I’m not saying that I have any inclination to commit a crime. It goes against both my morality and spirituality. Yet my general being, behaviour and bad habits have often brought up that topic at home with Mr Thomas. He claims I’d have no chance, not with all the things I’d leave behind.
I’ve a lot of hair, and it tends to fall out a lot. Whether that be through medication or not, I can’t be sure. Every morning when I dry my hair (in a half-hearted kind of way. I tend to do the front part and then leave the rest wet, even in the winter. I’m not one for perfectly preened locks) it feels like hundreds of strands fall out, flittering down until they come to rest in the bath tub. How could I commit a crime without leaving a few strands left behind? It’d be impossible. Even if I tied it up and wore a hair net, a strand or two would find a way of escaping. The feckers.
I wear quite a lot of jewellery. My wrists are adorned with bracelets and bangles and my neck practically choked with adornments. It may be that I have some gypsy blood somewhere in my system that creates the desire to be covered in gold and silver. Or, and this is probably more the case, my Italian blood.
When you’re Italian, the moment you are extracted from the womb you are given gifts of gold. Somewhere along the line frankincense and myrrh were dropped from the list, probably because most Italians cannot abide the smell of anything other than their own cooking and bleach, which tells the world how clean they are. And myrrh, well, it’s useless as far as they’re concerned. So even though you’re a baby and you have no use for it, and it’ll be a good decade before you can make use of any of it, you are given jewellery as a gift.
If you’re lucky enough to return to the mother country (which is seen as a pilgrimage and rite of passage) one of the first places you’ll be taken to is the local jewellery store. More often than not it’ll be closed, the owner only deeming to open the doors when he or she can be arsed (a strange lazy culture has developed in the country itself, quite different to those Italians that have migrated elsewhere) but you’ll return again and again until it is opened, and then presented, bare neck exposed, to the assistant. Immediately, as if this was an emergency room and you were in danger of death, trays of thick gold necklaces are brought out for your inspection. Lines of glittering, ostentatious gold sparkle before you, and you’re forced to chose one out of the thousands of choices.
If that isn’t enough, when you do the routine visit of all the relatives you never knew existed, you always leave with some kind of gold tokin. That second cousin or great aunt or that uncle by marriage will go off to the bedroom, fish around in a jewellery box containing their own collection of gold, probably obtained the same way, and come back with a ring, bracelet or necklace to take away with you, as if it was a piece of cake or plate of biscuits.
If I was to wear every single item I’d been given over the years, I’d look like Mr T. Mr Thomas says I already do.
So with all the jewellery clanging together, it’s hard to be silent. There’s no way in the world I could creep up on someone with all the jangling going on. I could get a job as a percussionist, mind. That might be the way to go.
But stealth? No, not an option. So any crime where silence is a must is probably out of the question.
This is one annoying habit of mine that Mr Thomas cannot abide. Apparently, I’m not the only one, as my sister is always one for leaving tissues lying about the place.
I know it’s gross, and a lot of you who will be wondering ‘what are you saving it for?’ will not understand, by I re-use tissues. The thing is, given I’m a hayfever sufferer, nine times out of ten when I’m blowing my nose, it’s a pointless exercise. There’s no residue in the tissue, and it is, in my opinion, a waste to throw said tissue away.
So I keep them. Either there’s a little pile next to me on the couch or I stuff them up my sleeve or in my bra. The problem being, when I get up, or move around the house, somehow the tissues trail out behind me, like the breadcrumbs in Hansel and Gretel. Except that there are no birds to come and pick them up. There used to be a dog, my beloved Memo, rest in peace, that would come along and shred said tissues into teeny tiny pieces, which would annoy Mr Thomas even more, but now they stay whole and crumpled, trailed across the floor.
So any crime scene would be littered with them, obviously. And by darn it, wouldn’t it be my rotten luck that on that occasion there had been a deposit in one of those tissues, and the DNA would be traced back to me.
(I actually have no idea if snot contains DNA. I’d assume so. Would be interesting to find out.)
It’s an affliction I’ve suffered from an early age. Five years old, first day of school, first five minutes in, I managed to fall over and graze both my knees and the side of my head. I’m not sure there was a year during my primary school years when I didn’t have a bandaid on some part of my body. My mother really should have purchased shares in Johnson & Johnson; she would have made a fortune.
Just recently, and the evidence is shown on my Instagram page, I hurt my little finger at Birmingham airport. As is most often the case with me, it happened in spectacular circumstances. As the chairs in our gate were full, people had taken to sitting on the steel barriers protecting the heating vents, only about twenty centimeters of the ground. I joined them, but then moved over to make room for Mr Thomas. Unluckily for me, I had chosen an already broken barrier (that’s what I’m telling myself. How terrible would it be if it was my weight that had caused it?) and as I sat down it snapped off its brackets, with an unbelievably loud clang, sending all attendants my way, and my poor little finger was stuck between the air vent and the thick metal rod.
I can’t even walk through the house without bumping into a wall or doorway – which after eight years living here you’d think I’d know the boundaries of the place – so there’d be no chance I could commit a crime without leaving a small trace of blood or flecks of skin somewhere after falling over myself. No chance.
So if there ever is an evil seed planted within me which gave me the urge to, I don’t know, murder some one or start a career in thieving, I will look back to this blog to remind myself why I shouldn’t do it. Quite a relief, really.