Claire and I fly to Florida tomorrow. By the way, I hope you don’t mind my failure to stick rigidly to the unity of time, but for me the last month has included general practice and hospital rotations (oncology, if you are interested), lectures and a huge number of exams. I enjoyed it (well, maybe not the exams) but I’m guessing you wouldn’t want to hear about it.
As an aside, for Claire, the last month has involved finger painting. I kid you not: there are remnants of orange handprints scattered carelessly and randomly across the apartment. Excuse me while I throw a mini-tantrum (complete with stamping of feet), but it’s not fair: art students get it so easy.
I get home from Leeds Royal Infirmary and bounce. Literally: I am famous for getting slightly ‘jumpy’ when I am hyper. It normally takes a few friends to calm me down before I get so excited I feel nauseous. Unfortunately, today my hyperactivity is wearing off onto Claire. She can throw some monster fits of pique (although she calls it artistic temperament), but on average she is fairly sedate. Within ten minutes of me returning home, she starts jumping on the sofa.
Two minutes later, she is unceremoniously bounced off the sofa. Luckily, a giant yellow thing breaks her fall. I hold my breath and squeeze shut my eyes, as I brace myself for tears or tantrums. Nothing. I open one eye cautiously, and find Claire in a fit of giggles on the floor. I shake my head in stunned amazement: she must be really excited. Before she has the chance to fully comprehend that she has just sat on a piece that will be graded as a component of her degree, I send her off into her bedroom to pack.
Two hours later, my suitcases are filled with everything I could possibly need in the next two months. Or so I think.
“Did you remember that little black Giant top?”. Claire sticks her head round my door. I shake my head no, so she disappears into my closet to dig it out: it is a necessity. Apparently, so are most of the remainder of my skimpy clubbing outfits; they follow it into my luggage. I collapse onto my bed and humour Claire as she sorts through my wardrobe: I can take these additions out again later.
Claire grins; “Kel, you never know where you might need this stuff. So leave it in there!”
She knows me too well. Anyway, I’m sure she’s right: should I want to go out partying twice a day while in Florida, I’ll have all the clothes I’ll ever need. And then some.
When she’s satisfied that the contents of my luggage proclaim ‘slut’, she sits herself on the end of my bed. She subconsciously and nervously nibbles her lower lip as she studies my duvet cover. A trait that is atypical of Claire has just manifested itself: mood swings. I steel myself for a serious bout of emotion spillage.
“Thanks for coming with me Kel”. Claire is speaking softly with a slow smile, and I try my best to convey a look of warmth and comfort back at her. I point out that it’s my pleasure, before launching into a speech assuring her that she can cope with seeing her dad again, that he will be happy to spend time with her away from his latest twenty-something wife, that her mum won’t resent Claire visiting her dad rather than spend the holiday in Manchester with her, that we aren’t going to plunge to our deaths in the burning wreckage of an aeroplane. These are all things I think she needs to hear; concerns she has been mulling over for weeks.
Utterly pointless, it aspires. Claire stops me before I really get rolling; dismissing me with a wave of a hand that is heavily decorated with ornate silver rings. “What am I going to do Kel?” she questions. I wait, anticipating further development, but Claire offers no elaboration, and I am momentarily stumped. About what? I rapidly reconsider the options: her father? His new wife? Her mum’s reaction to her jetting off to the US?
“I destroyed everything! How am I gonna fix this mess? How am I gonna
get through this? I’m serious!” Claire admonishes me sternly while I
desperately attempt to halt my blank expression from evaporating into
laughter, as I begin to understand why she is so anxious. Eventually Claire
can’t help herself. Her frown dissolves into a fit of giggles as she
tries to maintain a straight face so she can reprimand me. She finally
chokes it out between snorts of laughter: “It’s not funny! That sculpture
was worth fifteen percent of my degree!”
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