Saturday morning blinks into existence as a slice of warm, yellow light simpering behind the blind. Soft bass shudders me awake. I lay in bed and listen to the fractured tapping at the keyboard coming from down the hall. Dehydrated. Crumpled soles spread out on the cool tiles of the kitchen floor as the kettle whinnies.


Mum tries talking to me. Awashed with words, feelings, furtive glances and wide gestures, I totter in front of her smiling , blinking, murmuring. She is out for the weekend. A list: hoover; mop the floor; feed the cat; she loves me; she is so tired from work; I am beautiful.


Gritilly, but with laughter, we do our morning chores. On hands and knees I wipe away our detritus from the bathroom floor. Later, in the bath again, my bleach dried hands on the edges of pages, I listen to the soft and self-conscious singing from next door.


Double act: half a person. Work segments our space-time and puts thing in their not so tidy places. I use my mothers voice to turn frustration into action. It is all about choice. Then I sit up and wait for her to come home: to tell her what I have done, what I might do.


The computer hums angrily. Yesterday someone stole the copper wiring from our street and we have all been disconnected.



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