the evening party ︎︎︎ a collection of writings, poems and photographs by the anonymous author ︎︎︎  2019—present ︎︎︎ Index of entries ︎︎︎ Email ︎︎︎ Instagram ︎︎︎ ‘Ah, we’re an ungrateful race! When I look at my hand upon the window sill and think what pleasure I’ve had in it, how it’s touched silk and pottery and hot walls, laid itself flat upon wet grass or sun-baked, let the atlantic spurt through its fingers, snapped blue bells and daffodils, plucked ripe plums, never for a second since I was born ceased to tell me of hot and cold, damp or dryness, I’m amazed that I should use this wonderful composition of flesh and nerve to write the abuse of life. Yet that’s what we do. Come to think of it, literature is the record of our discontent.’ —The Evening Party, Virginia Woolf


Today is my parent’s wedding anniversary. They were married at two o’clock on the twenty-ninth of June, nineteen-eighty-three. The number eighty-three is a strong number to me: eight is four-sided and the colour orange; three is the colour green and beautifully symmetrical. Thirty-seven years later. I have seen the photographs; I recognise the church. The colours are sliding in emerald, blue & black. My mother and father look so happy. Their wedding happened so long ago that, to me, it may well have been in the Bible. Church hall and shoestrings. The Anglo-Indians (maternal) did the food; the Irish (paternal) did the tea. The Anglo-Indians danced and laughed; the Irish sat in the corner, telling stories.
  My father carried my mother across the threshold of their new house on their wedding night. Twenty-four-years-old. Biblical times. They bought a dog and the dog was called Morton; a rescue with softness who, two years later, when I arrived, would not react ferociously when I clambered into his basket, even licking my face and curling around me during nap-time.
  When my father was my age, I was nine-years old. He was out in a small village, amongst the trees. Morton was dead from cancer; he had died at nine-years-old. His life and my own had been as long. There was a new dog; a precocious little cunt called Sparky, who took great pleasure in voicing complaints of being left alone by taking a shit on the upstairs carpet. It was he I came to love the most. Dog and human years running side-by-side.
Tomorrow is my brother’s wedding anniversary. He was married at twelve-thirty on the thirtieth of June, two-thousand-and-seventeen. I don’t have any opinion on the number seventeen. My parents will be looking after his two daughters as they attend a funeral.
 Furlough is not so bad. I have managed to maintain my routine. I awake—almost always tiredly—every morning at eight o’clock and am downstairs, washed and ready, by quarter-to-nine. In the garden I will enjoy a cigarette lazily, then go the sofa with a coffee to read. After that, I sit down at my desk to write. Sometimes the words come easily, and sometimes (like today) they struggle to come at all. Other days, like Friday, I will feel in no standard to put down a single word, and yet out they come! flowing like a river. I still go for my walks in the afternoon. There is a house along the way with a large box outside; on the box is a sign—After thirty years of life drawing, I finally had a sort out of all my sketches and have decided to clear them out. Please have a look and help yourself to any that you like. I peruse the sketches, slightly fearful that I am being watched from inside the house. I smile at the sketches I like—young nudes—but don’t take any. If people ask me if I’m ok, I tell them I will be. The only person I speak to about anything is my therapist. She charges by the hour. I thought about giving her up because money is tough right now, but who would I speak to? Every Wednesday at six o’clock.
  My parents want to get an Indian takeaway for dinner.
  It’s cooler today; grey and overcast. It is easier to sleep. I feel like I have nothing more to say.