A Fucked Up Life in Books

by AnonYMous

  And there I sat for half an hour, with a cold and sticky cunt trying desperately to concentrate on the story I was reading but worrying whether I was going to leave a semen stain on the sofa when I got up.

  (I didn’t, but I never went back to the hairdresser with him again after that. That dog definitely knew my secret.)

  And what did I learn from this lesson? Douche your cunt out after a shag? No.

  Never, ever read an illustrated book anywhere in public in Brighton. People will be all over you like white on rice. Bastards.

  Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

  The day that I found out that The Boyfriend had never read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and then promptly found out that I didn’t actually own a copy of my own, I marched him down to Waterstones chattering all the way there about how it was probably the best book in the world.

  I don’t like fucking about in shops, and within about half an hour of finding out that he’s not read the book, we’d gone out and bought the book, and got home and put the kettle on.

  ‘Now,’ I told him, ‘sit down.’

  He sat and I opened the book up.

  I did a fucking ace job on the first chapter. Reading it with a passion and enthusiasm that I have never since matched in any area of my life, including in work, relationships and friendships. But when it got to chapter two I was feeling a bit tired, and in my infinite wisdom decided that the best possible solution to this was to make The Boyfriend read the next chapter.

  For those who don’t know, the second chapter is where the characters start talking a bit, specifically, it’s where Grandpa Joe tells Charlie about Willy Wonka and his factory. So, we settled down and he began to read.

  It was going pretty well until we got to the first bit of speech. Charlie asking a question. After three words I stopped The Boyfriend dead in his tracks.

  ‘The thing is with Charlie,’ I said, ‘is that he’s a little, weedy boy. You’re just reading it like you. You just sound like you.

  ‘I have to do the voices?’ he asked.

  ‘You do,’ I confirmed.

  He continued, right up until the part where Charlie finished speaking and the Grandparents kicked in. I stopped him again.

  ‘They are all so old! They’ve been bedridden for fuck knows how long and they are just old. You’re doing a kind of half-you, half-Charlie voice. Sort it out.’

  He sorted it out and rasped out a generic old person voice to cover those of the four grandparents exclaiming at Charlie from their bed. It was much better. I was pleased.

  Next came Grandpa Joe speaking alone. It was wrong. All wrong.

  ‘Grandpa Joe is this mad old cunt,’ I explained to him. ‘You don’t sound enough like a mad old cunt. He’s so excited to be talking about this to Charlie. You need to do a proper mad old bastard’s voice.’

  ‘Fucking hell, why don’t you do a mad old bastard’s voice? This is exhausting.’

  ‘FINE,’ I shouted. ‘Give the fucker here, I’ll show you.’

  And off I went, whizzing through the words and doing the voices of the characters exactly how I heard them in my head, while The Boyfriend sat looking bemused, listening, as I stopped every so often to explain just why the characters sounded like they did.

  Eventually I felt like I’d managed to teach him how important it was that everyone sounded exactly like they did in my head. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a fucking crime to bollocks up a Roald Dahl story by not blowing each character into a massive parody of a human.

  I let him try again. He read the bit by Grandpa Joe and put on a most spectacular mad old cunt’s voice. When he read that ‘no one ever goes in, and no one ever goes out …’ I got shivers down my spine. It was fucking brilliant.

  It was the first time since I’d been in primary school that I’d had a story read to me. After Charlie and the Chocolate Factory we went on to read manymore books together, usually at bedtime, and usually cuddled up sharing the book so that we could see the pictures. None of them were as exciting as Charlie though. That was our first love.

  Glamorama

  I’d stayed at The Boyfriend’s parents’ one evening shortly after he’d moved home for a while. His parents were alright, but a bit too much for me. I quite like being on my own and having my own space, so to have a mother in my face (particularly after having sacked off my own mother many years earlier) was pretty fucking stressful.

