'HIGHLY FRAGILE'

‘HIGHLY FRAGILE’

 It started as a joke; just something I said that made me smile. Then you came back with the :D face. But then I got to thinking about it. Got a fixation going. Like I do at times. It was imagining the look of surprise on your face. There’d be so much excitement in those beautiful brown eyes. I went straight out and bought a lot of brown paper, I mean a LOT. Rolls of the stuff. I could have papered a gloomy terraced house in Sheffield, had I not got other ideas for the paper – so that terraced house in Sheffield, walls all sad and cold, the weight of so many worlds pressed like forgotten daisies into the brickwork, will not be papered in brown paper anytime soon.  

 I had already had a ball of string, a touch flattened from moving house, so more of an egg of string – but I thought for this, for something as special and as hopeful as this, I’d push the string boat out and buy new. £3.99 the lighter and I have new string. Sadly it is not Finley’s Fine Twine, but I don’t expect to fray during transit.

 I have weighed myself and right now I am 79.9 kilos, so we’ll call it 80. That seems about correct as it is right after lunch time and I have eaten an apple this morning, a small bowl of cereal with soya milk and drunk a strong black coffee for breakfast. There was also a cold vegetable samosa that I had, walking between the library and the post office where I bought the twine. It is a ten minute walk, say fifteen if you stop to enjoy the first flush of autumn leaves and watch the squirrels on the walls. It took 13 minutes, on the 13^th.

 Stood in the queue in the post office, holding the ball of new string in both hands, I found myself staring into the chequered pattern of a coat in front of me – worn by a small woman hunched, yawning and texting over a pram – wandering whether that it is double the bad luck to walk 13 minutes on a Friday 13^th, or whether one cancels out the other. There was some confusion at the post office, possibly based around the 13^th (at some point, another time, I need to tell you about why I want you to meet me at Staircase 13, really need you to do that actually). I explained I wanted to buy the string, so offered up two £2 coins, but also explained that I needed to know the cost of sending an 80kg parcel to Germany. They said that the weight constituted a ‘large parcel’ (I thought that was a touch insensitive) and that they could not help me. They talked about Parcelforce or FedEx and there was a lot of talk about insurance, and a LOT of suspicion about the contents.

 As the questions poured from the little impatient plastic slot in the larger plastic window I felt as though I was visiting a doctor and all of my internal workings where being exposed to everyone in the queue behind me, just gaping loose like a broken clock. I became agitated and starting rolling the ball of string back and forth across the surface of the counter. It was a noiseless exercise or I thought it was until I noticed that the sticker on the string, describing the fact it was string, made a faint crinkling sound as it made contact with the counter. In the end, they were so nosey and insensitive about the nature of the parcel – especially when I asked about air holes and about how to label it as ‘FRAGILE’ and make sure that it was treated as such – that I left the £2 coins on the counter and stormed out. It frustrates me how the world has become so suspicious and impersonal. On the walk home, it started raining. I have big pockets in my waterproof coat so the string stayed dry. The coat is the colour of olives and smells like wet days. I distracted myself from the rain by thinking about the label for the parcel. Two thoughts sailed back and forth the fishtank front of my mind like goldfish:

1. I need to make sure the label is waterproofed – which I can do by putting it inside a plastic pocket. I have plenty left over from university. From back before everything went wrong.
2. I need to mark the label HIGHLY FRAGILE. I don’t think the right people will appreciate just ‘FRAGILE’.

 In the end, I did the label first. It was easy; A4 paper and a black marker pen. Your new address is such a small address. A wonderful girl like you should have a grand, curling address, like something sprawling loose from a documentary about the history of printing presses. Across the top of the paper now, in thick, black capital letters are the words HIGHLY FRAGILE. It feels like I imagine it would, if I were to build a stadium roof on top of a small wooden shed or lean-to. The words just tower over your name and address like some kind of thunderstorm threatening that picnic we never had. I put the paper into the plastic pocket and felt good that the address was safe from the Manchester rain of autumn.

 I am lying on the ground, on my right hand side, adjacent to the post box. It says that the last collection from this box is 6:30pm, Monday-Friday. Today is Friday, so I don’t suppose there is long. I thought about catching the bus and waiting by the twin post boxes at Stretford Mall. I wonder, quite often, whether it is possible to start a new life from Stand C outside Stretford Mall. A lot of people stand there staring far away into the distance, as though they might be thinking the same thing.

 In the end, the heavy brown paper wrap made it impossible to go far. Fortunately the post box is only around the corner. I settle with some rustling, a little of the wrapping tearing as I got comfortable. The passing road is heavy, clogged up with that ‘thank-god-work’s-over-for-another-week’ type of traffic; fragments of songs heard from open windows, tinkling like glass breaking…sometimes flat, enthusiastic singing. I smell cigarette smoke here and there. I smell autumn in everything. The first chorus of dying leaves is rushing the gutter. A few of the braver leaves cartwheel onto the pavement and brush up against me. They rustle. I rustle; the crinkling brown paper tight around my limbs.

 I put on warmer clothes as it’ll be a long journey. This bent my calculations for the brown paper some, but I’d bought LOTS, so there was room to wrap myself a few times around, even with the chunky dark green jumper on that I like. My torso was straightforward enough and I felt like I was mummifying myself, without having to die first. I tied my torso up with string having used sticky tape to pin the address label to my back. I though there would be more chance of it being seen on my back, especially as I’m not sure how they stack parcels. Wrapping my legs and arms was relatively easily as well. I left elbows and knees poking free. I need some sense of movement. I have spare paper tucked inside my jumper in case I need to parcel my head for part of the journey. Even as I was wrapping myself up, I got to thinking about a large box again. That had been the original idea, when I asked about air holes at the post office. I realised though, that I don’t have anyone to seal the lid once I’m inside; no one to carry me. At your end, if you chose not to open me immediately, at least you’d be able to sort out carrying me to wherever you wanted.

 I study the shoes that pass by my eye level. So many different types. A few people still wearing summer shoes, even though it is the middle of September. A few people have thrown me spare change, though I would have thought it is more than obvious that I am not homeless and that I am waiting for the post van – I’d have thought the brown paper and address label would have given that away. I have no need for loose change, I have a blank cheque and a pen in my pocket to pay the necessary air mail parcel post.

 There is a giddying sense of enthusiasm developing for this now, as I shift position waiting for the Royal Mail van. It must be nearly collection time. I do imagine though, there will likely be a delay at the sorting office – red tape and paperwork needing to be stamped I shouldn’t wonder.

I’m just excited to be on my way to you. Signed, sealed and…(nearly) delivered. In the last few days, I’ve really started to notice the nights drawing in and I know you are an hour ahead of me. I wonder if autumn is the same in Germany. Sometimes, when it’s dark, I say ‘good night’ to you, just softly as I’m falling asleep. I know you can’t hear a whisper 717 miles away but it feels like it does my heart good when I say it.  

 The van must be late now. It feels later than 6:30pm. The traffic is still very heavy, so perhaps that is it. I’m aware of a police van parked opposite the post box. It’s been there a few minutes now. Earlier, a couple of people had stopped to ask me if I needed any help. To those, I smiled and politely declined. When they lingered, looking down at me on the ground, I reached around with an arm and pointed to the sign on my back:

 “Really, I’m okay. It’s going to be alright. I’m going to be sent to Germany…a special delivery for a special girl. I’ve made sure I’m labelled properly – HIGHLY FRAGILE – so it’s going to be alright. It’s going to be alright. Everything will be alright.”

*