Ten Things As You Drown

1964 and I am actually drowning, in the Thames. I’ve stopped panicking – It doesn’t matter anymore that my long hair’s made my head too heavy to lift out of the water. Instead, I relax, and open my eyes – they were shut tight with fear before - looking calmly around at the green brown golden world. It’s so beautiful I don’t mind at all. Suddenly it’s all spoiled. Hands grab me, they pull me roughly out onto the bank. I feel assaulted by the overpowering light and noise and I burst into tears of anger.

1970. In the garden of an old rectory in Suffolk, escaping from the boring lunch. I’m hiding in a small wood, sitting by a stream on my own, dangling my bare feet in the shallow water, It’s deliciously cool and I watch it ripple, tumbling over little stones all shiny wet, polished smooth as anything. Quick as a flash, a kingfisher goes streaking past, just for me! I am about ten and it’s the most magical thing that’s ever happened to me. I instantly decide I am going to have my own old rectory, kingfisher and stream when I am older.

1976. London, in a dressing room with another girl. We’ve just come offstage, and we’re laughing and bouncing around the room, stopping every now and again, trying to work out which one of us is still shaking the most. There’s a knock on the door and an Arabic man hands us our payment for the evening – a bottle of whisky. We’re so excited we drink it between us very quickly - it’s funny, it doesn’t make us as drunk as you would expect it to - and then we head off to a party, still with our white painted faces and heavy black rings around our eyes

1977. I am stumbling, blind drunk around Paris, with my best friend. It’s the first time either of us have been abroad without any adult supervision and we haven’t been sober, or stopped laughing since we stepped off the boat train. We have our arms around each other because otherwise we would fall in the gutter and we are just totally happy in each other’s company. Everything smells a bit off, especially on the metro, but that only makes us laugh more.

1982. Walking along the Promenade des Anglais with my boyfriend. It feels like there is a cushion of air between the pavement and me. We are sharing a Walkman, and listening to the Stranglers at top volume as we walk. The evening has just begun to cool things down a little bit, but my skin is still hot from a day on the beach. We weave in and out of families and roller skaters, watching the sea to our right as we head to the bar in the Vieille Ville to do our set. People stare at us because we’re all in black with spiked up hair and we look at one another and smile.

1986. In the cellars of a big stone house in Yorkshire getting the rooms ready for a party. I am pregnant and my best friend has cancer. On her neck, as if someone has tried to guillotine her, there is a livid red ring of scar all the way around, from when they tried to remove the lump. We’re lying on the damp floor and striking poses against the cobwebby walls, spray-painting Day-Glo outlines around each others’ bodies to decorate the rooms and my best friend’s mother comes down and says"you’re both as mad as each other". We laugh and carry on spraying.

1992. On a hospital bed and all the doctors and nurses are panicking because my baby’s heart isn’t beating properly and I need to have an emergency caesarean. He isn't supposed to be born for another two months. Then someone notices I’ve painted my toenails fluorescent orange to cheer things up. Everything stops while they wonder where they might find some nail varnish remover and cotton wool. Suddenly the surgeon says “we haven’t got time for this” and they all start moving quickly again, and I’m wheeled off, terrified, watching the lights on the ceilings as we move along endless corridors, down to the operating theatre.

1996. Two little blonde boys come pelting into the kitchen from the garden and they fling several muddy things onto the table. They are so breathless with excitement they can hardly speak. “Dinosaur bones!” they say. I look at what they’ve put the table, then at their faces; eyes shining with pride and expectation. I can’t bear to let them down, so I say; “yes, I think you might just be right”

September 2000. Sitting on a fire escape outside an apartment block In Boston feeling sad. We all came out to watch a racoon rooting around near the dustbins, and then the others went back in and I stayed on. I’m forty in a few weeks and I’m not sure what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. I turn to watch them all through the window, laughing and talking. There’s nothing to stop me going back in – they are all lovely, but I don’t want to. I light another cigarette, and wonder what to do next. I feel very alone.

August 2009. I am stepping off a plane and the heat is unbelievable. I am so excited I can’t stop smiling. I think something wonderful might be about to happen, but I’m not quite sure if it’s going to work, and so I’m half terrified too. I’m definitely doing the right thing now. I’m kicking myself for not doing it before. I start walking up the long corridor to the exit.