“You fuck up. Things go wrong. Then you get up, dust yourself off, and you promise to do better next time. What else is there?”

That was what I said to Liss near the end of our final year of art college. We were sitting on the rusted hulk of a burnt-out car out in the arse-end of nowhere, with a few spliffs and a couple of bottles of scummy blended whiskey between us, and we were far gone enough that I could pass off bullshit like that as a universal theory of life.

“And then you fuck up again?”

“Yeah.”

I remember Liss fiddling with her dreads, then the plumes of smoke from her nostrils when she exhaled. “So what you're saying is that basically all human existence is just one string of fucking up? And whenever things are going good, or whenever we're doing well, it's just the eye of the storm? That's a bloody sad state of affairs if you ask me.”

“No, no, no.” Before I could continue, I had to take a long drink from the bottle, partly for dramatic effect, and partly because I was worried I might be sobering up. “You do better each time. It's growth! It's not just circling the drain, or whatever. I just mean … fuck it, you know what I mean.”

I'm not sure where the conversation headed after that. But I remember our first kiss, and the promise we knew was naïve, but had to make anyway. Sharon and Alice, together forever. Or at least for as long as we could make it without crashing and burning.

Fuck me. That was nearly two years ago. And it only comes to mind because I fucked up, and now I'm promising to do better.



I wish every day could be like this:

A ghostly sliver of moon in the midday sky. College spires against a retreating raincloud. The smell of rain in the air. A Pixies playlist on the earphones. The faint edge of a hangover, but no shitty job until Monday. The promise of repentance and companionship and sex later today.

I stop on Magdalen Bridge and look out over all the boats on the river. I mean, Christ, it's so fucking cutesy. Like most things in Oxford, really. But right now I'd love to sit down and paint this. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe me and Liss could go down to the Pitt Rivers and look at the shrunken heads and cool tribal instruments.

Okay, Sharon. Time to stop dicking around. You can smell the roses … stare at the boats … later. But right now you've got stuff to do. Like shopping.

Fuck it. I let Debaser finish before I take my bag and push it onwards.

A little way up, there are gaggles of students leaving the exam place, wearing their silly little gowns. They look cheerful and exhausted. And here come their friends, showering the lucky few who have finished with shaving cream and streamers, shrieking and giggling.

Normally it'd piss me off, but right now I think it's actually kind of cute.

Anyway, onwards.



Me and Liss had an argument yesterday. Not a big deal. The sort of argument you tend to have every so often when you've been living together for more than a year. But it was my fault. A few of her best pieces were being put on exhibition for the first time. And I missed it.

Anyway, we made up, and that was that. Except I decided I wanted to do something go to make it up to her.

So, I thought to myself, why not knock together a meal? Something proper fancy. Three courses. I'm thinking roast peach and ham salad for the starter, trout with tomato basil sauté for the main, and apple crumble for dessert. And all the other stuff: Candles. Maybe incense. Elderflower cordial, not wine – she doesn't want us to have wine.

It's great fun to pretend to be posh once in a while.

She always said I was a good cook. “A better cook than a painter,” actually, which I thought was a bit harsh. When I got sacked from the the posh restaurant six months ago, I reckon Liss was more pissed off than I was. But fuck it. That's life.



So here I am, on a proper nice summer afternoon, taking in the sun and pushing my shopping bag down High Street. It's one of those old wheeled bags. Liss calls them “granny bags”. The wheels rattle, and it has a tendency to slide to the left, but I think that's just character. I got it from the same vintage shop I got my jacket.

Here's the off-licence. Shall I go in?

Fuck it. Yeah, I will. Tonight is for having fun, so maybe we can have a piss-up later. I take my earphones out.

The woman behind the counter gives me a curt nod when I enter. So what, though? I smile back before going to have a look down the aisle.

Wine selection? Everything from the fancy stuff the posh bitches in art college always loved to show off, right down to the £3 bottles of piss you only buy when you're desperate. Nothing worth buying, anyway. I check out the whiskeys: Wild Turkey tastes like fried piss, so I'll pass. Jim Beam? Glenfiddich, maybe? In the end I go for the classic: Jack Daniels. Just a small bottle. Well, smallish.

