sandra D

Sandra couldn’t remember what she was supposed to remember. Only that she was supposed to be remembering something. And that the something that she was supposed to be remembering was important.

She did three circles around her kitchen but that didn’t seem to make a blind bit of difference. So she tried staring purposefully at a fixed spot of the horizon, but that did jack all. So she mouthed each letter of the alphabet slowly in turn, twice, just in case that jogged her by leading her to a word or phrase. But it didn’t. So some time passed.

She’s in her bedroom. It looks like the kind of room that wants to be unique but hasn’t quite managed it yet. There are purple satin sheets that shimmer. And there is a white chest of drawers that look like they might plausibly have been laminated and once belonged to a child, probably a child called Chloe. Beads and earrings are strung around a copper hand. Scarves are twisted around a Buddha’s neck. There aren’t any joss sticks but there could be. There is a bear that is placed on a hand-painted stool. And maybe the bear is called, Cuddles. No, maybe the bear is called Denise. But pronounced De-neeze. The main light is the only light. And it is on. It’s not actually ever been switched off before so no one really knows what the room looks like in the dark.

This room of Sandra’s might be described on a mood board as shabby chic meets asian flourish. Or Sandra’s Avon lady – Ann – might say it is an eclectic blend of modern and contemporary style notes. But no one ever comes round so it doesn’t really matter in any case, does it? Besides, Sandra is busy wondering if she can realise her dream of a French country kitchen with British farmhouse accents in time for Crimbo. She’s been pulling out her head hairs for an hour or so now thinking about that. She puts the accumulated tufts in a cereal bowl. The mound is as big as a grapefruit now. I should put these in the bin, she thinks. But then Sandra thinks twice and puts them in her food recycling, reasoning its all organic.

The wooden sign on the front door that says ‘You don’t have to be mad to live here, but it helps’ just jangled so Sandra peers through the spy hole incase it is hot Malcolm from downstairs. When his door slams her sign rattles. She thinks one day she will tell him that and make it sound like a fun euphemism. Sandra has always wanted to be bawdy but has never convincingly pulled it off. But God loves a trier.

It’s not him though. He moved out 6 years ago, so it probably wasn’t him.

Anyway. Anyway. It’s date night! Sandra and Tony don’t actually live together. In this strict sense they don’t really need date nights as they are just dating so it’s always date night. But Tony heard that was a phrase and so started using it and Sandra didn’t want to put him off by being too factual and assertive. It had taken him weeks to get over her ordering first in Costas so it paid to err on the side of polite. She split the biscuit she ordered with him that day. 60/40.

We are in her bathroom now. And its blue and green and she’s stuck sea shells to the wall and the toilet and the door and the bath and the mirror and the sink and the toilet roll holder. The coordination in the whole room really is exemplary. Sandra zips up her boots. They are thigh high. She’s hidden this fact beneath a floor length ‘gothic’ skirt but thinks that the secret will lend her an erotic charge. She’s not wrong. And her jumper is reversible too. Mickey Mouse on the outside, and a love heart on the inside. She picks Micky - doesn’t want to come on too strong. Lately she’s also taken to wearing men’s perfume. Just to mix things up a bit so she spritzes on some Davidoff Cool Waters and gives herself a formal wink. Ready! Brace yourself, Tony!

But the wink helps her remember the thing. And she stands still.

Winking at herself in the shell lined mirror in a mist of Cool Waters she remembers the important thing that she needed to remember. She remembers it as clearly as if it were written in shells right in front of her.

She isn’t dating a man called Tony. Tony is dead. She killed Tony. And he was a stranger. That was it. She knew it was important. She killed him on the street. She did it deliberately with her car quite a while ago. She can’t be completely sure why but she definitely did it. She drove fast at him and that was that. So she isn’t actually going on a date tonight after all. That was what she needed to remember.

She thinks better of the boots and takes them off. Bit much for a night in perhaps. And she puts her reversible jumper on inside out.