This Author Has No Stories

My first piece of writing here feels driven by seeing the words, under my profile picture, 'this author has no stories'. I was taken aback but how sad that made me feel. Like a life not lived or wasted time. I had to quickly do something about it and start writing. In an attempt to show that I have had a life maybe? Or perhaps I don't enjoy stories untold. Untold stories hold a much more destructive and perverse power than told stories. I held onto untold stories for so long, I know how much damage they cause.

So now, I tell all. Sometimes fiction, but mainly reality with a great helping of opinion. I will always let you know what's real and what's not... when I know myself that is.

When I was 12 I met a girl J (at school and the same youth theatre) who was clever, funny and not like the stereotypical 'girls trying to be girly' at school. She soon became the little to my large or, as we were called in school, the concord to my jumbo! She was quirky, different and not afraid to be ridiculously silly with me, we could be quite the comedy duo. Although many times it was only the two of us laughing... ok, ok all of the time it was just the two of us laughing. We found each other hilarious. I miss having a silly giggle with her...

I'm 37 now. We said we'd be little old ladies together. We pointed at them on the bus - you know the pair? The two of them clutching their handbags on their laps and saying 'oooh I know' repeatedly - and we said 'that'll be us one day'. Although we'd have far more tattoos and daft coloured hair.

We will never be those ladies on the bus. She died last January. The other half to my trouble-making left me. She had been my first lesson in the fact that soulmates can be found in friends too.

It's true that it's the little things. I read my email this morning and was totally excited by the fact that Netflix had mailed me to say the new season of Orphan Black was available. So excited that I fantasised over cancelling my plans in order to watch it. Then in a teeny millisecond, an eager thought began to form 'I wonder if J knows yet'. She had got me into the series last year, I'd thought it was some naff horror and she'd corrected me. She mentioned strong female characters vague sci-fi strains and I was sold. I shamelessly binged watched for days. Sick days were longed for and nights of sleep were missed but not 'missed'. She knew I'd like it. But before the thought had finished forming, I realised I was mistaken.

Eagerness was replaced with disappointment. She couldn't watch it. She wouldn't even know the show has another season. Then all I could feel was overwhelmingly sad that she was missing out. Unfinished stories are almost as bad as untold ones. And for her, this will be a forever unfinished story. Just as unfinished as her own story. So much more was to happen for her before we got even vaguely near being those two little old ladies on the bus.