JASMINE MYRA

JASMINE MYRA AT TURNER SIMS, SOUTHAMPTON – 03/05/24

Today I finally disposed of Fat Barry. Fat Barry was our Christmas tree. After being taken down and having his drooping branches trimmed, Barry had been sitting slumped in the yard for over three months. He had become a source of contention. I mean, not really, but a couple of comments, at least, had been made. Ultimately, it was just more evidence, to add to the copious amounts already amassed, that we were not, after all, proper people. And so, one day, my car already full of junk, I shoved him in the roof box and headed for the dump. But once there I forgot all about him. I emptied the car but forgot about the roof box and left Barry undisturbed. A month later I found myself back at the dump. As I waited in line I thought, I must remember about Fat Barry. Fat Barry in the roof box. And I did. I did remember. But I still couldn’t get rid of him. This time I couldn’t get the roof box open. The key jammed in the lock and the lid couldn’t be prised open. I began to wonder if I would ever be rid of Fat Barry. As the days passed I became more and more conscious of Barry, lying there just above my head as I drove to and from work, which was pretty much the only place I was driving to and from at the time. And then, today, I was giving Dave a lift home and he made some humorous comment about what I was keeping in my roof box. “Do you want to know what’s in my roof box?” I said. Dave didn’t exactly say he did but I told him anyway. “Fat Barry,” I said. And I told him the story about my failed attempts to dispose of him. Dave already knew who Fat Barry was because he’d read my blog. I decided to demonstrate how I couldn’t open the roof box. And, sure enough, the key jammed in the lock and I showed Dave how the lid couldn’t be prised open. But then the key shifted and the lid opened after all, and there he was, Fat Barry, just lying there, looking much smaller, thinner and frailer than I remembered him. I was seized by a sudden impulse. I can be quite impatient and I could no longer bear even one more journey with Barry lying prone a mere foot or so above my head. I seized hold of him and roughly yanked him from his resting place. It being after five on a Friday afternoon, the car park was empty, but Dave still wanted no part of it. “There’s CCTV,” he said. “What if you get done for fly tipping?” He walked a few yards away and faced in the opposite direction. I launched Barry into the undergrowth that skirted the car park. It was quite deep and not at all overgrown, so there was plenty of room for him.  He looked quite comfortable there and seemed to fit right in. I decided it was better that he was there where I would be able to keep an eye on him than at the dump where I felt sure Barry would have felt isolated and alone, surrounded by hedge trimmings and grass cuttings. On the drive down the hill I felt lighter. My burden was lighter because I was no longer transporting our Christmas tree around everywhere I went (to and from work). In the car Dave told me about how he disposes of his Christmas trees. He cuts off the branches and uses the trunk for firewood. Dave has developed a system. Dave is a real person. “What are you doing over the weekend?” he asks. “I’m going to a gig tonight in Southampton,” I say, “but, otherwise, no plans.” “Who are you going with?” he asks. “No one,” I say. “I don’t need other people.” “Are you going to write one of your reviews?” he asks. “No,” I say, “I don’t think so. It had begun to feel like a bit of a chore.” “Yeah,” says Dave, “that’s all right. You’re in a different phase now.” Yeah, I think, I am in a different phase. It’s post-Barry. The post-Barry phase. I can only hope that he doesn’t come back to haunt me.