The Cream Donut
As I sit at the ‘ergonomic sit-stand’ desk in my office (that I recently turned into my ‘hobby room’), sugar rotting my teeth from the candy kittens I’m snacking on from a PR box I can’t remember signing up for, the tick tick tick of my visual timer reminds me of the clock I used to have in my bedroom at my grandma’s house. My sister and I each had a bedroom at my grandma’s house, mine pink, hers purple. I don’t know if this is normal or not, but, it was normal for us.
Living with a single, working Mum growing up meant that our grandma often looked after us. She picked us up from school in the week and would take us to the corner shop, or the bakery somedays, as a treat. A one pound coin was placed lovingly into our tiny, excited palms that were covered in glue and ink from the school day. My sister would spend her pound quickly and confidently, always so decisive in what treasure she would buy with her allotted gold. Me on the other hand, I spent a painfully long time roaming the aisles, sweating in my blue school uniform, ensuring I had taken every single sweet, chocolate bar and packet of crisps into consideration before making my choice.
One day after school, Grandma took us to the bakery because she needed to post a letter (it was one of those small village bakeries that was also a post office) and as expected she pressed a pound coin into our hands.
‘Have a think about what you want girls, I’m just posting this letter’.
My sister assertively pressed her finger against the glass of the display cabinet, leaving a greasy little fingerprint, directing the person behind to retrieve and bag up the baked good she desired. She proudly passed over her pound coin to the woman in exchange for her chosen sweet treat. The woman behind the counter smiled at my sister as she skipped off to stand beside my grandma at the post office till before turning her attention to me.
‘What would you like love?’ she asked.
What do I want? Chocolate eclair? Iced bun? Cream donut? No not the cream donut, you got that last time and regretted it. What about a muffin? Or Cherry Bakewell? The cream donut does look nice though…
‘Quickly, Georgia, what are you having?’, my grandma asked as she returned to the counter, my sister trotting behind her.
My eyes darted left to right, prancing from one sickly sweet treat to the next, desperately hoping The Right Choice would miraculously pop into my head and fall out of my mouth in response. Instead, I panicked and chose the cream donut. The cream donut that I knew I wouldn’t even like. Why did I pick it? Why didn’t I go for the safe bet? Something I know I like and always tastes the same? I begrudgingly swapped my pound for my poor decision. As we left the shop I stared at the chocolate eclairs longingly, tears prickled at my eyes, hands hot and sticky from the paper bag with my stupid cream donut in.
Back at Grandma’s house, I sat on my side of the table - always the side facing into the kitchen, closest to the door and in reach of the buttons on the TV - with my sister opposite me. Whilst she tore open her flimsy paper bag, home to her delicious, safe chocolate eclair, I eyeballed mine loathingly. Inside lay a sticky, sugary, lump of dough violated by squirty cream and strawberry sauce. I shivered in disgust as I prepared to uncage the monstrosity, careful not to contaminate my fingers with strawberry sauce that reminded me of a nose bleed. With the precision of a surgeon I removed the donut from the bag and placed it on my plate. Across from me, my sister gleefully chomped her eclair, lost in whatever CBBC programme was on the TV, blissfully unaware of my imminent demise if I had to actually eat this donut.
Maybe if I use a knife and fork it will be better, more manageable, I thought optimistically. I scoured my grandma’s cutlery drawer looking for acceptable tools to dissect the beastly lump that sat waiting as if mocking me. Finally, I found a matching knife and fork and returned to the table. I began to deconstruct the thing, removing the mass of cream, and the syrupy red sauce along with it.
‘What are you doing?’ my sister asked indifferently, her eyes still glued to the TV.
‘I’m trying…’, I impaled the donut with my fork, ‘to make this horrible thing…,’ my knife began sawing, ‘edible’. And with that, half the donut went flying off my plate with so much force you’d think I’d purposely thrown it.
‘What are you doing, Georgia?!’ my sister asked again, this time her voice laced with bewilderment and irritation.
‘THIS DONUT IS DISGUSTING!’ I screamed in her direction. I threw the cutlery on the table (or in the general direction of the table) and stormed out of the kitchen and up the stairs to my room.
The doors at my grandma’s house weren’t heavy and dragged along the carpet when they closed, making it impossible to slam them shut. This infuriated me. So, after pushing the door shut as loudly as I could, I launched myself on the bed, face smushed into my pillow, as my heart pounded in my ears. Involuntary tears poured out my eyes, saturating my pillowcase and I begun hyperventilating as if I’d just found out the family dog had died. As I lay there, on my pink groovy chick duvet cover, homemade art on the wall that I thought said ‘groovy’ but years later realised I missed an ‘o’ and so spelt ‘grovy’, I wondered why I couldn’t just be normal.
Why did a donut elicit such a visceral reaction from me? Why did a question from my sister send me over the edge? And why, oh why, did I choose that stupid cream donut? These questions whirred in my brain for hours (minutes) until my sister broke my rumination by barging into my room. Angry that my space and solitude had been invaded (and embarrassed at my outburst) I sat up abruptly, furiously wiping hot tears from my blotchy face.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
‘What’s wrong?’ my sister asked.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Internally my mind raced at this question wondering how best to answer it. How do you describe the utter hopelessness, confusion and anxiety of choosing the wrong donut? How can you accurately express the shame rising from the pit of your stomach from not being able to answer said question?
Tick. Tick Tick.
How can that ticking clock not make everyone want to rip their ears off and scream until it stops?
Tick. Tick Tick.
‘Go away!’ I managed.
My sister stared back at me blankly. She was used to me being like this. Used to my ‘outbursts’. I fell back onto the bed and grabbed the underside of my pillow, folding it up around my head to cover my ears in an attempt to block out the tick, tick, ticking of the clock. Without saying anything, my sister clambered onto the bed and reached her little arms towards the clock on the wall. Once she’d grasped hold of it she hopped back down and left the room taking, the clock with her.
I slowly unclamped my hands and pillow from my ears allowing them to rest by my side. There was a sudden stillness in the world, as though the universe had stopped time just for me to catch my breath and recover.
As I lay there, on my crumpled bed, feeling weary, I stared up intensely trying to make shapes out of the popcorn ceiling.