed my train. I walk to the end of the platform where it’s quiet. I sit on the bench and then, I put my head in my filthy, dry skinned, broken nailed hands, and I whimper quietly.

Working in a bookshop completely wrecks your hands.

Once upon a time my hands used to be soft and supple and if, for some strange reason I’d ever gotten the opportunity to stroke a baby’s bottom, I’d say they used to be as soft as that.

Once upon a time my nails used to look nice. They were long. I used to paint them in various colours. I still have the bottles. Now they are chipped from breaking into the sealed boxes where the books are stored. They are chipped from forcing books into spaces that aren’t really spaces at all; I imagine this is what parting the red sea was like.

And books don’t just magically appear in the shop for me to put out, oh no. I have to pull a hu-uge metal cage through London’s busiest airport, dodging travellers as they stare dumbly at the over-priced -yet tax free!- perfumes that are on display.

Once upon a time my arms were free from bruises.  But hoisting HEAVY boxes of books out from those damned cages gives my arms a very unflattering black and blue and purple quality. Well, if I can’t paint my nails, I suppose I’ll make do with a splash of colour on my arms instead.

All this and I’ve yet to serve a customer. By the time I do, I feel like a filthy vagabond when giving back change. My hands, bloodied and bruised could do with a rest. Unfortunately, that cage still needs to go back – ready to be filled with yet more boxes.

Out I go, cage in tow, huffing and puffing, shouting: EXCUSE ME PLEASE, to anyone who cares to listen. They don’t care. I don’t listen – to their screams as I roll my cage over their toes. I round the corner. And what do I happen to see?

The male sales assistant from the designer handbag shop next door, applying copious amounts of lotion to his hands. Obviously faffing around with those over-priced leather bags all day wreaks havoc on the ol’ hands.

I’d wave hello but I’d probably spray blood all over his nice display.

Today I encountered a response that not only took the biscuit; it effectively smashed the entire packet into smithereens.

Let me explain.

The transaction started off as most do: customer plonks a bunch of books down on the counter, I proceed to smile at them, (the customer – not the books) I say hello, perhaps comment on their choice of books and then I ask them if they need a bag.

This can go two ways.

They can either say yes or no. If no, I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. I won’t have to bother with the whole one penny spiel. If yes, then I pray to someone’s God.

It went something like this:

Me: Do you need a bag.

(Emphasis on the need part; asking them if they need a bag as opposed to wanting a bag will help me later on, if and when they decide to start an argument.)

Customer: Yes.

Me: The bags are a penny each; is that ok?

(He needed two bags due to the size of his four books – therefore the total cost would be a whole two pence.)

Customer: And you’ll be giving me those bags for free.

(Note there is no question mark at the end of his sentence. He wasn’t suggesting I give him the plastic bags for free, he was demanding.)

Me: No. Like I said, the bags cost a penny. They are a penny for you, just like they were a penny for the customer before you.

Customer: But I have just spent £40 on books.

(This means nothing to me. Considering we charge full retail price for books at airports, £40 doesn’t really buy you much.)

Me: And the customer in front of you just spent £80 on books and they still had to pay for their bags.

(It’s important to note that at this point, he has a nice, good quality bag on the counter from Harrod’s – only half full. He could use that to put the books in and save an argument, he could even put them in his two hand luggage bags he had with him. But no. He wanted his free bags, and he wanted them now.)

Customer: You are fucking ridiculous. Where’s the manager. I want to see the manager.

(I balk at the swear word, not because it offended me, but because the two pence charge was the cause of it.)

Me: They’re in the other shop (about a three minute walk away) you’re welcome to go over there and see them if you’d like. Although to be honest, they would say the same thing as me. The bags cost a penny each.

(He continues ranting and raving for a minute or so and I just stand there staring at a point just left of his head, thinking about what I need to buy after work. When he’s finished, I say-)

Me: Do you know what you sound like?

(Although to be honest, what I really wanted to say was: Wow, you must tell me your secret. You look exactly like a human being and yet you sound like a complete arse; how do you do it?

And you want to know what his original response was?)

Customer: Do you know what you sound like?

(All we needed was a concrete playground and maybe some marbles and we’d have been back in Primary School, I swear, it was that petty.)

Me: So, do you need a bag or not?

Customer: No I do not need a bag.

Me: Funny how you needed one earlier and now, the need is gone.

Customer: Hmph. I don’t even need these books. I can go somewhere else in the airport and buy them.

Me: You could try, but seeing as we’re the only bookshop in the airport, you might have some difficulty.

Customer: This is a fucking disgrace.

(There’s that word again. He grumbles some more. I put his credit card through the till (so it’s not like he even needed to physically find the two pence) and didn’t say much else. Although I got the feeling he wasn’t finished. I was right. He grabbed his books from the counter, putting them in his Harrod’s bag and then, just as he went to leave, he turned to me and said-)

Customer: And I had a great holiday, thanks for asking.

(Of course he was being sarcastic. I neither asked nor cared whether he had a nice holiday or not. But I did respond.)

Me: I love it how you say it just as you’re leaving, just so you can get the last word in.

(He could only glare at me before stalking off to – I assume – go back into whatever hole he had crawled out from.)

I have worked in bookies where I’ve had men (and women) shouting and threatening me after they’ve lost a few hundred pounds, or sometimes even a few grand. These people didn’t bother me. And on some level, I could occasionally sympathise with them.

But this man; getting angry over the cost of two bags at a penny each (which goes to charity anyway) really got on my fucking tits. Fucking asshole.