Another Year, Another Blandmore

(Not Blandmore.)








How do I know the New Year?

Not by the countdown, the chanting, the cheering. Not by fireworks on the river, nor bright city lights, nor hugs and dancing. Not by my boyfriend's kiss, nor Auld Lang Syne, nor families and fires.

I don't know the New Year by my short skirt, silly hat and aching heels. I don't know it by the stagger down the road for a cab, nor by my vomiting on a police officer's boots, nor the stranger who takes me home. I don't know about the fumbled struggle at someone's house, nor the phone-calls asking where I am, nor the wandering through town laughing at passing cars, wearing only one shoe.

For me, the New Year doesn't start with screams, shouts and accusations. Nor broken crockery, raised fists, knives taken from drawers. I don't know the New Year by the police at my door, nor the blood on my hands, nor the day I'll always remember.

I know the New Year by an overtime code, a scramble for custody spaces, five missed calls from my boyfriend. Relatives asking what my plans are and shaking their heads. Twelve hour shifts, other people's blood, driving from town centre to town centre. Going home, curling up and sleeping. There is no celebration, no fireworks, no song. There is just me, and those like me, surviving the New Year if we can.

Another year starts, and Blandmore is the same.

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'Diary of an On-Call Girl' is available in some bookstores and online.