  In the morning, after going down the high street for some lunch, we arrived back at the house and his Mum started talking to him about going to visit his Grandad who was in hospital. I had to leave soon and so thought I’d better pipe up.

  ‘I have to leave sort of nowish, so I’ll get my things together I think.’

  He looked at me and said that he’d walk me to the train station, before his Mum ushered him upstairs to get ready and I stood waiting for him to come back.

  As soon as he came back down the stairs she wanted him out of the door to get to the hospital. She turned to me.

  ‘You can just wait here,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, but, I have to …’

  ‘We won’t be long,’ she said. ‘We’ll be an hour.’ She called back behind her, leaving the house with The Boyfriend.

  It was all a bit rushed and weird, and now I was locked in their house, needing to go home. Oh well, I thought. I’ll just go upstairs and read my book. I was reading Glamorama by Bret Easton Ellis, and had about half left to go.

  THREE HOURS LATER I had finished the book just as they walked in, both cheery having seen the Grandad. The Boyfriend came upstairs.

  ‘Where the FUCK have you been for three hours?’ I asked him. ‘I told you I had to go home and then you both left and left me in the fucking house and I’ve finished my FUCKING BOOK, and I need to fucking go now. And the fucking cat kept scratching at the door and, Jesus, where WERE you?’

  ‘At the hospital,’ he said, confused. ‘I thought that was okay?’

  I grabbed my bag, shoved my stuff in and went downstairs. His mum was in the kitchen.

  ‘See, you were alright here by yourself, weren’t you?’

  I looked at her. ‘Yeah, brilliant. Bye.’

  I didn’t go and stay at their house anymore because it made me feel a bit mental. I’m not sure how I got left in the house or why that was the thing to do, and I didn’t get home until really late, but at least I finished my book.

  A Game of Thrones

  A Game of Thrones was one of the first books that I read on Kindle. I’d read books electronically before; years ago searching for text of books that were out of copyright and reading them on a web browser, and more recently reading on my mobile phone, but this was something different. My Kindle was fucking fantastic.

  I was in town waiting to meet a couple of friends for some cake. I decided as I was a bit early that I’d go into the place that we were meeting, get myself a cup of tea, and do a bit of excellent Kindle reading.

  With the Kindle I was able to relax back in my chair and hold this fucking massive book in just one hand. I marvelled at being able to hold it in one hand and sip tea with the other. As I was reading I started to think about all of the extra reading time that I could get it from not having to use two hands. It blew my mind.

  I was so deep in thought that at first I did not notice the man come and sit in front of me. I was sat against a wall in a corner, and him sitting in front of me meant that I was trapped. When I looked up and saw him there I jumped, then, feeling like a twat for visibly being scared by him, I lifted the Kindle up to my face to block him out.

  He shuffled himself up in his chair so that he could see me over the top of the Kindle.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  God, I hate talking to people so much. I’m not even that keen on speaking to people that I know and love, so talking to a stranger wasn’t really something that I fancied doing.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, and looked back down at the Kindle.

  ‘You are reading A Game of Thrones,’
he said.

  Fuck. How did he know that? What was he, a wizard or warlock of some kind?

  ‘Yes …’ I said, tentatively.

  ‘It is good, he said.

  ‘It is good,’ I said.

  He was quiet. Good. Hopefully he would fuck off now.

  ‘I will buy you a coffee,’ he said.

  NO.

  ‘Erm, no, it’s okay thank you. I’m actually not staying.’ I stood up but he was blocking me in. He stood and stared at me for a while, then he leant forward and came so close to my face that I thought for a second that he was going to kiss me.

  ‘You will have a nice day,’ he said, downed his coffee and left.

  Fucking hell. That was a bit weird. I was shaking with nervousness and feeling a bit sick. I left the shop.

  He was stood outside, and as I walked by he looked up and saw me.

  ‘You are a nice girl,’ he said, as I hotfooted past him and towards the car park.

  I’m not sure what it was that he wanted. I’m not sure how the fuck he knew what I was reading, and I’m not sure whether I needed to be frightened.

