Meteorological Office Warnings
[Thursday evening] The hope is that
tomorrow marks the end of two bad months, when a deadline lands, the second of
a project that has marred my summer somewhat. The deadline is for a beautiful
building in southwest London – near the common, you understand? – but no matter
how remarkable the building, the junction it leans over, the tower at its edge,
the glass dome, the stained skylights, decommissioned lifts, it is still a burden
I have withstood, have slightly bent beneath. The design lead is pleasant
enough, he asks when I will refer to him as ‘geez’; the architect – the poor
architect! – well, she broke her arm and then after that healed her neighbour’s
house burned down and her own became inhabitable; the project manage manages
nothing; the quantity surveyor has a head like a cabbage and makes my colleague’s
blood boil; the client’s representative looks like an ex of mine, gone slightly
blonde, but the rest is all there: the nose, the lips, the glasses & Disney
eyes, her jawline so much like a monument.
‘I’ve been meaning to catch up with you,’ said I to my technical director at the end of a meeting between the two of us—‘I’m not happy with the payrise you gave me and would like to ask for more… please.’ He stared at me, baffled, off-guard, I felt as though I had the advantage over something or other. He had certainly caught me in a bold moment. The opportunity had evaded me almost three months, but it was not a few days later when one of the partners called me into a meeting room. I recalled to my parents afterwards that—‘I felt almost drunk with confidence!’ ‘That’s my boy!’ called my father. It was then that I stared into the eyes of this man, my employer, who was much of a stranger to me, and declared, without flinching, that I thought I was worth more to the company than they paid me. He crossed his legs, looked out of the glass door separating us from everyone else, tapped his fingers on the table, as I leaned forward. It is not a game I like to play; falling awkwardly between my repulsion at being mercenary and feeling exploited. Somewhere far away, no longer on the payroll, my therapist was proud of me. I still think of her often, conducting imaginary conversations between us, pirating a kind of pride and praise from her that I cannot get from anyone else.
‘I’ve been meaning to catch up with you,’ said I to my technical director at the end of a meeting between the two of us—‘I’m not happy with the payrise you gave me and would like to ask for more… please.’ He stared at me, baffled, off-guard, I felt as though I had the advantage over something or other. He had certainly caught me in a bold moment. The opportunity had evaded me almost three months, but it was not a few days later when one of the partners called me into a meeting room. I recalled to my parents afterwards that—‘I felt almost drunk with confidence!’ ‘That’s my boy!’ called my father. It was then that I stared into the eyes of this man, my employer, who was much of a stranger to me, and declared, without flinching, that I thought I was worth more to the company than they paid me. He crossed his legs, looked out of the glass door separating us from everyone else, tapped his fingers on the table, as I leaned forward. It is not a game I like to play; falling awkwardly between my repulsion at being mercenary and feeling exploited. Somewhere far away, no longer on the payroll, my therapist was proud of me. I still think of her often, conducting imaginary conversations between us, pirating a kind of pride and praise from her that I cannot get from anyone else.
Heaven is an animal with a sense of humour. Sparky had a
sense of humour and that is why my grandmother loved him so much. Babe did not
have a sense of humour, just an obsession. Morton was a wonderful guardian but
he was not funny nor did he know how to laugh at himself. My cat now, she has a
sense of humour. She is so funny that it keeps me warm. Does she laugh with me,
or is she so dry that she can only twitch her whiskers and smack me with her
paw? As I massage ointment into my enflamed skin, she climbs upon the sink and
begins to paw a tube of salve off the shelf; I scold her—‘No,’ and I drag the
word out, causing her to pause, look at me, then she pushes some more, and I scold
her again—‘No,’ and I drag the word out, causing her to pause again,
look at me once more, and then she swipes it onto the floor where it clatters
off the ceramic and porcelain with great volume, before she darts off. By the
golden light of my bedside lamp, I hear her cleaning herself in her tree. I arise
and stroke her—‘Good-night, my angel.’ She blinks at me, pulling a licked paw across
her face.
Now there is the sound of rain, when I go to bed and when I awake reluctantly there is the sound of rain. Through the edges of the drawn curtain, heavy and swinging slightly, there is the sound of rain. Weather reports warn of rain; the Met Office warns of heavy rainfall but says not much more. After I have spent the evening trying to decompress and maintain, after I have spent the evening cleaning myself and listening to music, after I have cooked and ironed, played chess and brushed my teeth, I hear the sound of rain, for rain is without sound until it collides with the surfaces of earth. The room is cold now, colder than it has been in months, and I pull the cover up to my chin. There is still, in our extinguished lamplight, the sound of the cat cleaning herself. No matter how close everything else seems – exhaustion, my final deadline, life’s taxes and tendrils – the rain sounds so much closer. When I awake five hours later, the rain has stopped, but, carefully, the sound of it can still be heard in passing traffic’s hiss and dawn’s brittle reverberations.
Now there is the sound of rain, when I go to bed and when I awake reluctantly there is the sound of rain. Through the edges of the drawn curtain, heavy and swinging slightly, there is the sound of rain. Weather reports warn of rain; the Met Office warns of heavy rainfall but says not much more. After I have spent the evening trying to decompress and maintain, after I have spent the evening cleaning myself and listening to music, after I have cooked and ironed, played chess and brushed my teeth, I hear the sound of rain, for rain is without sound until it collides with the surfaces of earth. The room is cold now, colder than it has been in months, and I pull the cover up to my chin. There is still, in our extinguished lamplight, the sound of the cat cleaning herself. No matter how close everything else seems – exhaustion, my final deadline, life’s taxes and tendrils – the rain sounds so much closer. When I awake five hours later, the rain has stopped, but, carefully, the sound of it can still be heard in passing traffic’s hiss and dawn’s brittle reverberations.