Wall by Jen Craig

Author:Jen Craig [Craig, Jen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781922571847
Publisher: Puncher & Wattmann
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

II

Item: rubber gloves (medium)

Item: yellow sponges with green scrubbing side x 3

Item: garbage bags (extra-large, packet of 10) x 5

Item: vinegar (white), 2 litres

Item: Handy Andy x 2

But first, before I get to the Wall and my new approach to it – my new ideas – I should note that it struck me, as soon as I had relieved them of their crackling plastic and left them – draped them (pink rubber drapes) – over the edge of the bucket (new blue bucket with creamed-in whirls, pink rubber gloves with the fingers still sticking together, lewdly thick) – how so very wrong these objects looked in the house. And so you’ve got to imagine how it was then, with only half an hour or so before the skip was due to arrive – this unrealistic image of the gloves as they balanced rather than hung over the edge of an over-light bucket (the gloves should be hanging more loosely, I thought, they should have their own weight, rather than being so stiff, so unlikely – they should weigh the bucket down). It was their resistant, awkward approximation of the kinds of rubber gloves and buckets that you might imagine seeing in use somewhere – in normal use – which got me thinking that there must, already, have been buckets and gloves, surely, somewhere in the house – ones that were “perfectly fine”, as mum would have said. And that even Angus would have had some idea of where they were. I could have rung him to ask, but also, I couldn’t bear to look, couldn’t bear to ring. Meaning that it was only then, when it was far too late to do anything more about getting a stronger, and perhaps more familiar-looking, bucket to start on this cleaning process – since the skip was about to arrive – that I realised how laughable was this latest attempt to subdue the house – that the most I could do, given that I wanted to do something at least with the things I had bought, was to see if I could push past the lengths of rescued timber and the vertical piles of Readers Digests in the entrance to the kitchen to get to the sink. And only then, in the dim of the kitchen, while looking over this naff collection of cleaning objects once again – these cleaning tools – I could see that I was doing it yet again – always trying to fix things. Always trying to make things right again. Or else to avoid, I was thinking as I remembered what had happened with Son and Eileen, and of course, Max and Lulu. Always steering around things or else trying to make things right, and yet getting it all so wrong nonetheless. Thinking that I could well be prone, still, to the very problem I thought I had recovered from when I stopped using food and the feel of my body to gauge how things were in the

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