SECTION 1
It’s cold outside.
That is, outside of my mother’s womb.
I’m a newborn, and everything’s a blur.
‘It’s a girl!’
I’m a girl.
‘I don’t want a girl,’ my mother admits to the midwife. ‘I was hoping for a boy.’
Ouch. A fledgling parent’s biting resent undisguised.
I am yet to cast curious yet misted eyes upon the face of the woman who rented me her bump and then evicted me. But why do I wish to repeat this scenario? It didn’t exactly go as planned the first time. Or the second time. Or the third time. Or the fourth time. So why do I think this latest rewound, replayed moment will work out any different?
As you’ve no doubt gathered, this isn’t my debut return trip to day one of my existence. I don’t know how I manage it. My nineteen-year-old consciousness hopping back to the brain of my yesteryear self should be impossible. But no, it happens, random and erratic, just like me. I wish I could control it, but I wouldn’t know where to begin.
All I know is, I can revisit.
What I don’t know is, why I revisit.
Why my mind keeps bringing me to my birth.
Is it to feed my insatiable addiction to the crushing betrayal I feel each and every time? Yes, I do believe so. They say it’s a form of self-harming, purposely repeating and reliving a specific moment of ice-cold devastation to the point of actually enjoying the sensation.
An instant fix of emotional heroin.
Here’s a prime example. At twelve years of age, I told Bradley Samms (my one and only schoolgirl crush) I fancied him. How did he react? He laughed in my face and turned me down flat. Ouch, my heart torn to shreds. Humiliated in front of all within earshot.
Any sane person would have shuffled into the shadows to lick their wounds. But no, not me, I’m a far cry from the rational type. Instead, the very next day, I walked on over to the boy and re-enacted my undying confession of love, knowing it would lead to the very same soul-crushing outcome, knowing exactly how I’d feel, absolutely mortified, retreading the moment and feeding off the desolation like a hungry calf to an udder.
Indirect self-harming, yes. But equally as painful as a blade puncturing skin. I should know. I’ve been there, done it. When I’m older than a newborn.
Meanwhile, my birth continues to play out, the midwife landing my infant form upon my mother’s bosom, her face a blurry haze of indistinct shades and shapes. The luxury of colour is yet to fully introduce itself to my juvenile perception, at present a mere tinge across this strange new greyscale world. I find myself drawn to a pair of smudgy shadows with flashes of white, my mother’s eyes. She coos and she oohs, all the right noises in all the right places, but I know she doesn’t like me, doesn’t need me, doesn’t want anything to do with me. Very soon, she will don her civilian threads and sneak out of this maternity ward, not telling a soul, no longer “with child” in more ways than one.
Why did my mother abandon me? I need to know. Badly.
God, I’m forever seeking answers. Story of my life. A life not necessarily chronological.
My name is Dandelion Price.
I’m not like all the other girls.
I’m a disordinary.
SECTION 2
‘What do you mean you’re a disordinary?’ asks the early-twenties guy I’m allowing to chat me up, my chosen on-demand alcohol dispenser for the evening.
‘Polar opposite of ordinary,’ I respond as a nineteen-year-old woman, girl, total fuck-up, draining my glass, placing it upon the bar and nudging it towards my human wallet. ‘Eccentric. Peculiar. Not of the norm.’
‘No, no, I’m talking about your leftfield grammatical choice. A disordinary. Changing the D-word from an adjective into a noun.’
‘Oh, God, you’re an English teacher.’
He laughs. ‘I can assure you I’m not.’
‘It’s quite simple,’ I begin to explain. ‘I’m a disordinary in the same way a man who fancies men is a homosexual, the same way a woman who fancies women is a lesbian.’
‘Ah, so you identify as a disordinary.’
‘I do indeed.’
‘Does this mean you call a normal person an ordinary?’
‘Actually, I call a normal person a vanilla.’
My on-demand alcohol dispenser is suitably intrigued. ‘Why?’