The woman behind the counter gives me another funny look when I bring it over. And then she makes a point of looking at the huge paint stain on my sleeve. Yeah, as if I didn't notice. My hair's changed – it's green, and now it comes with an undercut.And I bet she disapproves of that too. And as someone who has worked a shitty checkout job in Sainsbury's for the past six months, I know when “Do you want a bag with that?” really means “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I don't like it, though, being judged. I started coming all the way to this one because the guy in the off-licence by the house was always giving me looks too.

Fuck it. I stick the bottle in my bag and go back into the street.



That evening, when me and Liss got together, keeps on coming back. She looked proper different back then. That was before she got rid of her dreads and gave her collection of torn jeans to charity. Compare to now: She got a fancy pinstripe suit because of her promotion. Not that I'm complaining. She looks pretty hot in it.

She even prefers 'Alice' now. That's what I should be calling her.

Anyway, Alice. It's still the same Alice. She's still scarily clever. She still giggles at my shit jokes. She still has that smile that lets you know when you've made a prat of yourself, but also that she's not judging you. She still encourages me to work harder when I get lazy. She still knows how to calm me down when the stress gets too much. Just like she did back in art college.

We spent so many hours looking through vintage shops or dicking around by the canals or making fun of the posh bitches. It was brilliant. I mean, I hated that fucking town (which is why we moved to Oxford as soon as we could rent), but Alice made it bearable.

And college itself. Without her, I would have failed or got kicked out, or something like that. When I had a deadline, she told me to get off my arse and start working. And she put in a good word for me after I got on the wrong side of the college authorities.



Oh fuck. Some of the Brookes' rugby team are on the pavement coming towards me. Broad-shoulders, all above six foot, and all the sort of tossers who need to let everyone know their opinion about every little fucking thing. I always get the feeling they're an inch a way from stripping off and oiling each other up. There's nothing wrong with normal rugby players. Just these lot. I try to slip past without getting noticed. And fail.

“Look who it is!”

“Learned to ride a bike yet?”

“You've got paint on you.”

Bike. Yeah. They were watching when I fell off mine a couple weeks ago. I don't know why. I'm pretty sure I didn't get clipped by a car or anything. Anyway, I clench the handle of my bag and keep walking. There are other taunts after I pass: About my hair, my clothes. Other stuff. I pretend I didn't notice them.

Bastards.

They're behind me soon enough. The crowds thicken as I approach the Covered Market. More students. Groups of tourists who stand in the middle of the fucking pavement staring at maps. I have to keep stopping and moving my bag around them.

The Covered Market, at last. More people standing in the entranceway. I ask them to move. They ignore me. I ask again. One of them glares at me, like I'm the one who's being rude, then gives enough space that I can just about squeeze through.

And … shit. It's even more crowded in here than outside. It'll take fucking forever to get everything I need. And the worst thing? I should have know this before I set out. If I have the day off, so do all these lot …

Think, Sharon. For fuck's sake.

I go back outside for a smoke. This accomplishes a great load of fuck all, so I abandon my quest for a moment and nip into the Burger King toilets. In the stalls, I have a quick one-to-one with Jack Daniels. I close my eyes and listen to some more music while I'm waiting for some calm.



Yesterday. The argument. After the shouting. After Liss had told me how much I hurt her. After I'd apologised. After she'd said it's not good enough. After I'd tried to apologise again. We got into a deeper discussion, sitting on the settee. The sort that's scarier than yelling because it means more.

“Come on,” I said. “Really? Being an alcoholic, that's a thing for middle-aged professors and priests' wives. We don't do alcoholism, we just get hammered.”

It felt like ages before she replied. She ran her fingers through her hair and just looked at me. She began to say something, then stopped. She closed her eyes, shook her head. “I'm not even gonna bother trying to … ” she said. “But it doesn't matter what you call it. Not when you're sleeping through something you promised me you'd do. Besides, it's more than that. It's the way you always hide from your problems, or avoid them, or …”

And I remember the way she sort of sagged. I didn't see any anger in her face. Just disappointment. “I don't know if I can keep doing this.”



That's Sharon for you. A disappointment to her parents. A disappointment to her teachers. And now a disappointment to her girlfriend.

I take the earphones out and screw the cap back on the bottle. I could just leave it here in the stall. Fuck it. I don't.

It's okay. I'll do better next time.

A quick check in the mirror. It doesn't look too bad. I don't think anyone will notice I've been crying. So, time to get back to shopping. To make it up to Liss.

Apart from the crowds, the Covered Market is a proper cool place to shop. I wish I had it to myself.

