1994
2000
Unborn
Unborn
Growing up, my Nan lived 5 minutes away from my primary school. Every school day my mum would drive me to my Nan’s house early in the morning, on her way to work. Nan would then walk me to the school gate at 9am, and then meet me when school finished at 3:30pm. I would spend the rest of the afternoon with Nan, until Mum collected me at 5:30pm on her way home from work.
Most days Nan would prepare a snack for me, and I would sit at the kitchen table, overlooking the rear garden. The garden was small, but there was a large apple tree in the corner, which my granddad tended, and in front of that, near the window, was a circular grass lawn with a bird table in the centre. Nan would put out bird food every day, and I would wait and watch the birds come down to feed.
Usually a few small birds would come down to feed, mostly sparrows or an occasional blackbird. But occasionally a large flock of starlings would descend into the garden. At first a few would line up on the garden fence, and in the branches of the apple tree, then quickly more and more would follow. Anywhere between 20 and 50 birds would swarm over the grassy lawn, pecking up all the bird seed and bread within seconds. They would then start pecking at the lawn, and pulling up earthworms to eat.
Nan would always want to go out and scare away the starlings, to give the smaller birds a chance to feed. But I would always tell her not to, because I loved watching them run across the grass and pull the worms from the soil. Then without warning, the first starling would decide to fly, and within a fraction of a second the rest of the flock would follow.
I always think back to this scene. Starlings are much less common now, and I rarely see large flocks of them.
Was born, Bristol
2001
2005
2010
Was born, Hunan
When I was four, my father and I went to the park to feed the birds. My hands were covered with birdseed, and as I crouched down I was frightened by a flock of birds, with their pointy beaks. I also have a crescent mole on my right hand, so I'm afraid birds would mistake it for food and peck me. But my father would not allow me to be afraid, so I pretended to be brave and let the bird eat all the birdseed.
On summer afternoons, there's always a peculiar agitation within me, though the word feels imprecise. Yet, with words reaching their utmost limit, I'm compelled to elaborate. It's a feeling more irksome than annoying, yet not quite reaching the point of hatred, perhaps more akin to apprehension. In my childhood home, there was a balcony facing the street, protruding about two and a half meters without railings or awnings. My room led directly to this balcony. After a hearty lunch, as my eyes slowly closed, the outside world simmered with heat, devoid of any human presence, the ground rippling with waves of heat. Cicadas would chirr incessantly, but surprisingly, they provided another kind of quietude, allowing naps to transform into deep slumber. Occasionally stirring, scratching my neck drowsily, then slipping back into profound sleep, devoid of dreams. Upon waking, a thin layer of sweat adorned the cool mat, stepping onto the balcony, the outside world remained hot, the sky still bright, cicadas chirping louder. That sensation washed over me. Reflecting now, it's a sensation of time folding upon itself. Despite the passing hours, upon awakening, it feels as if no time has elapsed, the streets still desolate, save for an elderly woman seated motionless on the steps, her purpose unknown. Such scenes seem to exist before my existence, unchanging over years, decades even. It's sweltering, stifling, the sky bright yellow, cicadas clamorous, and only one person on the street, could be anyone, but you don't recognise them.
My grandparents bought a holiday home when I was seven years old. It was on the Somerset coast, southwest England, next to a small coastal town called Burnham-on-Sea. My mum would take me there every Easter, midterm and summer holiday, and we would stay with my Nan and granddad. My dad would join us on weekends as he had to work.
The caravan was sited at the bottom of a small hill, and the slope of the hill formed part of the garden. The ground was very sandy, and the slope of the hill was peppered with gorse bushes. It was part of a static grey sand dune, and if you walked the slope, you could be at the beach within 5 minutes.
I remember the sound of grass hoppers and crickets was deafening during the hot summer. They would call all day, and I would spend ages trying to catch them and put them in a bucket. I would catch as many as I could, watch them for a while, then release them again.
However the animal I remember most are the large toads that lived in the garden. The garden was unshaded and very hot in summer, but my Nan had lots of stone plant pots scattered around the garden. They were too heavy for me to lift, so Nan would lift them for me; underneath most of them was at least one toad, sometimes two or three, sheltering in the cool ground underneath the plant pots. I remember picking them up and holding them in my hands. They would always urinate all over my hands every time! Which always made me laugh. They would then make a sound like a squeaky dog toy; this meant they were scared, so I would then put them back under the pots.
When I was eleven years old my granddad retired from work. He and Nan decided to sell their holiday park home in Somerset, and bought a small villa in Spain to enjoy their retirement. It was in a (then) small town on the southeast coast called Los Alcazares, and a 15 minute walk from the beach. It was a Spanish holiday town with very few non-Spanish residents. For four consecutive years me and mum would visit every summer holiday in July and August, spending 4 weeks at a time.
The beach was part of a sheltered lagoon, called the Mar Menor. It was sheltered and almost entirely enclosed, meaning the water surface was often like a sheet of glass early in the morning, with no waves. The water was warm and clear, perfect for swimming and snorkelling. The beach was a very fine sand, and the water very shallow. In sections you could walk out 10 metres, and the water would only be thigh-height. In other areas, the drop in depth was more sudden, and the soft sandy bottom would quickly give way to beds of sea grass.
Nan wasn’t a very strong swimmer, but granddad had been in the navy between the ages of 15 and 19 (he lied about his age and pretended he was 16 to join) and travelled around the world. Granddad taught me how to swim in the sea, and also tried to teach Nan.
It was during the first summer, when I was eight years old, that I encountered my first seahorse.