Mobeus Strip

Mobeus strips fascinate me. I made hundreds of them once, so i could touch infinity. I felt like God.

I was not a naturally gregarious child. Finding my body awkward and my brain dyslexically unco-operative, I tended to shy away from most things. I liked horse riding, but a severe allergic reaction, to the beast and its hay, made me ill. I persisted. I wanted to be good at something, anything, I needed to find my talent.

Mutsy was a difficult animal. He wore a sheepskin nose band and was liable to kick people if they stood anywhere near his back legs. We got along. He let me sit in the saddle. He did not like to be ordered about. Heels dug into his sides made him wince and resentful. Pulling on the reins drove the bit into his stubborn mouth. Other riders made him angry and he constantly attempted to reassert himself with them. I was different. My fear of falling ensured I did not compromise him. I needed that horse to be on my side.

After several months he grew to trust me. He knew I would not hurt him or make him to things he did not want to do. He hated taking jumps. Prancing around was not his style. He was a galloper. A hedge was a challenge to be relished. And so we went out, to ride on the ridges of hills and look down on the sprawling city beneath us. I would point him in the right direction and he would pretty much do what he felt like. He had care for me though. His training had taught him how to carry a rider. I do not think he wanted to unseat me.

Sometimes, when we were galloping along, I took my hat off and hung it on an outstretched tree branch. I had to pick it up, on the way back to the stables, but I wanted to feel the wind in my hair. The helmet, with its robust chin strap, merely served to make me aware that everything needed protecting and that, no matter what I did, there would always be some sort of ties that bound me up. Mother would have said “It's for your own safety,” but I did not want to be safe, I wanted to be free.

“Knuckle down my girl.”
I felt less and less like her girl every day.
“Put your nose the grind stone.”
What was a grind stone?
“Hard work is the price you must pay for success.”
I did not know success was for sale.

I drudged on.

One day, out walking about on my own, visiting the large fish pond near our home, I saw a sign. “Wanted, friends, phone xxx xxxx.” I thought about that sign. I took mother to see the sign. She suggested I phone the number. It was a girl. She lived opposite us. She had friends, but her parents thought she should open out her social network. I arranged to meet her.

Felicity was a tom-boy, so much so that everyone called her Felix. About my size, but a year older than me, she was rather strange. She had very short hair, that was all wiry and prone to flying about on top of her head like fibre optic cabling. Her lips were brown-red rather than pink-red, and they were very supple. Indeed, her whole face was mobile. She was double jointed, and used to play with her fingers all the time, bending them back to form odd and grating shapes.

I liked her. From what I could tell she did not appear to judge me. She introduced me to her other friends, Robert and Stephen. They were brothers. Robert was fat and square. He was intelligent, but priggish with it, considering himself superior to everyone else. Stephen was athletic, with blonde spiky hair and something resembling a sense of humour. Felix fancied him, but she was 'one of the guys' and so it was never going to go anywhere.

We sat around in each other's houses, well, not mine, because the apartment was small, drinking coca cola and chatting. After about three weeks I found I was rather bored of the boys. They always seemed to want to do most of the talking and decide what Felix and me should be doing. It was tiresome. I had no desire to replace the bossiness of mother with an infantile man, so Felix and me left them to it.

Back at her house we played 'Risk', a game of strategy. We had three armies each and moved our men around the board according to throws of the dice. It went on for hours, and in the summer holidays, sometimes days. We played cards as well, gin rummy, trumps, rudimentary poker – which her older brother taught us.

I had never had a friend like Felix before, someone I could rely on and trust. She was not bitchy. We did not gossip. We went to different schools, she had passed her 11 plus, and so we did not know any of the same people. We were not trying to impress anyone. We just sat around, being who we were. We never ran out of things to say.

Her parents were communists. The had a big, red flag, with a hammer and sickle on it, hanging in their hall way. Like mine, they were quite old. Unlike mine, they were also quite Jewish. They did not seem any different to most old people. They would try and engage me in conversations about things I did not understand or find interesting. Sometimes, when I stayed for tea, they started going on about apartheid at the meal table. I did not know any black people. Everyone was starving in Africa. I had no idea what they were on about.

Quite a few of my 'firsts' were achieved with Felicity. I went to town with her, and without mother, first. That was a significant day out. Birmingham city centre is big. The stores took on a whole new meaning without an adult insisting that I defer to their preferences. Mother gave me £2 and I spent it all. I came home with a bag of 'things' from a haberdashery shop; ribbons, textured buttons, a square of pink and black checked fabric, some tiny, brass cat bells ...

While walking in the woods near home we found a mangled copy of 'Razzle'. It may have been well thumbed, I don't know, because it had been lying on the ground for a while and was heavily crumpled. We turned the pages over incredulously. Those women, holding themselves all open, so I could see their insides. It made me feel quite sick, but I did not stop looking. I wondered if I was going to look like that, when my breasts finally grew. I was not sure that's what I wanted. Something about it, the tone, the shapeless identity, reminded me of liver on a cold butcher's slab.

