The Hungry Child's Lament

Allow me to spin you a yarn, tell you a tale, set for you the scene.

I'm 9 years old. My mum has been engaged to my soon-to-be Step-Father Graham for some time now. We fly out, the three of us, plus my Grandma and Granddad, to Sri-Lanka for two weeks, wherein the wedding ceremony will take place.

Our hotel, upon arrival is a little dingy and the beds are somewhat uncomfortable. Despite asking for a 3 bedroom room (for me, my Grandma and Granddad) we are given a two bedroom room with a camp-bed shoddily arranged at the end of the room, covered in sheets to attempt to disguise it as a real bed. This attempt is in vain. It does not look like a real bed. Not soon after arriving do we learn that the pool is out of action as it is being remodelled for the following summer, we are told that we may use the pool belonging to the adjoining hotel.

After settling in (and suffering jet-lag the likes of which I have never known since and wish never to know again) we make our way to the restaurant part of the hotel, as we are all inclusive (this is due to the lack of restaurants and bars available on the island as after a certain time, residents are required to be inside the complex, as the crime rate in the area was quite high and so it was dangerous to be out at night) I am struck by the size of the buffet, it is undeniably large... but it is only as I approach the buffet do I begin to realise that most of the food is stale, fish or had clearly been sitting there since breakfast. Breakfast in itself was not an altogether pleasant experience either. The 'breakfast spread' consisted of full fat milk, the cereal that you can buy abroad that resembles old toenails and tastes not dissimilar to that and the vegetables that had not moved since the night before, but will probably soon begin to move once they inevitably gain sentience in order to escape this episode of Gordon Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares.

This began a difficult time for me to be alive.

Due to Sri-Lanka's location on the globe, and the small size of the island, mosquitoes are everywhere and so malaria is a large risk not worth taking. 9 year old me struggled to take tablets without being sick. We had to take them for 3 weeks before we went, the 2 weeks we were there and a further 2 weeks following our returning to the UK.

I have distinct memories of throwing up into our kitchen sink after my 4th attempt at swallowing a tablet with orange juice, at which point my mother - demonstrating her incredible empathetic skills - says "Look, will you stop being sick now because i'm going to run out of tablets." as the 4th tablet passes my lips for the second time in less than 30 seconds.

As a result of this problem, I had to have my tablets crushed up and put into jam, which I then had to eat. Needless to say at two tablets every morning I went through a considerable amount of the hotel's miniature jam packets.

So with the combination of Toenail-O's, Tablet-Jam and Almost Sentient Vegetables, breakfast was not shaping up to be a pleasant experience...

...Until one day! As my 9 year old body, that had eaten perhaps 7oz of food over the course of  7 days stumbled into the restaurant, I notice the holy grail of breakfasts, across the room is a tupperwear cereal container filled to the top with Nesquick. Now Nesquick was already infrequent at home, but to find it here of all places was the equivalent of the first explorers to discover the pyramids. I pile a bowl up as high as it will go and reluctantly dribble on some full fat milk. I eat like I have never eaten before, and as if I will never eat again, and as soon as I am done I grab my bowl and run for more.

Empty.

The container that held my only form of sustenance, my one and only life source, was completely empty, not even one chocolate sphere remained.

Immediately, sensing this may the only full meal I would eat in some time, I call the nearest staff member to help me get to the bottom of who the fuck ate all the damn cereal, and who would I have to kill to get some more. Sadly this conversation did not go well as not only did he not speak any English, my Grandma also tried to get involved.

Now my Grandma, well meaning though she is, was probably even more of a hindrance to this situation than the situation was to itself. I begin talking to the man, pointing to the container and asking if he could refill it for me. He struggles to understand what I am saying. My Grandma, seeing there is some misunderstanding, wanders over to offer assistance, however she did not actually possess the skills required to assist.

She asks me what is the matter, and I explain that they have run out of Nesquick, my Grandma, being perfectly fine of hearing but still infrequently not listening to what you are saying, mishears the name... this may have been an accident, or it may have been due to the fact that she seems to call everything by the wrong name (Greggs, the famous bakery, she calls Greggory's, Deal Or No Deal she calls Deal And No Deal, you get the idea) she simply turns to the man and says...

"Nesquarry."

