for about five night-shift-fuzzy minutes trying to decide if the right thing to do would be to a) pretend I hadn’t seen it and leave it for someone else to deal with or b) unload the half-washed dishes and stack them up by the sink. In the end, I’d given a fairly hefty sigh then got on with it. Meanwhile, someone else had clearly washed them and left them to dry – most likely Rob. He was a stickler for a tidy kitchen.
With the dishes sorted and the surfaces wiped, I sit down at the kitchen table with a couple of pieces of toast. I’m so tired I feel like I’ve got jet lag, only without the exotic holiday to show for it. And with tiredness comes all the feelings I try to keep squashed down with work and the gym and all the other stuff people do to get a handle on emotional crap. I feel a bit shit that I haven’t been able to make it back down to Kent for Mother’s Day today, because I worked a late shift yesterday and I’ve got an assignment due next week that I’ve barely started, so I blew way more money than I can afford sending Mum a massive bunch of flowers. And then I went for a run, even though I was completely knackered. It helped, a bit. Not as much as the delicious three hours of sleep I’ve just had, mind you.
The guilt’s worse now that Dad’s gone, of course. My big sister Mel’s in finance, and she’s working in New York on secondment, which is a pretty reasonable excuse not to be able to make it, but it feels a bit crap to be an hour away on the train and stuck here in London because I’ve got an assignment to get done and I’ve worked a weekend shift. It’s weird. I knew that we’d be thrown straight into placements in our first year, but I thought there’d be a bit more time to – I dunno. Breathe, maybe?
Nursing’s way more all-consuming than law. I can’t help thinking of all the friends who took the piss when I told them I was leaving. They thought I couldn’t hack the pace at work, but the irony is nursing is way more pressurised than anything I experienced in law. If I’m not writing essays or studying for never-ending maths tests for medication dosage formulas, I’m cramming in a couple of agency shifts to get a bit of extra money coming in. Thank God for Becky – if she hadn’t offered me a room in this place, I’d have spent every last penny on rent before I’d reached the end of my first year. As it is, money’s tight. Rob’s promised to give us another lesson in baking our own bread one day this week – he’s got a couple of days off, and nothing to do in them, he says – so perhaps I can save some money by making all my own sandwiches from scratch.
‘Look what I’ve got.’ Becky appears in the kitchen, wearing a fluffy cat onesie. I assume she’s been upstairs to change in record time, rather than going to Costco wearing it.
Jess appears moments after. She looks tired as well – it’s like we’ve all got sleeping sickness. She puts a hand to her mouth, suppressing a massive yawn.
‘Cock Soup?’ I say, peering at the sachet Becky’s holding. She snorts with laughter.
‘It was on special offer. I got loads of noodles, too. We can split the cost.’
‘Soup, made from cocks,’ I say slowly.
Becky starts laughing. ‘I like a nice cock in my soup,’ she manages.
I don’t know why, but for some reason Becky goes into hysterics and it’s contagious. It’s a good five minutes before we stop laughing, and my stomach muscles are killing me.
‘I am not eating that,’ Jess says, wiping her eyes.
‘It’s good for you. Packed with—’ Becky turns the pack over and scans the ingredients ‘—monosodium glutamate and chicken flavouring. Mmm.’
‘I’d rather starve,’ Jess says.
‘You’re going to have to, unless you’ve got any other plans for making the rest of your crappy paycheque stretch.’ Becky throws her a packet.
‘I bet it’s not that bad. Try it. Delicious salty goodness.’
‘Don’t start that again.’
Emma comes in at that point. She’s looking pissed off about something, and she doesn’t stay in the kitchen long before heading upstairs telling us she’s going to have a bath. I hang around, watching as Becky checks the kitchen cupboards