  Since my encounter with the man who chased me down the road because of Isaac Asimov, I’ve always been a bit cagey about reading print books in public. This proved, though, that in the Kindle vs print debate that a downside of them both is that you will get strangers talking to you in public places.

  The Master and Margarita

  The Boyfriend had the day working from home, and I had go to sit with him and read my book undisturbed all day until the evening when I’d said I’d help him with some sorting shit out and cleaning and all of that kind of bollocks that you have to do from time to time.

  It was six o’clock. He’d finished his work and I’d put my book down. My phone rang. The display said ‘Mum’.

  ‘Fuck,’ I said to The Boyfriend. ‘It’s her. What does she want?’

  Although he’d heard some stories about my Mum, he’d not experienced anything first hand, and, possibly thinking that I’d been exaggerating when I’d told him things before, he told me that I should just answer the phone to see what she wanted.

  I answered the phone.

  ‘I’ve been going through the loft because I’m dying. You need to come here and tell me which of these things you want or I’m taking them to the tip,’ she said.

  ‘You’re dying?’ I said The Boyfriend looked over at me from the other side of the room.

  ‘Yes, now, listen. I’ve got some knives with bone handles. Do you want them? I’ve also got some plates and things that belonged to your Great-Grandmother. Antiques, probably. Do you want them because if not they are going to the skip.’

  ‘Woah, hold on a second,’ I said, ‘you’re dying of what?’

  ‘I am just dying,’ she said. ‘I’m very unwell.’

  My phone started beeping in my ear, telling me that I had a call waiting. It was my Dad.

  ‘Wait there,’ I told her.

  I answered the phone to Dad. My Dad’s one of those men who never really show any emotion, so when he said my name in a choked up voice it broke my heart. He said, ‘please, speak to your Mother. Ring her. She’s really poorly.’ I told him I would and hung up.

  ‘Phoned my Dad, have you?’ I asked her.

  ‘Yes, because I couldn’t get hold of your brother,’ she snapped back at me.

  ‘Right. So, tell me what is wrong with you.’

  She said a long word and I motioned to The Boyfriend to get me a pen and paper. ‘Spell it to me and then tell me what it is,’ I told her, as I wrote it down and with her still on the phone went over to the computer to type in this word.

  As I read down the page entry she cried and told me about how this disease that she had was going to kill her, about how she’d been in hospital and that there was nothing they could do for her. About how it was eating her from the inside.

  ‘Right,’ I said once she’d finished. ‘It’s not though, is it?’

  She went quiet.

  ‘It is a disease that yes, makes you feel poorly, but you can be medicated for it and control it. And it’s not life threatening. Am I right?’

  ‘BUT I HAVE TO TAKE MEDICATION FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE,’ she screamed at me through her tears. ‘YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT THAT IS LIKE.’

  ‘You told me you were dying,’ I said. ‘My Dad asked me to speak to you because you told him the same. He’s worried about you, fuck knows why after what you did to him, but he is, and you fucking LIED to him, and to me?’

  She went quiet again, sniffing her tears away as I sighed and thought about what to say next. I didn’t have to think too long, she got there before me.

  ‘Your Dad deserves to feel bad for what he did to me. I want him to feel guilty. Why don’t you care what is happening to me?’ she whined.

  Fucking hell.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘you can’t do this to me every time you are feeling bad. And you can’t do it to my Dad because my Dad is lonely and sad and you are taking advantage. Leave him alone. Hassle me and my brother if you need to, but for fuck’s sake, please leave my Dad alone.’

  She burst into tears. ‘You are EVIL, you don’t care about ANYONE except you and your fucking Dad and your brother. Well you’re all welcome to each other. Fuck off.’

  And she hung up.

  That night I got calls from my brother and my Uncle, who both said that she’d called them saying similar things. No one knew what had triggered her, or why she felt the need to say the things that she did.