The man then repeats it, but slightly more garbled, as if we are playing a game of Chinese Whispers in which everybody playing is a moron.

I then proceed to attempt to correct my grandmother and say "No. No, it's NesQUICK not quarry." to which she simply reacts by repeating the word "Nesquarry." slightly louder to the man, who is still in a state of wild confusion as these two english tourists shout words at him that in the wrong tone of voice could be misconstrued as a threat. Nobody wants to be threatened with an incorrectly named bowl of cereal.

Shortly after my Grandmother's invention of Nesquarry, Coco-Pops released Coco-Rocks, which if you ask me, is a direct rip off of geology themed cereals.

After ten minutes of wildly screaming "NESQUICK." "NESQUARRY." "NESQUARKY?" at each other, I pick up the plastic tub and mime with my fingers eating a bowl of cereal, in the hopes he will understand that I simply want more.

He points at the toenail cereal and I decide to leave.

The hotel that has the pool that we are instructed to use in lieu of our own came with a poolside bar and grill, accessible only with the wristbands belonging to the people staying at the appropriate hotel, which means on a daily basis, the friends I made at that hotel were able to eat whilst I was not. The kinds of food that came out of that bar were beautiful and you could smell it all around the pool. The milkshakes were huge and the chips smelt so nice... and there I was, with my jam-tablets and my empty bowl of non-existent Nesquarry.

Thankfully, I, in a manner comparably only to a Cockney Orphan in Victorian London stealing an apple from a fruit stall managed to trick those serving into believing I had the wristband corresponding to the correct hotel on one or two occasions and so I got to taste the sweet nectar of stolen goods.

On the first day my family and I realised we were able to do this, I was so excited, I can still remember exactly what I ordered. I ordered a strawberry milkshake, a cheese and ham toasted sandwich and a side of chips.

Words can not express how hungry I was, I was past the point of your stomach rumbling, and past the point where it had begun to feast upon your fat reserves in order to sustain itself, I was now at the point where my stomach had begun to eat itself in order to survive.

As I waited for that sandwich to arrive, I began to dream of better times, a time of lunchboxes, crisps and home cooked meals, I longed for sustenance, I needed food.

The waiter brings my sandwich to me, he places it in front of me on the table and leaves, my eyes widen in anticipation and I think I had a heart murmur, and as I go to reach for the glorious grilled bread, cheese and ham, I am only seconds away from tasting it's glory, and my mouth is watering enough to sustain many plants...

My sandwich is gone.

I look at my plate in confusion. I do not understand. I was hungry but I did not eat it so fast that I didn't see myself eat it, surely?

I look up and see a bird, sitting meters away from me, on the other side of the fence designed to keep tourists safe... eating my sandwich.

I have never fully recovered.

The Day I Became A 'Real Woman'

Periods.

Sorry to be so frank, well in actuality I'm not sorry at all, because that's what periods are like, a sudden unexpected shock (unless you're lucky and regular as clockwork) and almost always relatively unpleasant.

This is the story of my first period.

I always thought I'd get my first period at home, with my mum there to run and get me some supplies in that emergency situation, or at school, where I could be supplied with them at the office and/or my mum could come and collect me.

I was very, very wrong.

As per usual with my history of inexplicably bad timing, I got my period at one of the worst possible times to get it, apart from perhaps just before sex (though in honesty, periods are a blessing in disguise if you want to get out of sex because some people actually don't take 'No I don't want to' as seriously as 'Oh well i'd love your peen but i'm bleeding profusely and you might get some on, around or indeed inside you.').

Just for some back story to this situation here, I don't have a close relationship with my father, we are very far apart as people, and he's a very overly masculine man with a penchant for thinking vaginas are for sex (but not mine, obviously) and that blood that comes out of them are not his business nor does he want to know about it. He's very awkward at dealing with problems I might be having, emotionally, physically or otherwise, he's just a very masculine man not equipped to deal with having a child, which really he probably should of thought of before he went ahead and made one, but I digress.)

