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14 It comes for me in the middle of the day when I am preparing lunch, quartering a tomato then slicing each segment in two The seeds where they spill out look wrong and terrible, as though I am cutting the meat of my own hand, and so it’s not a surprise when I hear a knock at the door The bag sits ready at the bottom of the stairs, cottons and flannels collapsing in on themselves after a week of my hands folding them, unfolding them, refolding them It’s the driver, a woman with hair and eyes so pale it’s as if she came from somewhere further north than I could imagine, some new and colourless frontier She cocks her head not unsympathetically and tells me: It’s time     13 You have choices, I’d told myself again and again in the last days At the supermarket, debating rye flour or strong wholemeal, fresh pollock versus frozen white reconstituted slabs Every choice was a joy, I told myself, a delight At the till, the woman’s sick-looking hands flaked over my choices I hoped she was joyful At night I watched the organised joy on TV rather than participating out in the streets, and I did often consider stepping out to the parade, but I knew it wasn’t for me I wasn’t pastel sugar-coloured and there was nobody for me to lift up with my arms, or be lifted by, because to be lifted is always better, more suitable     12 A teenage girl, Jennifer, latches onto me immediately I feel very tender at the sight of her outlined eyes, the bracelets she tears at rhythmically that are supposed to be talismans for things such as love and belonging At the first service station she sinks low in her seat, refusing to get off I bring her a sandwich of plastic cheese and she chews it meditatively   My mother will be on her way, she says She’s caught me up before She hits the seat in front of her with her palms, nervous energy coming off her like heat Can you hurry up? she calls out to the