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crocodile, and it chats up the silhouette film star – the silhouette film star kisses the crocodile. The credits roll.
    My feet are pale on the swirly carpet, which is lifting and falling already – in gentle waves. It’s sunny outside. Nice. Beardy weirdy is downstairs. She doesnae shave her beard; it’s a totally obvious one, but she isnae bothered how it looks. Me neither, it’s kind of debonair on her. Why should women have to shave? I do, like, cos pit-hair is gross, but tae be fair, if I want to grow a beard tomorrow and stubble comes – then that’s my business.
    I slip on my school skirt, button it, grab a clean shirt. Put the other trips in my shirt pocket, knot my school tie in a bow and wear it at an angle.
    The other trips are dancing test-tubes on golden platters, I got the test-tube bits of the print. The squares of paper urnay too thin, or too thick. I float downstairs.
    ‘Morning.’
    ‘Morning. Anais, are you getting yourself intae school today or d’ye want a lift?’
    ‘I’ll walk.’
    ‘You better leave soon then.’
    The clock reads 8.36 a.m. The breakfast table is odd. The teapot stands with its spout tipping away – handle on its hip – and the checks on the tablecloth shift left, right, left, left, right. Our sugar bowl is blue with yellow chickens on it, and it’s heaped high with sugar; each white grain stands out.
    My foster-mum places a cup of coffee down in front of me. She’s sound, Beard is. I place the second trip on my tongue, let it dissolve in my saliva, then chew methodically.I jam the wee bit of leftover paper in the gap between my teeth.
    Beard puts down some toast and I butter it, add marmalade and eat. I count each chew, the toast is getting bigger in my mouth, chew, chew, chew. I cannae swallow it down! Beard goes out the room and I gob the toast out into the bin.
    The sugar granules keep making a high-pitched weeeeee noise.
    I smoke three cigarettes in a row and watch them. Beard is okay about the smoking – she’s kind of ideal as foster-folks go. I like that she lets me stay here cos she needs a wee bit of cash and she doesnae hide it, it’s honest. I’ve got a deep respect for that kindae honesty. We both nod at the social worker when she comes around. Beard washes my clothes, makes my meals and other than that we stay the fuck out of each other’s way. I stub out the third fag and put my plate upside down over the sugar bowl. You cannae be too careful.
    ‘Bye,’ I yell and slam the front door shut.
    There’s a world outside, it’s moving so I have a choice – count things, or name them. I’m like that, ay. I always know how many seats there are on a bus. How many polystyrene squares are on the roof of each classroom at school. When I’m in the cells I know how many bars there are, and if there is a pattern anywhere (flowers on wallpaper, squares on a blanket) I’ll count them. I cannae help it. If I umnay counting when I’m tripping, then I’ll name things. This morning – I’m naming things. It happens like this when I’m coming up, and sometimes when I’m coming down. It’s like I have to name the things I see, just to be sure they are what they say they are.
    The curtain lifts between this place and the next, and I name things on the way out and the way back in again. Gate. Path. Door. Gate. Path. Door. Gate. Bin. Dog. Ugly old man. Lamp post. Tree. Three trees. A carrier bag. A turd. A postbox. Boy on a skateboard. Cyclist.
    Streets are weird. Maybe they urnay weird, it’s hard to tell, but it is stunningly beautiful out this morning. The flowers are pink and white, and it rained earlier, so the air is that super-fresh way.
    I walk down through the field, then over the road; the woods are exceptionally elvish this morning. Hayley’s waiting by the stile and she’s had her hair bobbed, she is so totally gorgeous. She has different-coloured eyes, one blue, one green. That makes her a chimera, that’s what it means when you have two