by Rae Earl
Mort says to calm down. We don’t know what is really going on and we are currently on a bus and can’t do anything. Then she said ‘Do you fancy a packet of crisps?’ which is an in-joke we have about an old Central TV community service announcement.
Mort can always calm me down.
11.10 p.m.
We are in a hotel in Warsaw. I can’t hear any war and there are no soldiers anywhere.
I controlled a panic. Only with Mort and the thought of crisps though.
Tuesday 20.8.91
6.12 p.m.
Apparently the thing in Russia is nothing. There’s tanks and stuff but no borders are closing and we are not going to be stuck here forever.
Today we had a tour of Warsaw where we saw this completely horrible building that Stalin had built as a present for the Polish people called the Palace of Culture and Science. The tour guide said that Stalin basically put it there to remind ‘the Polish people to behave’. Then she showed us this Polish postcard that had a cartoon of God on it pointing to Europe. It said (in Polish) ‘Proof that God has a sense of humour – he put Poland between Russia and Germany!’
I have to say I can understand why the Poles still aren’t keen on Germany and Russia.
Does that make me a racist? I never, NEVER want to be any kind of Nazi.
We also had to go and see the Polish Education department to be thanked or something. The man (who looked like Lech Walesa) thanked us and that was it.
Now we are going to have a party in the hotel! VODKA TONIGHT! Last day in Poland tomorrow.
Wednesday 21.8.91
1.12 a.m.
I just want to say the Irish people in our group are the most amazing people at starting parties with sing-songs ever. Mary and Mark in particular. Once they start EVERYONE joins in. Angela started singing ‘When a Child Is Born’ by Johnny Mathis. It was fantastic.
I’m pissed but I’ve also had Polish crisps so I am fine.
8.12 a.m.
I am not fine. I am dying. We are looking round the square today on foot. God help us.
7.13 p.m.
We had lunch in the Old Town Market Place which is pretty and looks like it’s old but actually the Germans bombed the shit out of it and it had to be completely rebuilt. It was still lovely and then Mort and me found this mad shop. It had a letter from Eric Clapton on the wall and some pendants that bring you different things if you wear them. I chose ‘Self love and healing’. I’m never taking it off. It’s copper, round and a bit ugly but it’s Poland and it’s . . . just been the most. I can’t put it into words. I can hide the thoughts. I can do normal stuff and strangers and foreigners quite like me. I feel different. I feel like this was . . . Oh I just LOVE POLAND. It’s the most special place. It’s the place that has sort of . . . saved me. I know that sounds mad. I think I’m still pissed. It’s that vodka. I don’t think it ever leaves your system
Another party tonight. Chris says he’s not going to bed. NONE of us are!
Thursday 22.8.91
9.45 a.m.
On a LOT Polish Airlines plane. We were put on the plane last and the airport official said ‘Lots of you are drunk.’ We were! We had been drinking and singing all night. But she let us on and we have all been served – a sausage!!
Goodbye Poland. Now I’m dreading Heathrow. It’s going to be very hard to say goodbye to the people who have made this so brilliant.
6.10 p.m.
Back home. Heathrow was hard. EVERYONE cried and hugged but we’ve all said we’ll keep in touch.
I walked down to see Mum at work in Morrisons. I didn’t wear shoes. I couldn’t be arsed. Mum looked so pleased to see me but she did say ‘Why didn’t you call me?’ and ‘Where’s your shoes?’
I told her I’d had a brilliant time and loved it. She said ‘Rachel – I’m pleased you’re back safe and I’m pleased you had a great time.’
9.12 p.m.
Just found out bloody Bryan Adams is still number one!!
Friday 23.8.91
6.54 p.m.
I’ve slept nearly all today.
Just rang Dobber – apparently no-one is out tonight or tomorrow as everyone is working.
It will sound melodramatic and bollocks but Poland has changed me.
I feel changed.
Monday 26.8.91
6.35 p.m.
I’m on a bus to St Albans with Battered Sausage. God knows why.
I’m in a state of confusion. Before Poland I was screwed-up, loud, fat occasionally-funny Rae, now I’m half that and half I don’t know what.
7.35 p.m.
I think we choose the friends we deserve. That’s why I chose Battered Sausage. We just take the piss out of each other ALL THE TIME. It’s lovely and friendly but sometimes you want a chat about serious stuff. I do love him but all he wanted to know about Poland was ‘How fit the birds were’ and ‘How good the beer was’. I told him the women were gorgeous and the beer was cheap. He said ‘I’ll book my seat now!’
Oh Haddock – just stop working and let me see how I feel about you now.
Thursday 29.8.91
Had a brilliant day at Polly’s seeing everyone. Only I’m totally out of step with the charts. Everyone is singing ‘I’m Too Sexy’ – apparently it’s a song! Never heard it!
Sunday 1.9.91
2.15 a.m.
So Poland has helped many things. What has it not helped? Loving Haddock.