Felix was a girl guide, which I thought was funny, because she was so ungirly. She was always asking me to go along, but mother could not manage to collect me afterwards, being as the time clashed with the screening of her favourite soap opera. Too shy to ask for a lift from Felix's father I refused to go for weeks on end, until Felix broke both her wrists and my help was actually required.

It had been passed down to me, by my parents, like a second hand piece of furniture, that asking for favours was akin to saying 'I am weak and I need you'. I do not know why it was seen as such an admission of failure, but it was strictly forbidden, because it did not reflect well on them. One had to be able to stand on one's own two feet. Dependence, in any form, revolted them.

Felix's dad drove us in his VW camper van, a Devon conversion, bright orange. Her old brother called it 'the hippy mobile'. It was like the jaffa version of the Scooby Doo van. I loved guides, right from that very first night. Held in a church hall, there was plenty of space for us to run around and make noise, and all the adults were there just for us, to enable us to do things. They listened to me when I spoke and encouraged me to try new activities.

I remember standing in the car park, on an autumn night. The Guide leader, a blonde haired woman of 30 or so, lit a fire, a real one, properly, using tinder, kindling and then logs. I had never seen a real fire. I did not understand how this basic element worked, or how to control it. Then we stared up at the stars and she told us which was which and traced the constellations for us in the night sky. Later we cooked marshmellows in the fire, thrusting them on the end of sticks that we had whittled into a point.

I went week after week, joining Felix's patrol. We were thrushes and all had badges of rather dull brown birds sewn on our uniforms. There was the opportunity to gain achievement badges. You had to learn a skill, or reach a certain standard, and then you would be awarded the badge. The one I enjoyed the most was 'fire fighters'. For six weeks we went along to our local fire station and a fireman, called Gary, guided us through the basics. I learned that smoke rises, so you should always get as close to the ground as possible, and that if you are trapped in a burning building you should get to a room that is not on fire, shut the door, and lay towels, coats, anything that comes to hand, around the door to stop the fire getting in.

There was a practical section to this course as well. We got to hold the fireman's hose. They are very heavy and when the water comes through it throws you backwards with the force. And we went up in an haudraulic fireman's lift. We slid down the pole at the station, except I was not very good at that, because my hands are quite sweaty and I was a bit scared, so I clung on too tightly and made an horrible squeaking noise all the way down. Great fun. I liked the firemen and their engines were the best. Massive machines built for a specific function. For a while after that, though, I was worried the apartment would burn down, because mother was always dropping her cigarette down the side of the sofa, or leaving pans on the stove while she went out of the kitchen.

I'm not entirely sure mother liked my new found independence. With father away, and now the two older sisters had left home, I was all the company she had. It was not particularly hard being around her, mainly because she had very little to say for herself, but I generally felt like I would rather be anywhere else except home.

The tiny apartment cramped me. If I was in my bedroom I could hear her in the lounge. It always felt like she was coming through the walls. I liked Saturday afternoons, however, when he stayed indoors, usually in the winter months, and watched the matinee on BBC2. Black and white films were my favourite, with Bette Davis, or Katherine Hepburn, or Grace Kelly. Everything looked so clean and certain in black and white. And shiny. It was like watching the world the way it was meant to be.

We were allowed to cry watching the films. Mother and me gave each other special permission. It was what the films were for. You were not watching them properly unless you were crying. It was permitted because it was not selfish. We would be crying for other people, their tragedies and their successes. And they were always successful in the end, overcoming all the odds to get to where they wanted to be, or were meant to be. Justice prevailed. Truth was outed. Love won the day.

I much preferred Saturdays to Sundays. I did not like going to church. Death stalked the aisles. Fear was in everyone's features. “In the beginning was the word, and the word was God,” the priest intoned. We knelt down. We stood up. We sat down. Up, down, up, down, up down, for nearly two hours.

He browbeat us. He made me feel like everything was grey. Reading from the prayer book we mumbled our creeds. Singing we staggered through the hymns. There he was at the front, knowing everything, telling all the sheep assembled to listen exactly what they should think.

He threatened us. Small things were made big and big things were made irrelevant. I could not escape. God was everywhere, but not in me.

I had to beg for forgiveness.

Mary smiled down, but it looked like her mind was somewhere else. Jesus hung from the cross. He seemed defeated.

Star Trek made more sense, at least they were happy and allowed to ask questions. Their phasers made a pleasing sound. “Space, the final frontier ... boldly going where no man has gone before.” I wanted to do that, go on and on forever, finding new things, but instead I was stuck in this church, being told that I was a sinner, that I was born a sinner and I would die a sinner. Why did we have to ask God not to lead us into temptation? If he loved us so much why did he keep trying to trick us? It's like he did not really want us in his heaven.

