#6may2015

Ever fought with a tin whistle? ‘I don’t like your style of teaching.’ 'I don’t like your style of studenting.’ She slammed the door, left me to my notebook, pen, timer. 'I don’t know why you have to take it so seriously.’ Her sister tried to ignore the fight. The benefits of being deaf. It was better we stopped anyway, because angry tin whistling only leads to an angry Da downstairs. He’s making fish pie. Earlier we ate lemon cake at Gran’s house. She took the cake out of its box and its plastic. 'I don’t bake much anymore.’ In the drafty toilet I formulated a sentence to remember to write down later: The boy is in therapy to untie his tongue.

She told me I was good. 'You were so nervous.’ 'I wasn’t actually that nervous, actually.’ 'You were wiping your hands on your pants a lot.’ I made a point to lean over the table when I nibbled the cookies, so I didn’t mess. We recounted the places we’d driven to in the car Gran loaned us. We spent as much time discussing where we’d not been as where we had. 'You’re not oorgunized is your problem,’ said Papa, and Gran nodded and mimed writing a list. Then we spent the afternoon fighting about my shortcomings.

3 0