1. Gave me a massive hug when he saw me.
2. Said ‘I’ve quite missed you’ and winked.
3. Looked unbelievable in a STRAW HAT. YES. THAT is the level of horn we are talking about.
4. Asked me if I’d met any fit Polish men. I said ‘a few.’
5, Bought me a drink of vodka – so it felt like ‘I was still on holiday’.
Oh I need to get away from him. He is cruel and lingering hope that will never come true.
Saturday 7.9.91
9.12 p.m.
Look diary – here’s the deal. I’m not writing when I’m just numb. And I’ve been just numb. I can’t even be bothered to wash half the time. Mum says it’s because Poland was such an adventure and I came back to the same old stuff. No-one else has changed. I’m still the same to them. I can’t wait to get away now. With nothing to do except wait for university the thoughts get bad again and I just get stuck and I feel I’m going backwards again to the old Rae. Perhaps I’m not the problem. Perhaps Stamford is. The way I’m remembered. The way people see me. Oh I don’t know anymore.
No-one is out tonight again. Looks like no-one will be out again till the 28th and that’s my last Saturday night in Stamford. Everyone stop Summer jobs and come and discuss Warsaw with me!
Thursday 12.9.91
11.45 p.m.
I lost it tonight.
I went down Green Lane shops to get some milk and the twats on the wall said ‘You’re still a fat bitch.’
The thing is this is basically how Nazi Germany started with just name calling and so I said ‘Fuck you – you shit. You’ll still be sitting on that wall being a fucking cock to people when you’re 50 because you haven’t got the balls or brain to do anything else and if you lay a finger on me I will get my brother to beat the living shit out of you!’
Now it was wrong to put my brother in a fight situation without telling him but I was too angry to think straight. All the twats went ‘Ohhhh – hark at her. Doesn’t SHE think she’s something?!’ I just got the milk and went home. FUCK THEM. I’m not taking shit anymore. I don’t care if they think I’m fat. NEWS FLASH GREEN LANE TWATS – I DON’T WANT TO SLEEP WITH THICKO NASTY SHITS AND I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU THINK OF ME.
Monday 16.9.91
5.47 p.m.
Just saw Mort for the last physical time before she goes to St Andrews. I don’t think I will see her till Christmas now but you never know. I have the best, funniest, kindest best mate you could ever want.
All my entries seem so dramatic but it really is all coming to an end this time. I feel a
bit of panic. I get the mad thoughts but if I can do Poland then I can do Hull.
Thursday 26.9.91
4.10 p.m.
No Mum – I do not need an Oxford Mathematics set. I’m doing English Language and Literature at university and my need for a protractor is thankfully gone. But it’s a kind thought.
Buy me some bloody sexy bras though. (No I didn’t say that.)
Sunday 29.9.91
3.23 a.m.
The last Saturday Stamford night. Not ever – but for a long time.
Battered Sausage has threatened to come and see me in Hull to check out the ‘Northern Slices and flange situation’. I may not give him my address! Dobber was lovely and said she’d try to make it up but it’s miles from Canterbury. I said we’d go ‘Stammy Gad Mad’ at Christmas.
And Haddock? Haddock said ‘I’m only in Leeds. Come over for a beer.’ Bloody hell Haddock – if only you knew! I want more than a bloody Carlsberg. Then he hugged me after Olivers and left.
Ronni is in Leeds too. I could go over and see her and – oh that’s terrible. But I can’t just go over and see him. That’s . . . That’s like admitting it ALL. All this Haddock-based madness.
I don’t know what to do. Just go to Hull and have a good time, lose more weight, buy better knickers and see.
Thursday 3.10.91
10.24 p.m.
I just weighed myself at Boots. I am 10 stone 12! So the Polish nurse’s scales were right!
Friday 4.10.91
8.28 p.m.
The end of my year off. The end of an era. Leaving Stamford tomorrow for Hull.
I could go on forever and I frequently do but I’ll just say this. I have been blessed with so many things but I have the best mates in the world and I can make some new ones too!
We’ve gone from down and out to actual progression and there’s always hope.
Sunday 6.10.91
12.31 a.m.
Currently sat in E11, Ferens Hall room with Saul. He lives across the way and is very Welsh. He’s rolling a joint. I’m not having any but he is lovely. Next door is a classic called Mish. Leaving Essex was the best thing I ever did. A second-year burst in and started to rifle through my underwear earlier. I told him to bollocks. He apologised and left. I’m not having people looking at my bras. Especially as they are SHIT. As soon as I get my grant I’m going sexy bitch.
I can be happy here I think. I think I can stay.
8.10 p.m.
BLOODY HELL! Bryan Adams is STILL number one. This is a bloody piss take now. I’m going down the union.
What happened next . . .
I’m thinking you are probably after a happy ending. You want me to lose loads of weight, stop being loopy and marry Haddock. Or at least get a snog off him.
There is a happy ending. But it might not be the one you want.
In fact some of you may have skipped here just to find out what happens with Haddock. Turn back and read ALL of it. I had to go through it you know. It’s the least you can do.
