July

July (5th August 2008, 1.42am)

It’s only a month since the swearing in church and the upset Priest. I’ve lit a candle since, in a church that is higher in more ways than height itself, and I’ve climbed up to see a whole city laid out in brightness below me. Returning to the country was more symbolic than the candle. I suppose it was a sort of gesture, another Euro in the ecclesiastical coffers, but for a moment, I sat down in the chapel marked ‘reserved for prayer alone’ and said mine. For him and those of us left. The candle seemed fitting, somehow. A poor substitute for the sun outside, less chastening than being ordered to cover my bare, freckled shoulders before entering.

Flying was terrifying and exhilarating; a speedball of emotion and a rush of blood to the head as the engines kicked in and the acceleration worked its usual magic on my inner thighs. At least I had a stranger to be excited beside me; you were blasé and indifferent; too seasoned a traveller to sit beside at such a moment. I got my own back by not even attempting to wake you as the air hostess repeatedly bashed your knee on the way past with her metal trolley. Karma, or a slightly tackier version.

It’s been fast-forwarded. I can relive it through the endless photographs, digital magic that somehow can only echo the real thing. Completing that first important year at work; completing that first important year since you broke my heart. Letters and certificates and handshakes and hugs and cheek-kisses. Handed a new responsibility that threatens to overwhelm, come September. I’ll rise to meet it, after I’ve recovered from the onslaught of the last month.

The river is still and peaceful. She makes a hissing noise as the summer rain hits her, like the faint sound of an audience applauding, as I retire to my metal nest. The spiders have taken over in my absence, and I am a polite but firm escort with my tried-and-tested pint-glass and ballpoint combination. I miss the sun already, and the river feels too still and dark as evening falls. I am detached, here, from the bustle of the Barcelona streets and the lights of the city. The stars shine brightly here, or they would do, if not obscured by cloud.

I know I will try to spread myself too thinly; too many neglected friends these days, and not yet enough time to encompass them all. I am come alive; I cannot sit still and let life pass me by; but I must stop to put my feet up through a film or two, before attempting to make a start on the new month. The last five days have been an extension of July; I have written the wrong month three times on this page, and saved it in the wrong monthly file.

I attempted to rip the fabric of time, tear out this last month like a prize, a youthful time that I could frame and stare at on my wall when I no longer have this freedom. My fingers caught in the threads; I was trying to tear across the weave. Now, I’ve realised that I needed the keys to cut through it. I offer it to you, waving my tiny flag in a helpless, giggling gesture. First step to a patchwork quilt that I may well use to cover my future.