I see my dad at most, once a year, if that. A few years ago, when I was 15, I went to visit him and his then girlfriend. The day continued as normal and everything was as ordinary as is possible with him around. The evening rolls on through and I get into bed, as I'm just nodding off I'm getting a slight twinge of homesickness that happens every time I visit my dad (mainly because he usually lives at least 3 hours train journey away) and I try to sleep it off, however this is rudely interrupted as I feel a pain that is both dull and sharp at the same time, it comes from my abdomen but for some reason I assume it is just really, really, really bad gas. It is not. The pain that is now ripping through my uterus is so intensely painful that I begin to literally weep. I don't know what's wrong with me and I'm scared and tired, the pain combined with the sheer tiredness caused by train travel and early mornings actually causes me to hallucinate slightly, as i'm nodding off the dreams sort of merge into reality and I get very confused, angry and scared. Eventually I get so tired I just pass out.

When I wake up I feel something is very wrong, the pain is gone but I feel strange. Warm. Too warm. I feel damp, and there is a scared moment when I fear that at age 15, I have wet the bed. To my horror, I peel back the bedsheets to reveal the most blood I have ever seen come out of me. There is a huge puddle where I was lying (luckily it was a camp bed and so cheap to replace) and my pyjamas are soaked through front and back, my underwear is beyond washing and everything is a deep, intimidating red. I am very aware that my body has betrayed me in some way. Initially I thought I may have had some sort of internal bleeding, it is only when I piece together the previous night's pain combined with the puddle of blood staring up at me that I realise what has happened.

I am stuck in a small apartment in Bournemouth, soaked in blood with my overly masculine father for assistance. This had not happened to me before and I was scared and embarrassed. I had made such a mess in the night there was no way of hiding it. My hands shook for half the day even after it was all sorted out. I was a wreck.

I change my pyjamas and pants for an spare set and ran, a hand cupping my vagina, to the bathroom. Upon arrival I assessed the damage. It was official. It had happened, and it had happened here and now of all the times it could have happened. I stuff as much tissue as I can fit into my underwear, not sure if this mornings puddle was the worst of what my body had to offer, or just a taste of what was to come.

I shuffle awkwardly out of the bathroom after endlessly washing my hands of the mess. I sit... awkwardly and the tissue, already covered in blood pushes up against me as an extremely uncomfortable reminder of exactly what was going on right now, and the fact that I couldn't do anything to delay it. My dad looks at me and it becomes very apparent he knows something is wrong because all the colour has drained from my face (most likely because any blood circulating my head exited via my vaginal opening that morning) as I sit and eat cereal, my hands shaking so much the milk is dripping everywhere. I try and figure out how I am going to deal with this without telling him what is happening. He keeps asking what is wrong, and I won't tell him. I keep saying "Can we go to the shops after this?" to which he says yes and keeps asking yet again what is the matter. He goes outside and calls my mum, as though she would somehow know what was happening. As he does I say to his girlfriend "This couldn't have happened at a worse time." and try to hint the word period without actually using it, as though saying it might suddenly cause it to erupt once more from my uterus. She asks me what I mean and I have no choice but to utter the words "I just got my period. I haven't had it before."

Immediately she understands the issue and has to relay it to my panicking dad outside, my mother overhears this conversation on the phone and feels intense pain for me, whilst also finding it slightly funny that the odds were so slim and yet it still happened. His girlfriend hands me a small wad of sanitary towels and I quickly apply them as soon as possible. Following this we go out to the shop and I hobble behind the two of them, attempting to speed up the pace but scared it may make me bleed faster. I spend every waking minute of the next week in the toilet. If we go out anywhere it must be near a bathroom, and we can't be out long for my period pains hurt so much the first time that I was nearly sick. I spent most of my time sitting around, sitting on the toilet attempting to push out a healthy turd (impossible when I'm on my period, the act of farting alone is so painful that it's better just to never eat or drink anything, just to reduce the chances of it happening).

Safe to say it was not the best week of my life.

Add to it the fact that my dad kept mentioning it and telling me I was a 'real woman' whatever that meant and how he was proud... as though I had somehow done him a service as a daughter by proving myself able to procreate, as though the sheer amount of blood I had produced seemed to him to show my strength, as though strength can be measured in menstrual blood loss... it was a difficult time for me.

To this day whenever a period rolls around, even if it is not as intense, or I am expecting it, I am still filled with the utmost dread and disgust, most likely because that first period has scarred me forever, which means I will now associate any period not only with crippling pain but crippling embarrassment.

On the plus side, I am a real woman now.