Ghosts in the Morning - By Will Thurmann Page 0,7
afflicted the kitchen sink dramas. I flicked on the electronic programme guide and scrolled to the movies listing. We had the full Sky package – all of the films, sports, and hundreds of other channels full of repeats, and teleshopping, so much teleshopping. I often watched these, fascinated that people actually bought these magic mops that promised to clean your entire kitchen within seconds, or those clever trowels in case you fancied yourself as a builder, or the miracle paint rollers – I mean, people must buy these things, the same adverts would run for month, the presenters endlessly asking the same questions - ‘have you often wanted to point your wall like the experts do’. There must be thousands of people disappointed that their purchases didn’t suddenly turn them into an expert painter and decorator, or Bob the bloody Builder.
Our Sky package had a subscription to some adult channels too. They were PIN number protected by Graham. He thought I didn’t know about it, the subscription came out of his current account. I think Graham thought I was stupid. I knew the PIN number too – Graham had set it as his birthday, but backwards, which I assume he thought was brilliantly devious and clever. Sometimes I would flick to those channels and watch the young girls writhe about on tacky beds covered in crinkled shiny plastic, their red-lined mouths contorted in fake ecstasy. They didn’t wear much; G-strings clinging tightly to their shaven fannies, and pulled tight up behind into their shadowy backsides. It was strange to think that men found this convoluted posturing to be a turn-on. What was so attractive about a woman crooking her finger in a preposterous come-hither manner, whilst shaking her bosom from side to side, or flapping her buttock fat up and down?
It was hard to tell if the girls were in any way exploited by it all. Maybe they were students trying to alleviate the pressure of the large debts that university attendance seemed to bring, or perhaps they were just girls who needed or wanted the money. It was better than selling their bodies on the streets, I guess. I wondered how much they were paid to bare their young bodies, and I wondered how they felt about the men who watched, all those sad middle-aged men beating off in front of a television whilst a girl who was half their age pranced around in front of a camera. Perhaps they felt nothing at all, perhaps it was just an easy way of earning money.
I caught Graham watching one time. It was late at night and I had come downstairs for a drink of water – I had a pounding headache, I used to get a lot of migraines. I still get them, just not so often these days. But they’re bad when they happen. Like a rusty screwdriver being dug into my forehead, then slowly twisted around, and then pushed in some more. Anyway, I needed a glass of water and some painkillers. The tablets didn’t ease the pain that much, but I was grateful for the smallest respite.
The television was on and I assumed Graham had fallen asleep in front of it, like he usually did, he would sprawl his head backwards with his hairy nostrils flaring and snorting. But he wasn’t asleep. He was sat upright on the sofa, his fading, grey jogging bottoms pooled around his feet - the ones with a large ragged hole on one knee. They should have been thrown out ages ago. He was staring at the screen, where a willowy blonde was pushing up her surgically-enhanced breasts and licking her own nipples. Graham was stroking himself and I could see a box of tissues next to him on the sofa. He turned slowly towards me, a look of bewildered fear on his face, and I turned away sharply towards the sideboard. I pretended to ruffle in the drawers, muttering ‘now where are those pills’ as if I didn’t know he was there, as if I thought the pills that were always in the kitchen would suddenly magic themselves into the lounge sideboard, as if I couldn’t hear him pulling up his jogging bottoms and thrusting the tissues under a cushion. I waited another second, hearing the click of the remote control.
‘Oh, right, oh, I must have fallen asleep. Huh, well I guess I’ll blame that on Newsnight,’ he said. His face was bright red.
‘Well, you will insist on watching those boring