Wine cricket

I went to the Co-Op for bread.  I punched that damn bread so hard that my fist went through one side of the loaf and out of the other. A woman stared at me and I didn’t care. I didn’t care that I had a loaf of bread around my wrist, I didn’t care about her shocked face, I didn’t care about the scattered loaves at my feet. I turned.

As I surveyed the aisle, the sheer potential of the moment suddenly swelled inside my head, filling my chest with oxygen and my limbs with adrenalin. I swung that loaf on my wrist: sweeping left, sweeping right, sending tins, packets and jars in infinite directions, relishing every explosion of glass and plastic on the tiled floor.

I strode over the broken glass and sad little heaps of jam. I kicked the paper bags of flour with my heavy winter boots. Every flour cloud was a chaos of particles, as explosive and opaque as my rage. I rounded the corner at the top of the aisle and confronted the wine bottles.

Have you ever played cricket with wine bottles? It’s bloody marvellous. Grab that wine bottle by the neck and squeeze its pathetic throat between your hands. Swing back, then round. Really put your shoulders into that swing. Whack that wine bottle into the others. Don’t lose that momentum: follow through with your shoulders, enjoy the sparkle of every shard and every droplet as they arc through the void, catching the fluorescent fridge lights as they reconnect with reality. Swing hard, swing round, swing through. Swing, swing, swing. When every bottle is dead and the walls are running red with wine, catch your breath before stamping on the Coke cans and ripping open the crisp packets. Lastly, tear every newspaper and magazine you can find and throw the mutilated pages into the air. Stride out of the shop, plant your feet, fill your lungs.

The rage is still there.

Where can it go? Where can I go, to escape it?

How can I expel it? It’s inside me and I can’t get it out.

My throat aches.

I went to the Co-Op for bread. I stared at the loaf on the shelf, clenching and unclenching my fists as the cacophony of rage filled my head. I reached out my hand, gently lifted up the loaf and placed it in my shopping basket. I stalked impatiently up the aisle and, on the way past the wine, thought how satisfying it would be to smash every damn bottle. Then I thought about drinking a few bottles instead. Then I paced haphazardly around the shop, compulsively buying junk food. I paid and left.

I took the loaf of bread to you and you made some toast. Your legs were working well enough to do that; but then they seized up and you couldn’t move again. I labelled and packed your belongings. I helped you wash and dress. I helped you get on to your feet and in to my car. I took you to the care home and checked you in. I hugged you tight and kissed your cheeks. I held your hands, looked into your eyes and promised you I would visit tomorrow.

I will get you out of there. Privatised care has won this battle, but it’s not winning this damn war. It’s not beating me and it’s not taking you, Mum. I will get you back home.