‘Because vanilla as a flavour is bland and mundane and boring and oh, God, do you realise there are people out there who actually like being bland and mundane and boring?’
Again, he laughs. He’s enjoying my company. I’m glad. Most of all because I’d like to continue receipt of this ongoing conveyor belt of complimentary drinks. Which I guess is more than a little unfair of me. He seems like a really nice guy. The type us girls call a keeper. Somebody who could do wonders for my low self-esteem. And my mental health.
Or... he could end up true-colouring himself as a complete wanker.
Whatever the outcome, I’d like to get to know him better. There’s deffo chemistry bubbling under the surface, waiting for us both to realise. But it’s him getting to know me better that’s the problem. I don’t think he’s ready for what might spill out of my mouth if I open up to him. Like, properly open up.
It’s been three weeks since my last revisit to my birth. Three looooong weeks. Which is kind of strange. All previous occasions of my consciousness performing its hitch-hiking trick came mere days apart. Regular reminders of my mother’s betrayal. Regular kicks to the vagina. Regular shots in the vein, my addiction quenched. Since then, nothing. Waiting so long for the next time feels like a lifetime. Will there be a new episode? I do hope so. I could do with a fresh emotional self-harming fix. But what if the show has been cancelled? What if my backward journeys were caused by a temporary hiccup in the universe? What if the error has now been rectified?
Please. I demand another trip. I am hungry, so hungry, I am desperate to be fed.
Oh, God, I guess I’m going through my “cold turkey” phase.
I need a distraction. This guy can be my distraction. I must keep him interested.
‘Do you see me as a vanilla?’ my specially selected distraction asks, nudging me free of my troubled internal monologue.
‘Yes,’ I reply, firm nod included. ‘But slightly upgraded. Consider yourself a VILF.’ And off his look of question, I add, ‘A vanilla I’d like to fuck.’
Oh, yes, it’s true. I would indeed love to bed the guy. But not solely for distraction purposes. There’s something about him. About us. A connection. I’m sure we’re both feeling it. As such, I yearn to keep him close, but at the same time keep my distance. I can’t have him knowing all my secrets. At least not yet anyway.
As predicted, the man likes the sound of my declaration of lust. ‘Result,’ he cheeps, rubbing his hands together in cliché glee. ‘But we can’t go back to my place.’
What follows is a very enjoyable tongue-in-cheek quick-fire exchange which kicks off with me asking, ‘Why can’t we go back to your place?’
‘I don’t live alone.’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Not even warm.’
‘Wife?’
‘Never been married.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘Oi. Strictly heterosexual.’
‘Still sponging off Mummy and Daddy?’
‘Flew the nest two years ago.’
‘Who then?’
‘Nosey flatmate.’
‘Male or female?’
‘Female.’
‘Have you shagged her?’
‘You ask too many questions.’
‘So you have shagged her.’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘So you have shagged her.’
‘It should never have happened.’
‘So you have shagged her.’
‘Only the once. We were both drunk.’
‘How drunk?’
‘What’s with the endless quizzing?’
‘If I’m accommodating your penis tonight, I demand backstory.’
‘Why?’
‘Would you buy a second-hand car without first checking the service history?’
‘Fair point.’
‘So what caused the shag that should never have happened?’
‘She needed a shoulder to cry on. An emergency drinking partner.’
‘Why?’
‘Cheating boyfriend. The poor girl was devastated.’
‘So you figured a session of between-the-sheets action might help alleviate her pain?’
‘I didn’t plan it, it was a case of... you know...’
‘One thing led to another?’
‘Exactly. But never again.’
‘Why not? Bad experience?’
‘No, no, nothing like that, it was okay.’
‘Just okay? Why the neutral score? Didn’t she come?’
‘...’
‘Didn’t you come?’
‘...’
‘Did she fake her own orgasm?’
‘...’
‘Did you fake your own orgasm?’
‘If you must know, she embraced celibacy.’
‘Celibacy? Straight after having sex with you?’
‘Not straight after, no. A few days later.’
