Writing exercise number one.
I remember this last Halloween, 2001. It was special, because it was it
was my first adult Halloween. That's how I think of it now anyway. No
dressing up as a heavy metaller, in ripped jeans and a leather jacket
at the age of eleven, running around Celtic Road knocking on doors and
trying to persuade people to give us money rather than sweets with the
power of our minds. This Halloween I had nothing planned. There was no
special event at the Student Union, and I had no costume. I planned to
stay in and eat pasta and mash, watch some bad tv. I was cooking when
Amy came into to our dirty green kitchen to get Lizzie to dress up and
come out. I whinged about how I wanted to, but had no costume. I
suddenly wanted a costume. The thing I remember most intensely about
the evening was the speed of it. I abandoned my hard, half-cooked
potatoes and ran to my bedroom, swirling my hands round in the drawers
under the bed to find something, anything I might dress up in. Amy
knocked at the door and entered with a pair of silver wings and a halo
attached to a cheap hairband. I have always hated angels - or people
that dress as them, anyway. I was only an angel once in our primary
nativity plays. I hated the scratchy tinsel, and dressing up in
colourless, bland clothes - wanted to go back to being the only girl
shephard, with a crook to hit the boys with and my mums red stripy
teatowel held on my head with a stretchy rubber band. This year, I had
to be an angel. I had no white clothes, and still hate white, so I
thought I'd be a pinky angel. I put on with quick care and much
excitement my pink flares, and three pinkypurple tops, then remembered
my white lace gloves. I put them on for a little bit of innocence.
Madonna stylee. We went to the bar, posing for pictures all the way - a
man in a wig and heels, a sexy kitty cat, an angel and a fairy. Amy
said I should be a Heaven's Devil. So I was, growling and downing
alcoholic lemonade in a desperate attempt to get pissed before the bar
closed. When it closed we went back to our floor, where we discovered a
Halloween party going on upstairs. We wanted to go, but I felt magic
and happy. The helipad and expanse of green grass were just outside my
window, and that was where I wanted to be. We put extra layers of
clothes on, and then walked down to the lake, Lizzie, Graham, and me.
We talked about witches, and I got scared, craning my round face up to
the moon to try and see the tiny black silhouettes which I felt sure
must be flying across it, right now. We couldn't see them, but the
reeds were starting to hold shadows and ghosts. I wanted my magic back.
We started walking back, and then all of a sudden I wanted tp play
stick in the mud, which I hadn't played for years and years. I remember
now that I was drinking a can of beer, so was Graham, so we put them
down at the edge of the circle of the helipad to play. I was drunk. The
others were not, but still we had fun. We realised, however, that stick
in the mud is not as enjoyable when played in the dark by three
eighteen year-olds. Graham has very long legs, and when he caught
either me or Liz, he always caught the other one before any freeing
could happen. He was too good. I had to stop after a couple of minutes
bcause my lungs were burning, my face chapped and my legs buckling. The
party was tame after that. Amy was wasted, and completely enamoured
with our tales of games on the helipad; she wanted to go play right
away. It was nearing twelve though, so we went down to our floor, and
climbed out of the kitchen window to sit on the flat, broad roof.
Seeing the lake made me think of witches again, and I got shivery. When
it was twelve o'clock I started to drunkenly shout 'It's the witchin'
'our! It's the witchin' 'our!', over and over. I made my arms into the
wings of an aeroplane and dived and flew around the roof - Lizzie took
a picture, in it I am red-cheeked and rosily happy. We heard girls
screaming in the woods straight ahead, but couldn't see anyone. Then we
saw a group of people walking across the grass in front of us, towards
the wood. I shouted that they were "babyeaters!" several times, then
went back to 'It's the witchin' 'our!'
20 mins (not including time fixing typing mistakes!!).