"Uhh," said the man to the lady

The screech of feedback distorts the conversations that had threatened to engulf me. I turn the volume up higher and higher until I can feel the squeals of the guitar vibrating my nose. The pause between songs brings the sea of voices washing in. "E's a fat bastard. A fat speccy bastard." "Aye, aye I get that, but what's he doing there?" A child shrieks and I shut my eyes and wait.

There must be a devil between us
Or whores in my head
Whores at the door
Whore in my bed
But hey, where have you been?

If you go I will surely die...

The leather of my jacket is soft against my cheek as I slouch down further in the bus seat. I had my legs tucked up comfortably for half of the journey but this angry woman in front of me ruined things. She's eating salt and vinegar crisps and the smell takes me back to school. Thoughts of the skinny girl who always took charge. She organised the games, in which I was nearly always the evil witch although I also got to be Belle and Jasmine and Mildred Hubble when we attempted to recreate rather than invent our own. She would sit next to me eating salt and vinegar crisps and press two pence coins into my legs in preparation of my big death scene. I had to wear long socks that week. She'd ask me for advice. I was the go-to girl for solving all of life's mysteries. I was more than a little in love with her. We would giggle under cardigans and rub noses like eskimos. We'd link arms and gossip about boys. She had a bay window in her bedroom with a sofa. We sat in the porch of her old friend while we waited for her to get dressed and her little brothers ran out naked and pressed themselves against the glass door. We hid each others eyes and agreed that boys were icky.

The woman in front has finished eating by now and memories of the skinny girl float away. The blue of my plaster peeks from my sleeve and I wince just a little as I stretch my hand out. Only I could cut myself with a mop. The pen in my pocket rubs along the inside of my hip reminding me I have so much to write. Of course, it would be my right hand the mop attacked. There's a man in his bedroom spying on his neighbour.

The sirens sang so sweet
And watched the sailors going down
You talk to me in siren song
Yeah, anyone would drown

There's a child delirious in her bed. Things moving in the dull light. Ever had a poster that looked like the faces were moving at night? There's a girl. She's mostly me. She keeps walking down this road, tripping over tree roots and she gets to the bridge on Kelvin Way and she puts on her favourite song and looks down into the grey water and

The music stops. I'm out of battery. Which is bullshit because I just charged it but my ipod is pretty old now. Everybody is talking too fast and too loud and the woman's hood has that stupid fur around it and my eyes are heavy and the bus is too warm. My head spins and I'm losing track of my thoughts. I miss my stop and I have to trudge along East Kilbride Road but it isn't raining so I don't mind too much. My jaw is clicking again. I clack it down my road and don't care how obscene I look.

And then I shut the door on my Sunday. I hope yours was more entertaining.