‘Could it be possible that your bedroom performance was the deciding factor in practically turning your nosey flatmate into a nun?’
‘No way.’
‘Are you sure about that? On my side of the fence, that’s one hell of a coincidence.’
‘It was not the deciding factor.’
‘So you consider yourself good in bed?’
‘In my Complaints Department, my helpline is silent.’
I laugh. But not for the purpose of throwing validation confetti in his direction. The man is deffo not fishing for likes. He doesn’t look the needy type. No, no, seriously, my mirth is genuine. His sense of humour may be a tad pants, but it tickles me.
Once my mirth is spent, he asks, ‘Do you have somewhere we can go?’
I feign brow-wrinkling bemusement. ‘For what exactly?’
‘For the sex I’ve been promised this evening.’
‘This evening? I said you were a vanilla I’d like to fuck. I didn’t say when.’
He pulls a cheeky grin. ‘Well, this vanilla would like to get naked with you tonight.’
I match his grin with one of my own. ‘In that case, yes, I do have somewhere we can go. But not yet. I’m not officially drunk enough to have sexual intercourse with a complete stranger.’ And then I nudge my empty glass formerly known as a double vodka and coke even closer to him.
This time, my VILF takes the hint and orders our next round of drinks.
SECTION 3
Suddenly, unexpectedly, WTF-ly, I am forty-six.
I sit alone in somebody’s lounge.
How did I get here?
Thinking about it, I’m not entirely sure how I know my precise age at this particular moment in time. I just... do.
A moment ago, my VILF was ordering my nineteen-year-old self a fresh drink. Huh, it looks as though I won’t be sampling my latest gift of alcohol after all. Oh, and then it occurs to me. I know I can revisit my past. Could it be possible that I can also travel to my future?
If so, my life doesn’t only have scenes repeated.
Also featured are scenes not yet broadcast.
Curious, I stand up and amble over to the window. Casting my eyes upon the outside world, I find that I currently reside in a high-rise block of flats, the fourth or fifth floor, one of three concrete social housing monstrosities built before I was born to house the scum of society, the workshy chavs, the alcoholics, the drug addicts, the ex-cons on licence who are certain to reoffend in the not too distant future.
Do I live here? If so, how the bloody hell did I end up in such a shithole? Seeking answers, I make an attempt at tapping into my forty-six-year-old version’s brain.
Access denied.
Strange. I can’t glean any information about my middle-aged life. Even though I’m inside my older self’s mind and body, the only memories I hold are from my current nineteen-year-old life, oh, and anything that came before it, from my earliest childhood memory until meeting my VILF at the pub. Nothing from the age of twenty until forty-six, even though my mature version has lived through those particular years.
Is this how it works when I do the fast-forwarding thing, my nineteen-year-old consciousness squatting in my older self’s brain, suppressing all knowledge of my current existence? I don’t know. And why would I? This is my maiden voyage in this direction.
Aha, I spot a mirror on the wall. I can’t help myself, I need to know what my just-past-mid-forties version looks like. Okay, so the good news is, aside from a subtle crinkle of crow’s feet and the onset of frown lines upon my brow (well, of course I have frown lines), my face has yet to descend into wrinkle hell. Oh, and apart from the odd grey wisp or two, my hair hasn’t fully surrendered to the cruel bleached-white curse of time.
Ah, but here comes the bad news. Very bad news. Since when did I totally ditch make-up (no mascara, no lipstick, nothing) and start wearing my hair in a tight ponytail? How come I no longer colour my once-dramatic follicles? And why am I draped in loose-fitting sportswear? I mean, come on, what’s with the hoodie and the baggy jogging bottoms? What happened to my self-confessed screwball dress-sense?
‘Jesus Christ, I look like a chav!’
Oh, look, in my hand, I hold an unopened envelope.
Addressed to Miss Dandelion Price.
Miss? Oh. I thought by now I’d be married. Then again, who’d want to shack up with me on a full-time basis? I doubt anybody could hack my moods, my swings, my episodes.
I tear open the envelope, revealing a letter from –
– the hospital.
