"I would go out tonight, but I haven't got a stitch to wear...." The Smiths, 1984

"Well done, Mrs Howes, it's a girl!"  Darlington Memorial Hospital, September 19th, 1995

"Here, you hold him."  Darlington Memorial Hospital, September 19th, 1995

This began as a NaNoWriMo idea, but slightly condensed! I really hope you enjoy it, and that whether you're red like Martin, or blue like Kitty, you have occasional Purple days.

December 17th 11.30pm

Tonight confirmed it: I am a social ne-er do well.  I now know that it’s not them, it’s me.  Well, it is them.  People.  Grown men with Simpsons ties and women with names like Jean and Brenda who only talk about how fat they are, and what they're having done to their houses.  Somehow everyone else can cope with this though, or at least nobody says anything, which amounts to the same thing in an office.   Christmas parties and me, do not mix.  Or any party.  Or just me, really. 

The thing I remember best about tonight was that a waitress was there suddenly, when she hadn’t been before, sweeping up a pile of broken glass.  I could hear the fake champagne hissing wild like a pool of acid, gleaming on the shards.

(Note: if I'm feeling like I'm going to blow, I'll come back and read this again.  So I'll know for sure that this passed before, and will again).

I have quite the turn of phrase in the aftermath of my moments, don't I.   Andrew had hold of my arm.  He works in…I want to say the finance office, but I could be wrong.  Everyone was looking at me.   Bob, line manager extraordinaire, walked me out of the room and sat with me.  The lady behind the hotel reception picked up the phone and kept glancing over at us, as though she was concerned I was going to run over there and hurt her.  Bob bounded over there and whispered something to her.  Probably telling her not to call the police.  I hope not anyway.  I’m running out of lives there.  Bad Martin. 

“I’ll pay for it.  I’ll pay.” I called over. 

“Come on, mate.  Let’s get you home,” said Bob and guided me out of the foyer to the car park. 

“I will pay for it, Bob," I said,  "only I don’t want to get you in trouble or worry my mum.”

I don't care if I worry her or not.  I just cannot deal with her banging on at me about it.

“We’ll have a chat about it on Monday morning, Mart.  Take care, man. ” 

A taxi, one of ours, pulled up alongside the kerb and called my name.   When exactly had Bob called for that?  Why did he only call me Mart when he was trying to stop me kicking off?

Back home, she had actually left me something to heat up, one of those pasta n sauce things, but it had meat in it so I slung it out.  You might think that if you have known someone for nineteen years, two months and three days you would know not to leave them something they have never and would never touch in order to keep them alive.  But then, that's Alice.

 Phil must be over because I heard her moaning.  So it's headphones in, good night diary and world, and let's face a different music at the chuckle factory on Monday.  Cannot even be bothered to log onto the forum, so all in all I'd say this particular bitch cancer of a day was a stage 3.    

Just read this over again.  If you didn't know me you'd think, just from reading this that I was an absolute scumbag.  Truthfully, I don't know if I am or not.  I've never had anyone to ask.  

 The phone intruded again, and she knew, from the hovering footsteps at the bottom of the stairs, that they were trying to reel her in again.  She had measured the time between this and their last call by the carefully planned steps it took to begin a blue frog.  Kitty had thoroughly soaked her brush (semi-new, squirrel hair) in a mason jar of clean water and then shaken the excess off like a puppy.  She had prised open the lid of M. Graham honey watercolour in anthaquinone blue and squeeze a fingernail sized portion onto the mixing tray.  Adding a tiny drop of water so the paint looked like a smudged tear, she rolled the receptive brush lightly against the mingled pigment and water and was about to enliven the curve of the frog's rump when the ringing began.  Third time that day.  Third day that week.  Bad things really do have numbers, mused Kitty.  

    "It's them, love!" called her mother.  Kitty rolled her eyes.  Who else would it be?  She had three choices, since bad things needed to be stood and counted.  One, the blue option: quickly pack a rucksack from her bedroom food cupboard, plus enough bras and knickers to last a week and walk to town.  Walk and walk and walk, stopping along the way to refuel on muesli bars and carefully peeled apples.  Two: take the stairs in a couple of leaps, tear the phone from it's cradle and scream crimsonly at them to leave her alone, that she wasn't coming back this week or ever. Let them hear her insides wail.  

    She chose three, a purple mix of the two in her head, as she always did.  "Tell them to call back later, please."

    Tanith would have known what to do, if Tanith was able to talk to her.  The last time they'd looked into one another's eyes was the day they were torn apart.   They had clasped raw hands in the bone chilling February morning, and quickly plaited the ends of their ponytails loosely together as Brian loaded up the boot of the car.   Tanith promised to call or text when she got to the other end, but they must have taken her phone away or else she had lost it again because that was six weeks ago and nothing.  Kitty was alone, and there was nothing to keep her on track but to paint, and try her best to keep inside the lines.

    Her inbox was full, the handset long since muted, but still the incoming light flashed as another message tried and failed to reach her, like birds flinging themselves into a window.  It was Rob, college and Rob again.  That, she knew without looking.  

    Kitty gazed at the frog and for a moment was folded into following the soft 2B lines around the track of its body, over and over until her breathing slowed and her heart rested.  The paintbrush had lost its appeal, tipped bluely towards the ceiling, it was too dry for the effect she had wanted, and more water would ruin it.  The poison arrow frog would be rendered a washy dose of pigment, not enough to sicken anybody but his creator.    Better to bin the lot.  Again.