Bite-size Stories

I eat with my sunglasses on. It's not sunny. I just want to preserve the distance.  I am in the corner, looking out the window. The trattoria sits in the shadow of Piazza Margana, but light finds its way in.  We only arrived yesterday. Cousin Helen, practical as ever, insisted we take the hop-on hop-off bus to the hotel. It was her version of efficiency. "We’ll see Rome on the way," she said. My mother and I sit on opposite sides of the bus, the suitcases shifting in the empty space. The only thing still moving between us. It is nearly summer in Rome. The crowd is building everywhere. Open, exposed, an ancient body endures endless human contact. Now, w e have finally found a quiet spot for lunch. I’m leaning against the exposed brick wall behind me. T here are only four of us, but you wouldn’t know it from the amount of food that keeps arriving. Broad beans with pork, saltimbocca, oxtail, and a pizza for Aunt Berta. Then tiramisu. "There’s enough chicken in this soup...

Year 1B group dynamics were complicated. One thing, however, was obvious. The most desirable position of all was to be Marina's best friend. I held the office for exactly one recess. We had a whole-school assembly that day, and Marina, a tiny blue-eyed queen bee with a long blonde braid, had forgotten to wear white socks. This was impossible. Unthinkable. Nobody could appear at a full primary school assembly without white socks. Fortunately, I lived close enough to school to run home unnoticed and return before anyone realised I had disappeared. Barely able to contain my excitement, I offered to rescue Marina. I would fetch the socks. It was the high point of my entire Year 1. For one glorious recess, I ate my sandwich with Marina while the other girls looked on. Then Lena decided she wanted some of the limelight too. Lena was the tallest girl in our class and my neighbour.  Living next door to Lena felt like having a distant relative on the Moon. I had been to her ap...

The Friendship Strategy Spring was rushing towards summer, and it was nearly the end of my first year at school. Most of my friends looked forward to the holidays. I dreaded that. I knew the summer Pioneer camp was approaching. I was far too young to be a Pioneer. The honour began at ten, which meant I still had three years before I could officially devote myself to the construction of Communism through extensive marching. Unfortunately, summer camp had no such age restrictions. My mother, who had grown up attending Pioneer camps, was already making plans to send me. She admitted that she had hated them too, but believed strongly in discipline, fresh air, and exercise. And, as far as I could tell, marching. I wanted to stay home and read books. Not because I was a dissident. At seven, I had no political opinions whatsoever. My concerns were far more serious. I had recently discovered books and found them vastly superior to discipline and organised recreation. As usual, my mother was wi...

The Soviet Union spent a great deal of time and money attempting to turn children into model citizens. The results were mixed. In my case, there was simply a persistent series of misunderstandings. This collection contains several incidents involving gladioli, books, milk, Pioneer camps, Lenin, firearms, organised recreation and other childhood hazards of the 1970s and 1980s. None of the lessons described here should be relied upon. Most of them ended badly. I survived anyway. Chapter 1 — The Gladiolus Problem Or How to Transport a Bouquet Larger Than Yourself. At six and three-quarters, I was the second smallest child in my kindergarten group. I was a fussy eater, disliked sport, and was about to begin school. My new school uniform had been purchased well in advance by my mother and was at least two sizes too large. The dress reached somewhere below my knees and suggested a future I had not yet grown into. The academic side of school did not concern me. I had already passed the ...

It was 6 am, and I could see the Zócalo from my window. I couldn't take my eyes off it. The sacred ceremonial centre of Tenochtitlan. The beating heart of Mexico City. The red pavement, like rich Oaxacan embroidery, stretched below me.  It glowed in the morning light. Even that early, it was already loud — traffic, heat, cathedral bells. She was parked in a no-parking zone right across from the Gran Hotel de la Ciudad, where I was staying.  "Impossible to park near the Zócalo," she said, stretching out her hand. "Micaela." Short dark hair, large expressive eyes fixed on me, a cigarette balanced in the corner of her mouth. We were probably the same age, I thought. "Nothing good or easy ever comes out of the Gran Ciudad," she told me later. Micaela was my guide. I had booked a day trip around Mexico City months earlier for Veronica and me. That morning, Veronica woke up sick, and I had Micaela waiting outside. Her car blocked the alleyway near the hotel ...

It is not sensible to walk a Chihuahua through a dark park while singing ABBA. I come over for sleepovers and she walks me at night. This is not sensible. I am a Chihuahua. If you ask me, it’s a strategic error.  It’s already dark, and I can’t see much beyond the end of my nose.  This is not a time for emotional expression. This is a time for perimeter control. I am small, but I am not careless. I scan constantly for movement, sound and scent. This is what professionals do. She starts belting out ABBA as soon as we hit the park. I know all her songs by heart, because I have to. The Winner Takes It All is acceptable. It provides a steady 4/4 beat, allowing me to maintain rhythm while I scan for the Great Nugget. There is order to it. I can work with that. Fernando is also useful. It usually means we are heading home. There will be sardines. This is a reliable system. What I really hate is One of Us. I don’t understand why we have to stop every time.  The loud part....