There's more dust in this building site than all my remedial math classes combined. It's constantly slammed out of hiding from landing planks of wood that leave ungloved hands splint-ridden. I apply water to the wall paper, paint scraper in left hand, blade's edge rested on the damp. right hand applies pressure and I start peeling off the paint.
Peeling.
Peeling.
Peeled.
One half a strip of wallpaper. Done. The rest of the hallway and a living room to go.
Two months ago, the idea of scraping wallpaper off a wall was an alien concept, as was the knowledge of a "Paint Scraper” a handle with a horizontal blade that when consistently used by a roofing company for about five years can become blunt, making scraping paint a much harder job than it has any right to be. Two months ago feels like a very long time ago.
On my first day I scrape a picture of a really big cat. My boss walks past me, sees the cat and asks me “Is that a cat?
I look at the picture of this cat and say "no".
He says “good” and walks into another room.
I mouth the cat a silent apology and start scraping away the top of it's head.
Before Mum leaves for work, she sits next to me while I eat breakfast with my hood up.
She touches my hand and asks how I am. I make eye contact with her while swallowing a spoonful of porridge with the saddest face I can make and say “I’m fine”
We’re working in Maida Vale, aKilburn's boring older brother, a barber who doesn't give extended family discounts. During lunch I buy a Chicken Escalope Sandwich- it’s like a Chicken Burger, but not.
We sit in the dust and eat, it. Our boss loves talking about how he listens to women’s hour. How He. He. Him. Can you believe. Him. Me. Me. I. Listen to women’s hour. Bet you would’t think that. Just shows, really.
I asked him what it shows and he says “What?”
“What does it show?”
He says “It just shows”
I’m angry. I’m not angry because I fucked up my SATS, GCSE’s and didn’t do A-levels. Not Angry because I didn’t even think about applying to a university, not angry because I wanted to be an actor but didn’t have the courage to audition at a drama school, I’m angry because I know I’m different. I know I’m special. I’m angry because no one else seems to notice.
I’m resting my head against the paint scraper. It’s December. Eight am. Finish at five. We’re renovating a basement. Last time I saw the sun was three weeks ago, but it’s snuck through a crack in the floorboards above and rests on my hand like the most beautiful butterfly. Reminds me of mum, touching my hand before work. Up even earlier than me, like she always has been.
Peeling.
Pressure.
Peeled.