Oncology Department.
Shit, that’s the study of cancer.
Refusing to read the ongoing text, I refold the letter, stuffing it back inside its resident envelope. I don’t like it, I can’t handle it, this is freaking me out. And so, no longer wishing to occupy my forty-six-year-old body, I beg my consciousness to return to the past, to that pub, to the guy I like, to my next free double vodka and coke. I keep trying and trying and trying, but nothing happens. I’m bloody stuck here until my mind decides otherwise.
Right now, I really could do with a drink. A strong one.
For reasons unknown to myself, I am strangely drawn to the chest of drawers. I squat low and yank open the bottom drawer. No idea why. My older version’s body seems to be set on auto-pilot. Allowing my/her free hand to do its own thing and rifle through the legal requirement of accumulated life junk, out comes –
– a half-full, half-empty bottle of vodka.
Aha, perfect.
Hmm, it’s a strange place to store alcohol, but I must respect my middle-aged counterpart’s foibles. Oh, and then I realise. Nineteen-year-old me didn’t know that bottle was there. But forty-six-year-old me did. Which means my younger self’s consciousness hasn’t totally taken over the host body. Instead, it’s sharing brain-space with my older self’s matured consciousness. I may not be able to access “her” memories, but “she” can still apply her own free will when required. Otherwise, how do I explain unearthing the vodka?
Fuck me, this gig is complicated.
Now I really, really need a drink.
I stand up, placing the envelope on top of the chest of drawers. Unscrewing the lid, I find myself awash with the sudden urge to take it neat, straight from the bottle, head tilted back, hefty gulp, ooh, yes, it surprisingly hits the spot. My late-teen version would never consume vodka in its naked form, but it’s clearly part of my older self’s daily routine.
I fail to clock the teenage girl in school uniform entering the room until she shrieks, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Oh, sorry,’ I bumble, reuniting lid with bottle. And yes, I can see she’s a minor, but I still feel the need to ask, ‘Is this your vodka?’
The black look she lobs across reminds me of how I’ve scowled at pretty much everybody my entire life. ‘How many have you had?’
‘Literally one glug.’
‘Liar.’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘You’re a recovering alcoholic.’
Alcoholic?
Bloody hell, have I really sunk so low in my autumn years? As a nineteen-year-old, drinking is something I enjoy at the weekend. And some week nights. Well, most week nights. But it’s not a problem. It never has been. Twenty-seven years later, however, it seems to be a major crisis.
‘Where did you get it?’ the teenager asks. ‘
‘I found it. In the bottom drawer.’
‘So you’re hiding booze around the flat again. Classy.’
Ouch. This means I’m not only an alcoholic. I’m a cliché alcoholic.
‘Why are you so bloody concerned?’ I demand to learn, returning the vodka bottle to the bottom drawer. ‘And who the hell are you?’
‘Jesus, Mum, you must be totally wrecked.’
Mum?
Oh, my God.
I have a daughter.
‘What’s that letter all about?’ comes my flesh and blood’s latest query.
‘Oh, nothing much,’ I lie. ‘Junk mail.’
There it goes, into the top drawer, out of sight, out of mind, until such a time when I, correction, my older counterpart can bring herself to properly read the letter. Well, that’s if she ever finds the courage to digest its dreaded contents.
SECTION 4
Oh, and then I’m back where I started.
Not the maternity ward, no, I mean the pub, standing at the bar with my on-demand alcohol dispenser. He’s paying for that fresh round of drinks.
Everything is the same. It’s as though I never left.
This brings me to wonder what happens to my nineteen-year-old body when my consciousness is elsewhere. Do I remain motionless, unspeaking, unthinking, frozen in time? Actually, no, I don’t think that’s the case. Noah doesn’t look as though he’s about to mention any happenings of severe oddness. It seems, in his eyes, I haven’t journeyed anywhere. So I guess that means my travel-happy consciousness always returns to my present-day self the very moment it left, leaving no gap in the timeline, the continuity seamless.
