Janet Christie: I adopt my Sigourney Weaver in Alien persona
Seventeen crusty single socks, umpteen screws, coins too low in denomination to warrant picking up, matter up the walls – Marmite, blood, paint, snotter, who knows? I scrub on, filling two bin bags with bottles, wrappers, oose and glaur.
Around me there are rap lyrics, undelivered teachers’ letters, gadgety things, more than enough unused condoms thank you very much, and touching mementos like birthday cards from hated siblings, a tiny welly, a teddy. There’s evidence of Youngest Child’s visits: her felt pen tray, ‘I hate you’ notes …
Advertisement
Hide AdAdvertisement
Hide AdThen I start finding my stuff. Several lighters, books – Angela Davis’ Women Race and Class, The Female Eunuch – a Montecristo cigar, half smoked, my ancient Be-Ro recipe book…
Propelled by fury I stomp around, my foot kicking over a sawn-off Irn-Bru bottle that vomits brown liquid. There’s something in it, alive, with tentacles, like the thing that burst from John Hurt’s chest. It scuttles under the bed. Slamming the door, I bolt outside and lie on a trampoline, shaking. Can I ever return to the mothership?