Someone bumps into me while I'm admiring the arcade roof. No apology – just a glare and a mutter. Never mind. I'm fine.

Soon, I'm nearly done. Just one thing left: A bottle of extra virgin olive oil.

'Cause you can't have a fancy meal without olive oil, right?

I cross to the other end of the market to pick it up. The guy behind the counter, a thin dude with glasses and a too-big plaid shirt, looks at the stain on my sleeve. He must be the tenth person to do so today. But he's only the second to comment on it: “You've got paint on you.”

Like I didn't notice. That's actually pretty funny! I lean in and smile at him. “It's a literal tribute to the self-reflexivity of Rembrandt.”

Come on. Give me something.

“Right.” He recoils a bit. I guess he didn't get the reference.

I lean back. My bag's nearly full, but the bottle of oil just about squeezes is on top.

I leave through the back end of the market and traipse up to Broad Street. It's the long way around, but I get to walk past some of the cooler college buildings. And avoid the crowds.

“Big Issue, love?”

“Get a job, you waster.” I grin at him.

It's Jamie, standing on the corner in his old coat, holding stack of magazines. Proper nice guy. His collie sites by his site and looks up at me. So I duck down to give her some fuss.

“Let's have a look, then.” I take a Big Issue from him, glance at the cover headlines – all stupid – and then buy it. I fumble with the change, but manage to avoid dropping it. Then I offer him a cigarette. He accepts, and we both light up.

This has been our ritual for over six months now. Beginning of winter, after a spat with Liss, I saw him shivering and miserable, thought to myself fuck it, and gave him a twenty. He's doing better now, and whenever we see each other and there's time, we have a smoke together.

“Y'okay?” he says. “You seem a bit out of it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I say. “I'm cool. It's just a bit of …” I open up my bag to get the bottle of JD. It's buried underneath all the shopping, and when I try to get it out, the bag nearly tips over. Jamie saves it.

Anyway, I get the bottle. It's just over a quarter full. Fuck me, I didn't know I'd drunk that much. “ … a bit of this.”

He gingerly takes the bottle, then looks up at me.

I can see what's coming. “I know, I know. I shouldn't. But I was feeling down, so … fuck it.” I take the bottle back from him, but I don't want to put it back in my bag.

“Well, I'm not gonna judge you, Sharon.”

“But Alice will.” Fuck me. Where did that come from? I offer the JD. “I can't take this home. Do you want it?”

He doesn't take. “I can't. Nowhere to put it, and I ain't gonna sell much with a half-drunk bottle of whiskey by my feet, am I?”

I shrug.

He nods at a bin a few feet away. “You could always chuck it.”

Holding the bottle by the neck, I turn it back and forth. “Seems like kind of a waste.”

Jamie just looks at me.

Fuck it, he's right. I walk over to the bin and throw the fucking thing away.

“Any time you want to talk, love …”

I stare across the road at the fancy metal gates to the college. More students, laughing and chatting, in their own little bubble. “Maybe later,” I say. “When my head's a bit clearer.”

“Sure thing.”

I say goodbye to Jamie, put my headphones in, and head toward home.



Just before the exam schools, my bag leaps out of my hands. Thump against the pavement. Fuck! Fucking shitting fucking fuck! I heard something smash too. Fuck.

A couple of students are on the other side of the road. They look at me scrabbling around, inspecting the damage, but keep walking.

The oil's fucked. And it's gone all over the inside of the bag too. Bottle of tomatoes, also broken. A couple of other things smashed. I slowly get to my knees, right the bag, and refill it, muttering all the while. Grit from the pavement on my palms. I wipe them off on my skirt, then take a moment to think.

I have a fiver left. No card. I'll have to go back to the house before I can replace the broken stuff.

On the other hand, I really don't feel up to facing the Covered Market again. We have some sunflower oil back home, and I think I can put something together with what's left. Or maybe just save the meal until another day.

Fuck.

I pull the fiver out of my pocket and stare at it. I know what it could buy.



At the off-licence, I can't meet the woman's eyes when I put the wine bottle on the counter. And alongside it, a packet of mint gum.

I pay, mumble “thanks,” and go back out onto the street. There's no-one around, and the bottle has a screw-top, so I have a quick go at it.

When I put it back in my bag, I try and arrange the contents so the bottle is less obvious. It doesn't really work, so I give up.

I'm sorry, Liss.

I'll do better next time.