Sherry Ashworth - Disconnected

But automatically I opened my schoolbag and took out my History text books and file, the document question he’d given us and an A4 pad of paper, and got myself organised. For a moment or two I actually felt like working. I like the look of a piece of blank paper. But as soon as I wrote my name, that same lethargy descended. It was such an effort to write. I tried to read the documents but they made no sense. I glanced at the first question – Explain briefly the following references: (a) ‘patrons and nominees’ (b) ‘the absurd admiration of the triumph of physical strength in France’.

I felt paralysed by the weight of the words. A sensible voice in my head (yours?) said, come on, now! It’s only a short question. You can do it. Another voice said, what has this got to do with you, or with anything for that matter? It’s all a silly game, taking exams, getting qualifications. It doesn’t matter, any of it.

Only, if it doesn’t matter, what does? That was what scared me. So I tried again. I began a sentence of my own on the paper in response, but then was distracted by the reflection of me in my dressing-table mirror.

Girl at work. Or girl not at work. My brown hair was dishevelled since I’d taken out my hair bobble. The expression on my face was blank. I automatically asked the mirror the question I always did – am I good-looking? This time the reply came back – what does it matter? In reality I suppose my face changes depending on my mood. When I smile I look quite pretty – my eyes are large, which helps. But at other times my face is heavy and formless.

So I got up to put some music on to help me start work. You have this rule, I know, that I’m only allowed classical music to work to – you read somewhere it aids concentration. Today I decided to go against you because I wanted to listen to a tape Greg, a boy in my Economics group, had lent me – The Smiths. From the Eighties. But they weren’t like what I thought of as Eighties at all, but camp and suicidal all at once. They were good. I lay on my bed and listened and thought, I could get into this. A shame I didn’t like Greg that much, at least not in that way.

Then I decided to give myself a manicure. It can be quite therapeutic, doing things with your nails, or plucking your eyebrows, self-grooming. And I needed to get myself looking good for Brad’s party on Saturday. I was half-listening for you because I didn’t want to be discovered not working. But who was I kidding? I felt as guilty as hell. The more I put off working, the more I felt squeezed by some sort of invisible pressure. I couldn’t breathe. But I couldn’t work either. I thought about rejigging my work schedule and doing double tomorrow. That seemed like a good idea. Or I could wake at six in the morning and work then.

I heard you shouting up at me.

“Catherine? Are you busy?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Very.”

“OK,” you said.

I got my headphones out of my cupboard and put them on and carried on listening to The Smiths.

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