Biting David Keenan

Hello.

If you don't have time to read another post made up of ramblings about stupid things when I was a child, that's fine. But please scroll down to the bottom where there's a poem by Carol Anne Duffy I found, which I've looked for since I first read it and I guarentee it will make your day a little better. I don't know how.

When I was a child, I went to two primary schools - one in Year 3, from age seven onwards, but before that I went to a different one, and there I had more confidence and I was a different person. Thinking back, I'm fairly sure that when I was about five, I was a badass in school.
I don't really remember many of the things that gained me this reputation, I just know I had it. I was intelligent but I got into a lot of trouble. I have memories of standing against the cupboard at the back of the class - the ultimate punishment - up in the stocks for townsfolk to laugh at or maybe just inspect.
But I do remember biting David Keenan.
The whilstle had just blown for the end of lunch, it was cold and we were lining up at the end of the field. I was daydreaming, looking at the sky and the grass and the seagulls, eating leftover playground crumbs of snacktime KitKats and Nutri Grain bars, and in front of me was David Keenan.
I honestly haven't seen him since, but from what I remember he was quite chubby, at five, and he had very bright hair, and for some reason he said something which made me angry and so I bit him.
I don't remember why, and it bugs me a lot, and although I think I was probably evil in a lot of ways I don't think I can have done it for no reason. Nowadays, if I ask my mother tells me I was provoked. My teachers and parents were angry, back then. I don't know why I bit him but I did, right in the stomach, and his pale skin swelled up straight away with a volcano of pink and red, swirling blue and purple patterns forming around the edges of the bruise.
I was too proud to admit it. I remember my dad getting home and me begging him to read to me but my mum said no, not until I'd told him what I'd done and I wouldn't do it. We were in the conservetory and I was screaming and crying. Everyone said I had done wrong, I should feel guilty but I couldn't because I somehow knew I was right.
They tell me now that it was almost deserved, that it isn't on my conscience but I know that I bit David Keenan, and that it was wrong but I have no idea why.
Perhaps I never will.

I'm in understanding that that was a pretty stupid thing to talk about, so here is something beautiful.

TEA
by Carol Anne Duffy

I like pouring your tea, lifting
the heavy pot, and tipping it up,
so the fragrant liquid streams in your china cup.

Or when you're away, or at work,
I like to think of your cupped hands as you sip,
as you sip, of the faint half-smile on your lips.

I like the questions - sugar? - milk?
and the answers I don't know by heart, yet,
for I see your soul in your eyes, and I forget.

Jasmine, Gunpowder, Assam, Earl Grey, Ceylon,
I love tea's names. Which tea would you like? I say
but it's any tea for you, please, any time of day,

as the women harvest the slopes
for the sweetest leaves, on Mount Wu-Yi,
and I am your lover, smitten, straining your tea.


If nothing else melancholy, or squishy or sentimental, read in a really shallow way it makes me feel like simply walking around Whittard's and smelling sweet air, examining packets, leaves and syrups and shakers I'd never have the time to use. I stick with instant pearguava, and it's delicious.
Goodnight.

- Lizzie

PS
What I was actually going to do today is write a blog about how much I love webcasts and why, but I didn't, but it was because tonight I watched some of Imogen Heap's #live4capetown and although signal was bad and I only saw some of the songs, it was mostly just awesome talking to other fans, people who like or even just know my kind of music, having fights with people about Amanda Palmer and Tori Amos, that kind of thing. I love all of it. :) But yuss, I'll go on more in detail about stuff like that one day.