Heaven. The sky is blue and then there is the blackness of space. It is infinite, with so many stars and planets. Somewhere out there is probably another life form, but they are sure to look different to us. I wondered if they had their Jesus. I did not have mine.

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This Ain't Kansas Toto

There is something magical about 'The Wizard of Oz'. It is a technicolour dream. One that comes round on a yearly basis, usually at Christmas. Dorothy is obscene, with her big breasts and bright, red lips. A young girl trapped in a woman's body. I can identify with that

'Big school' was upon me, like a snarling lion. Everything there was in mammoth proportions compared to my primary school. The toilets, for example, were full sized. The hall was enormous. The canteen was a riotous area filled with gossip and bad behaviour. We were allowed to choose our own food. I was not allowed to choose my own food. Mother made me a packed lunch.

It had been decided that I attend an all girls school. This was a better educational environment. Boys equalled distraction. I had failed my eleven plus, so entrance to grammar school was denied to me. I was simply not good enough. Mother wrung her hands. My reading age was so high. I must have made mistakes in the test. I must not have read the questions properly or formed my answers correctly. She had tutored me, for months on end, prior to me sitting the exam. She took my failure as some sort of personal insult.

School was not very far from where I lived. I was thrust out of the house at 8.10 every morning, not a moment sooner or a moment later. I had a bus to catch. I was not permitted to walk. Mother could not drive me. She had never passed her test. This was due to father's poor teaching method. He used to take her to a disused airfield once a week and shout at her. Frazzled, she decided she would rather walk everywhere.

I arrived at school in good time. I was never late. Punctuality was a virtue, similar to virginity. The uniform regime was strictly enforced. Skirts were to be knee length, not above the knee, not below the knee, but on the knee. At the beginning of every term we knelt on our desks so our form tutor could check the length of our skirts with a cursory glance. Blazers had to be worn from autumn until after the Easter break. They matched our skirts. Cornflower blue. I had never seen a cornflower. Apparently, they are blue. White shirts. Ties, navy blue with gold and white stripes. Navy blue V neck jumpers.

Make-up was strictly forbidden. Any girl found to be wearing make-up was sent to the science labs immediately, where it was removed with acetone. Similarly, nail varnish. Jewellery was allowed. Two small studs, or sleepers, one in each ear, and a crucifix. Fortunately, we were all Catholics, good catholic girls, supposedly.

When moving between lessons silence had to be maintained, at all times. We shuffled along, like mute cattle. If travelling north, we walked on the left, on the right if southward bound. There were two staircases, one at each end of the school. You went up one and down the other. You did not deviate from this dictate and cause a rugby scrum. That would be very unladylike and earn you a tongue lashing from the headmistress, Miss Brown.

Scrupulous politeness was required at all times. When a teacher entered the classroom we stood. “Good morning Miss Whoever,” we said parrot fashion, except if it was after lunch, then we said, “Good afternoon Miss Whoever,” except if it was a male teacher, then we said “Good morning/afternoon Sir”. We were not allowed to call a male teacher by his name. I don't know why. And the standard response was “Good morning/afternoon girls”.

Straitjacketed by rigid discipline was an advantage. Routine is everything to children. If you know where you are then you know what you are doing. Inconsistency breeds a chaos that, if left unchecked, causes things to breakdown. Children like boundaries, as long as they are not barriers. Clearly defined boundaries allow the child to understand what their role is, how they are expected to behave, and what the consequences will be if they misbehave. And boundaries have to be fixed. It is no good if they are jelly. A child has to run into a wall in order to stop, not get swallowed up by gelatinous authority. Negotiation was not an option. We were told who, what, where, how and why. The rules were not arbitrary. They served a purpose. We were made aware of this.

Consequence is everything. If this, then that. Do your homework, or else you will be in detention. Do not abuse the canteen privileges, because you will barred. Clear definition was one of the strengths of my school, however, I still managed to get it wrong.

There was this one time, when Penelope Somebodyorother, deserved a good slapping, and I gave it to her. The previous day, walking home from school, she had laughed at me, at my clothes, my general demeanour. She humiliated me. At registration the following morning, as she was leaning, head first, into her locker, I jammed her head between the two metal doors. She struggled. I smashed the doors into the side of her skull. She started crying. I felt very hot. I had not really thought the whole thing through.

“What on earth did you think you were doing?”
“I don't know.”
“That's not an answer,” said Miss Miles, thundering down on me from her desk.
“I'm sorry.”
“That's not an answer. What were you thinking?”
“I wasn't thinking Miss.”
“Why weren't you thinking?”
“Because I was angry Miss.”
“Yes, well, you see the problem then.”
“Yes Miss.”

