An Opening With Questions Have a read and would be interested to know whether you care about Cate? are you intrigued by the opening? Is it too much like a set of moments happening without any real substance? what do you think is going to happen next? does it remind you of anything else? I grew up in the city; deep in an estate, near the church. The inner city was a little like s jungle, a little like an asylum with beauty urban and natural, normal and bizarre, legal and illegal, coexisting side by side. Rubbish lined the streets, not so much that there was hygiene problem, but enough to make it seem reasonably run down. Once a stone was thrown through our kitchen window, for no reason other than the boredom of the children that threw it. Another time, an old man pissed in the garden, and then emptied our wheelie bin into the compost heap. The city was weird, wonderful, slightly scary but full of vitality. My parents and I lived in a well kept house, with a blue front door and a small garden with a little bit of grass around the back. My father worked in the community and my mother was a teacher. Upstanding citizens, earning a little more than our neighbours. Targets. My parents have never been cowards, and would never run from a fight. They did not run when they witnessed things that more sensible people might ignore. They were loving, kind and giving, and would not stand for selfishness or intolerance. They held themselves to high standards and expected the same of others. The #life I had with my parents, although wrought with tension from the outside world, was wonderful within the small bubble that was our home. It was not my decision to move. When I moved to the country, the first thing I missed was the noise. You could always hear something in the city; a car or a drunk or the occasional urban fox stealing the chicken bones. It did not take me long to discover that the country was full of different noises. My world became so earthy and natural you could almost taste it. No more so when it was muck spreading week, at that point the smell was so pungent it was like breathing in a cow pat. Most of the time the smell was much more pleasant - like freshly cut grass, damp earth with sweet flowers. There was not a bubble of happiness in the countryside, however. My parents remained miles away, under the protection of the law, and I had been sent to live with grandparents I had not seen in over seven years. Their house was not full of #life or laughter, and with none of the vitality of the city surrounding us, the house seemed altogether devoid of #life. It was not that my grandparents were incapable of love, it was just they felt uncomfortable bearing their hearts to others. Their house was drab, with the same carpet my dad had grown up with, and sofas that had been hand repaired by my grandmother too many times. There were two photographs in the entire house - one of my grandparents wedding day, and another of me, at a very young age. I was wearing a dress, and knee high white socks, carrying a large teddy bear and crying. It seemed an odd photograph to display. My grandparents only had one bedroom, so they had reluctantly moved my grandfather's fossil collection to turn the dining room into a small bedroom. It was not much but at least it had a door. I was sat reading when my grandmother knocked gently on the door, before letting herself in without waiting for a reply. I grimaced. What is the point of knocking if you're not going to await an answer? A controlled my face and she stood awkwardly at the door. I stared expectantly. She stared back with the same expectant expression. She surveyed the room, now I had taken the time to put some of my items in the drawers. "Good to see you're settling in, Catherine" she said. I could not tell whether she was happy or not. I nodded and attempted a smile - she knew I hated the use of my full name and everyone else managed to call me Cate. My smile showed too many teeth to be natural and I think I probably looked like I had stomach cramps. When I did not venture much more of a reply, she continued, "We, your grandfather and I, have enrolled you at the local comprehensive school. You start tomorrow." I groaned inwardly. I did enjoy school, but I did not enjoy the thought of attending country bumpkin academy. "Thanks, Beatrice," I managed, when I eventually remembered it was my turn to speak. Beatrice grimaced at my use of her first name, but she had never been a grandmother to me, and Mrs Clarke felt a little too formal. She hovered again, "You know where the kitchen is if you need sandwiches or anything," she said, but it was hard to tell if it was a statement of a question. I nodded and then she left. The next morning I awoke at seven o clock; sleepily I pulled on my smart trousers and a neat t-shirt. The socks I wore had a hole in the toe but I did not particularly care. In a zombie like state I shuffled across the hall into the kitchen and made a bowl of cereal. I shovelled tasteless flakes into my mouth in between spreading butter on bread and slicing cheese. My grandfather entered the kitchen shortly after, turning on the kettle and brewing a cup of tea without even a sideways glance. He shuffled out again. I wondered if I had become invisible - that would make this awful day a lot more bearable. At eight, I pulled on my jacket and grabbed my bag and walked the route to school I had memorised from my grandfathers road map. I would have used the Internet but my grandparents felt it was unnecessary. I would have to hunt down the local library after school - not the I was allowed to contact any of my old friends. As I walked through the village green, noting the perfectly groomed bowls lawn, and well maintained bushes, I sighed. I had never been good at making friends and I was sure some Home Counties country secondary school was not going to accept my 'coarse' Northern ways. Event my slow dawdling pace it only took fifteen minutes before the red brick building loomed large in front of me. The school itself was small, though not as small as I expected. There was high fence around the fields and the concreted playground, and a car park to the right hand side. There were a few boys running in the field, but otherwise the grounds were deserted. The lack of cars in the car park made me think that not even the teachers had arrived yet. This appealed to my people watching nature and I walked quickly to a large tree leaning against its slightly dew dampened trunk. From there I was in an ideal position to watch the arrivals of staff and student body, and perhaps I could no something of what I was letting myself in for. As it happened, most of the staff had already arrived - most living close enough to walk and cycle in. The only students that appeared before the bell wore sports kits and joined the boys already playing on the field. I groaned inwardly - I did not sign up for sports school. My ability to throw and catch seemed to wax and wane, whether it was with interplanetary patterns or phases of the moon, I could not be sure. What I did know was that one day I would manage the most spectacular save and the next the simplest throw would bounce off my hands invariably hitting me in the eye. And once you brought running into the equation there was definitely a high chance that either myself, or someone unfortunate enough to be standing too close,would end up injured and more often than not in the accident and emergency department. For the world's safety I had a vowed off sports - dropping PE as soon as I was able. Then bell rang and I was drawn out of my glum sports related revery. I made my way to the school office hoping that the administration could process me quickly and get me into a classroom. I was not eager to learn, but the thought of hours of endless paperwork made me long for the boring lectures of my religious studies teacher from my previous school. Unfortunately the administration team were not the speediest and I spent the best part of the morning signing forms and trying to match the combination of subjects I was already studying match up with their particular timetable. Thankfully the only change I had to make was from English Literature to English Language - a change I would have made at my old school had it been possible. The day dragged, I arrived late for every lesson, was glared at by each of my new teachers, and forced to sit in the only remaining chair. Often this was at the teacher's desk, at the front of the class, where all my new classmates could take a good look. I kept my head down and tried to get on with the tasks set - often completing group tasks alone - my new teachers seemingly oblivious to my position beyond the edge of the class. When lunchtime came I was so hungry that it was not until I sat down that I remembered the sandwich I had preferred earlier that morning was still sat on the Worktop. I had enough change for a can of cola, which I bought and carried with me to a table at the edge of the room. Having made their assessment of me in the previous classes, and presumably deciding they did not care for me, my class mates avoided my eye and ignored my presence. A little acceptance at lunchtime, it would seem, was one wish too may. I sighed as I sat.