Freewriting objects

Sweaty – course – Faded

You’d be easily mistaken by thinking that this was something held with pride, a loyal serviceman, unselfish and proud. The owner of this was neither, or at least not behind the long demolished front door in St Pauls Street. He ran the house with the military dominance that this crowned, he hit out at his own blood time and time over, smiling to the world outside as a respected member of the community. Cruel and violent, someone kept it, my Aunt who had long buried the memories as they really happened but instead held onto the old man who she delivered groceries to in his old age. She stored it away when he died and she followed I uncovered it clearing her house. I don’t know why I didn’t throw it away, Mum would have, she hasn’t buried the memories. She feels nothing but hatred but my children who never knew otherwise said it was a cool thing, so I stored it away once again.

Heavy – cold – scratchy

I think he was about seven when he made it. I vaguely remember it being a replica of a treasured item, a history project, hence the gold paint inside. It’s rough and careless, he hates clay now. He doesn’t like the way it gets underneath his fingernails. That’s probably why it’s so rough and rushed. His fingerprints here and there and some mathematical symbols circle the edges. He was only small and he passed it over before reaching me with his body, arms stretched.

Cold  – smooth – used/unused

When we got to the bungalow, Roy the rubbish removal man was sweeping. In between the dust and papers we could see the corners of photographs and faces. Geoff reached down and began picking up what he could. We had spent hours sitting down going through all the pictures, names on tips of tongues and repeated stories of varied truths. It was cruel to just have them swept away. She wasn’t my Nan but I hadn’t had one that I had known so she was as good as I was going to get and we relished in our shared dislike of my mother in law, her daughter in law. The tank was on the shelf, built into the teak effect fire surround. 1937, that’s just a trophy of survival isn’t it… It means nothing at all to me; I don’t remember having a king. It was only the handle which I cared for, for the people who held it between 1937 and that day when everything was swept away.

Metallic smelling – Sharp – dark

I wasn’t christened until I was four because I had congenital hip dislocation as a baby and had a plaster cast from my underarms to toes for a large part of my first years. I walked to the church by the time I was well enough. I got the eggcup and spoon from a relative, maybe a godparent, I’m not sure. The tradition of giving silver meant that I had a plate also in silver. I never ate from the plate but I do remember nagging mum to let me have my boiled egg in my royal-like eggcup.

Love –  scuffed  – smooth

Clarks used to take a Polaroid if you bought your child’s first shoes there years ago. I have all three pairs but Sophie’s are the ones which I love the most. She still has lovely feet. She screamed at me daily about not needing any help with the buckles. Always wanting to do everything independently, unlike my son who I swear would let me brush his teeth for him now he’s 22. They make me think of her fierce, clumsy, rotund little life force running and falling everywhere and always getting back up without anyone’s unwelcome help.

Moulded – Hand held – Wobbly

“Carry me I’m portable, Here comes my body, oops I lost my head for a moment”, I could remember them all, American accent included. She has none of her little felt clothes, they were glued on in tiny panels and something I couldn’t resist peeling back to see if she had genitals or nipples. I had a blonde and of course Jayne had the brunette because that was what set us apart. There used to be a tiny narrow newsagents at the bottom of Millbridge Road and after we had visited Aunty Clara and Uncle Albert, played cards with Aunty Nell and begged for mint humbugs whilst mum chatted in the kitchen quietly, mum would reward us with a small toy from the shelf behind the shopkeeper. We walked everywhere because mum gave up driving when she crashed into somebody years before, she threw her driving shoes in the bin which still makes me and Jayne laugh now. Who has driving shoes? The rewards were for walking uncomplaining to various relatives all over Plymouth during the holidays.

Scratched – clear – dated

I didn’t have a loft space or anything to keep in it for the first 22 years of my life so the small plastic pot sufficed. Pomanders, I wander if anyone has these anymore? Becky bought me the rose one when I was around 13 for my birthday along with a sticker which had googly eyes and said “keep taking the tablets”. The other from the Shire horse centre, long gone and now I wander if the horses were even that big. Corks from various celebrations where mum said with convincing authority that it was tradition to put a silver coin into the cork and keep it forever for luck. A chopstick rest…probably from my days of steeling ashtrays and such from pubs and restaurants. Ashy handbags and now a thirty year old chopstick rest.

Chubby fingers awkward grasp, some mine and some my children’s. Missed mouths and messy bean juice.