Social pariah
Somewhere on the sticky planes of Super D battle commences. “You’re not a real superhero,” he derides me from underneath his whiskered mask. “Clearly I am a superhero.” My tall yellow ears quiver with indignation. “You’re not, you don’t have powers.” “Pikachu has powers! I can shoot electricity! Look at my lightning bolt tail!” “You’re not a hero though.” Brief silence. “Well you’re not a proper villain.” “Yes I am.” “You’re a bloody cat burglar!” Cat burglar begins crawling and demonstrating cat-like ness. “Being a cat is not a power. And you’re not a villain, you’re just a thief.” Suddenly, Pikachu falls over. In retrospect, dignity could have been more carefully retained. If Club D attendance is really necessary must in future restrict costume to generic slutty ensemble plus prop. Mean Girls was right: body paint isn’t cool so try lingerie instead. If Club D attendance isn’t necessary, stay in and practise social skills.
Squinting through the incessant snowfall I walk very slowly. I like to ride my bicycle but some opportunistic scrote rode it away without my permission. I like to ride the bus but it stops at six. At home I have two crusts of bread, some peas and no tangible central heating: there is little reason to hurry. Somewhere over garden fences I hear children laughing. Scrawny eight year olds ramming snowballs down the hoods of the scrawnier eight year olds. Deep within me something thaws, the children playing, the picture perfect frost, the- THWACK. Fifteen year olds cackle from their bus stop shelter as I scrape snow out of my ear. There are three of them and a field full of snow behind them, so I put my head down and keep walking. They shout after me. “Paki!” I look round in total surprise. “What?” Another snowball to my face. “Yeah you, Paki!” I have yet to fully process this event.
With the winter persistent and the economic situation deteriorating I’m making some lifestyle adjustments. It began with small things, like a heightened appreciation of duvets and cosy nights in, but as time goes on something bizarre is happening. I spend my evenings sitting under a blanket wearing two jumpers, two pairs of socks, a thermal vest, thermal leggings, pyjamas and a woolly hat. Darning my tights I wonder how effective gravy and an eye pencil really is when it comes to imitating a good pair of nylons. I rub my feet and worry about chill blanes. At least the warmth of my Horlicks is comforting, and it’s bread and dripping for tea. Somewhere in 2009 my former self mocks me.
A slightly vertically challenged and generally quite British looking friend of mine lumbers through Ziggy’s. His night has only got better since he discovered they now serve red wine. Spotting someone he looks very excited and attempts to grab their attention. “Ehhh chico!” The Hispanic bystander seems a little confused. “I’m sorry?” Trying again my friend flings his hands out once more. “Chico! We’re in the same seminar! Ehhhh!” “Why are you calling me chico?” “I’m Guatemalan, you’re Guatemalan…” “No you’re not.” “I am! My name is (thin veil of anonymity) – it’s a Spanish name!” He looks up hopefully, looking for recognition from his brother, his chico. “Oohhh, yeah I saw your name on the seminar list. I couldn’t see anyone who would be South American, so I thought you weren’t turning up.” Alone again: in Ziggy’s, with red-wine lips and a lack of cultural identity. Bad night.
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