To be honest, I could not really see the problem. If you are angry then you hit out. This is how it worked at home. At first there was sniping, closely followed by shouting, then the resolution would arrive when he hit her, or she hit me. It was a pattern. I could trace it along with my finger. It repeated. I understood the whys and wherefores. Consistency is everything to children.

Other people did not think like this. There seemed to be issues around communication. Apparently, it was possible to talk through how you felt. Why? How you were feeling bore no relation to the other person. They continued being in their space. Nothing I ever did could intervene.

One night, when they thought I was asleep, there was a terrible fight. Rosie came home, as she often did, to raid the cupboards and biscuit tin. Mother asked her some questions. Rosie did not answer them to mother's satisfaction. Voices were raised. I heard doors slamming. I crept out of bed. Quietly, from bedroom to hall way. Tiptoeing through the sitting room. Shhhhhhhhh. There they were. Mother looked quite flushed, through the crack in the kitchen door. She was moving her arms around as she spoke. Rosie had her back to her. Mother shouted. Rosie shrugged. Mother shouted again.

“He's a married man!”

Without apparent warning she removed one slipper. She had nice slippers, black, with feathers and diamanté on the front and little, pointy heels underneath. Despite the fact that she had feet like old moo cows, her slippers were gracious.

“Did you hear me?”

Rosie had heard her.

Mother launched herself across the kitchen, slipper in hand. Rosie ducked and covered her head, but it was no use, because there were gaps. One, two, three, four, five, and Mother was hitting home, holding the toe of her slipper, smashing the heel into Rosie's head. Father had told me that was the most efficient way to break something. “If you're ever in a fire, look at the window, usually they'll be double glazed or strengthened glass. Hit it hard, not in the middle, people always make the mistake of going for the middle, hit it at the corner, with the heel of your shoe, hard as you can.” This is what mother was doing to Rosie.

I went back to bed.

I heard her in the bathroom, Rosie, about 10 minutes later. She was crying that quiet cry, when all you hear is sniffing. Sliding out from under the covers I went to her, remembering Rive Gauche and the cancan girls.

“It's nothing. I banged my head. Left the cupboard door open. Caught it right on the corner.”
I watched her blood swilling down the plughole. It had seeped into her finger prints. She wrapped a towel around her head and made a turban. She washed her hands. Within seconds everything was white again, all white, alright.

Tommy arrived. Mother was sitting in the kitchen, on the stool with the fold out steps. She was wiping her nose quickly and her eyes were pink. Tommy and Rosie left. I knew they were going to the hospital, but I did not say it. In our house, if you said something then you made it real. Lots of things could happen, but as long as you did not talk about it, and it stayed all sealed up inside, then it was as if it was imaginary.

Events were like dreams. They happened somewhere else, in a murky space that was neither night nor day. Dream time was not real time. You could not remember your dreams. They were other, not like shepherds pie or the television licence. Dreams were nonsensical flights of fancy. Then this happened, then this happened, then this happened, and I woke up and it was all a dream. But I was not asleep. I convinced myself in the end. Mother would laugh, “Such an imagination”. Tommy called me 'little dolly day dream'. Sometimes he sang the whole song. “Pride of Idaho”. I did not know where that was, or why anyone would be so proud.

School was kind of fun, particularly as I had no idea what fun was. One year the whole class decided to do the 'walkathon' for charity. It was like a marathon, but instead of running, you walked, 26 miles, all day long, around the outter ring road of Birmingham. Being a bit of a show off I said I would do it in fancy dress. I scrounged the only thing I could find, a flame coloured tutu, and eagerly awaited the big day.

I got up early. The assembly point was at the boys' school opposite ours. We had to register, get our number badges, and set off by 9.00am. I went into the bathroom, that had a pale blue suite. Half asleep I sat on the toilet. In a daze I wiped myself. The tissue felt hot and very wet. I looked at it. Pressed into my fingers, so I could see the ridges, was a wad of blood red. I was surprised at the amount. If it had been a wound I would have thought I was bleeding to death. I knew what is was, of course I did. My sister, Paulette, had even provided me with a packet of sanitary towels, that I kept in my bedside table drawer.

I washed my hands. I got the sanitary towels. They seemed thick. I stuck one in my pants. Between my legs a wodge. I felt it against the top of my thighs, in the golden triangle. It filled up the space. I was damp and squishy. I worried that I might smell. I changed into my tutu. It was tight and squeezed the pad right up against me. I felt safer that way. My costume was crimson, with the occasional lick of orange and yellow. I put my hair in plaits. I painted roses into my cheeks. I pouted at myself in the mirror. My face looked young, oddly caroused by the stage make-up. I dared not even touch my cunt, let alone look at it. I felt like I had been cut in two. My head, still a child, but I was leaking the truth. I was a girl, stuck in a woman's body.

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