  When all the calls had finished it was late. As I hung up the phone to my brother I turned to The Boyfriend, who was sitting there shocked and confused at what had happened.

  ‘I did tell you,’ I said. ‘She’s fucking mental.’

  The Periodic Table

  It was The Boyfriend who introduced me to Primo Levi, in some conversation about his time at university. I’d never read anything by him, and I didn’t know anything about him after a long and excited talk with The Boyfriend, I decided to go and buy something by him. It’s an amazing thing, another person’s passion, and how it can make you want to know more. I went to a bookshop and had a look at their Primo Levi selection. It didn’t take me long to decide on The Periodic Table – short stories of Levi’s life based around the elements of the scientific table. I fucking love science, and combining stories with science was the only way to start, for me.

  I was in his flat, lying in bed watching a film with him. He got up to go to the toilet and I got up to get a drink. On the way out of the bedroom I knocked against the chest of drawers that was to my side of the bed, and The Periodic Table, which had been balancing on the top, jumped and fell behind the drawers.

  For fuck’s sake.

  I pulled the drawers forward to retrieve the book. On the floor in the gap was something else. Something small in size, dark green in colour. I picked it up. On the front it said in gold lettering 1976. A diary. But whose diary was it? The Boyfriend wasn’t born in 1976 and I didn’t know who else could have been here and lost something like that behind his chest of drawers. Curiosity got the better of me and I opened it up.

  There was nothing there for the first few pages, and I thought it must be blank. As I flicked more quickly through the pages I sighed with relief when there were no entries. My crazy mind had worried that it was some deep hidden secret kept by The Boyfriend: ‘Yeah, sorry about that. I’m actually twenty-five years older than I told you and this diary is an account of my first marriage and battle with alcoholism and my uncontrollable rages. Oh, and the time I was on trial for murder.’

  Yeah, OK. My mind is not the most trusting, sensible or logical one in the world. I’m an over-thinker. A worrier. At times, a big, anxious mess.

  I flicked the pages again. June. Fuck. There was an entry.

  Attended Mother’s funeral and wake. Hackney.

  What the fuck?

  The door of the bedroom opened. I thought I was going to shit myself, I’d forgotten all abou
t The Boyfriend and now here I was, he was going to catch me red handed halfway through some private thing that I’d found whilst poking around behind his chest of drawers.

  ‘What have you got there?’ he asked, then looking at my face added ‘… are you okay?’

  I held up the diary for him to see.

  ‘Fuck!’ he said, smiling. ‘I thought I’d lost this.’ He took it from me and flicked through the pages. ‘Have you read it?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Here,’ he said, handing it back to me, ‘read it.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, confused.

  ‘How much of it have you read?’ he asked.

  I told him about the one entry and about the rest being blank up until that point.

  He nodded. ‘It gets better. It’s amazing, actually. It’s my Dad’s. I found it a couple of years ago in my room in my parent’s house. I read it all and then when I heard someone coming upstairs I didn’t know what to do and hid it in my bag and I’ve just kind of kept it ever since. But I thought I’d lost it.’

  He opened the bottom drawer of the chest of drawers that I’d pulled forward and bent down.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘at the back, the drawer has fallen down. It must have slipped through that gap.’

  I had a look and like he said, the bottom of the drawer had buckled at the back, leaving a small gap. You wouldn’t have noticed it if you weren’t looking for it.

  I opened the diary again and read the next entry.

  Went to [dating agency]. Girl called Hannah. Taking her out tomorrow.

  Next entry.

  Went to the cinema. She was too ugly.

  I started laughing.

  More entries like that followed over the next few weeks. He’d go to the dating agency, get the names and numbers or one of two girls and take them out. They were all too ugly, or too boring, or too quiet.

  Then there was one entry that stuck out more than the rest.

  Met a girl called Carol Palmer.

  I stopped reading mid-entry and looked at The Boyfriend. ‘Your Mum?’ I asked. He nodded.