Anyway . . .
Let’s go through things one by one.
My weight. My weight went up and down. I was 14 and a half stone. I was eight and a half stone. I’ve been every size and every pound in-between. You know what – being skinny solved NOTHING except the fact I fitted in a pair of size 10 velvet hot pants from TopShop for 2 weeks in 1992 (It was a rave thing). Weight is a number that I choose to react to. I’ve been skinny with a lousy man and fat with a lovely man. Does it make you feel better when you lose weight? It might. Will it solve all the problems you had with your self-confidence and men in the first place – no. The number on the scales can move but trust me – your head can stay in exactly the same place. Sort your head out before you sort anything else out.
I didn’t have the therapy I really needed till I was 28. I found a wonderful counsellor and we worked together for two years. Do I still have anxiety and OCD? Yes. Sometimes. It’s a bit like being an alcoholic. It’s always there and it will come and bite you on the arse when you’re stressed or when you least expect it. But I manage it and I’m never afraid to ask for help. Nor should you be. Your doctor has heard worse. We are all a little bit mad.
My mum says I can tell you this now. She’s a manic depressive. She hates the term bipolar. It doesn’t sum up for her the amazing highs and terrible lows. By the time I was born she’d already had shock treatment for it. The signs were there. By anyone’s standards marrying a Moroccan bodybuilder and having him tattooed on your bottom not long after divorcing your gay second husband is rather . . . manic. In her words she was ‘on one’. I’ve seen her brilliant manias and I’ve seen the price she pays with her depressions. She’s a fantastic woman who KNEW that I would need a challenging life to keep me well. She has been and continues to be a wonderful mother – though she still drives me mad. She has supported me in telling my story and in everything I do. As have my brothers and my dad. He’s only got one leg now after smoking 40 cigarettes a day for over 60 years. It wasn’t the fags though he says. It was years of working in drafty factories that upset his veins.
There’s no point arguing. He’s 76. Just get him 20 John Player Special.
What else? The man who molested me went to prison for abusing other girls in an historic abuse case. The police were brilliant. You shouldn’t be scared to talk to them either. And if it has happened to you I’m so, so sorry. What happened to me was really minor but it affected me greatly. I shiver when I think of people who go through sustained, serious abuse but it’s never too late to stop people. Talk to someone.
I’m still best friends with Mort. We’ve been through it all together. I borrowed her birth plan just like I copied her history homework. Some friendships are just magic aren’t they? Dobber is still one of my dearest friends on earth and Battered Sausage is still gloriously Battered Sausage. So many other people in this book are still in my life and they make it brilliant.
And so to Haddock.
The thing about Haddock was – he was the opposite of everything I was, yet he seemed to feel exactly the same way. Where I was fat, he was thin. Where I was plain as day, he was handsome as hell (I’m looking at the pictures now and he was. He was fit, and frankly he didn’t know it). Yet he appeared sometimes to be as troubled as me. This is all assumption. As much as he was my friend, he was also a TOTAL fantasy figure. Perhaps I read it all wrong at the time, but there seemed to be something deep-rooted that he didn’t like about himself at the time. I can tell you now, apart from the usual atypical adolescent failings, there was nothing to dislike. There really wasn’t.
Time passes. You know what it’s like. You lose touch. I doubt the poor bloke could even remember my name. He was a big part of my life; but in his I doubt I caused as much as a ripple.
I thought about him from time to time. I went to Leeds and I hoped I would bump into him. I didn’t. There were no deliberate Haddock stalking trips, but I was there at the same time that he was, plenty of times. I was always seeing other people. More often than not, I wanted to see him more than the people I was actually seeing. I didn’t call him though, because calling him up out of the blue would have just been too weird. I lived in fear of him guessing – because that would have been the worst rejection of all. I walked round Leeds hoping he’d save me from messes I’d got into but he never appeared. Probably a good thing.
Sometimes in the early 90s we were at the same parties, but we never really talked. We just said ‘hello’ and took the mickey out of each other.
There was one time at Fig’s house. I think. I say I think because I might have read it wrong, but I think he might have tried to get off with me. It was a sleepover. 1994? Christmas time. I was drunk. He was drunk. We were in Fig’s front room. Fig and Dobber were snogging. Battered Sausage was snoring. Haddock and me were having a play fight. Then it went weird. I remember saying the words ‘No, let’s just stay friends’ or some other clichéd nonsense. Perhaps he hadn’t really tried. My little insecure fat girl reached up and s
aid ‘It’s bloody Haddock – of course he didn’t try to kiss you.’ He stayed on the floor. My inner insecure fat girl dragged me back alone to the sofa.
Lame. Lame. LAME. YES I KNOW. I REGRET IT. I was scared to my bones but perhaps I had read it wrong and perhaps some things are never meant to be.
I stayed awake for hours. I heard his heavy breathing. I looked at him in a heap. I thought about how much he made me laugh every time I saw him. I thought about his kindness. Understated. Real. I’d had a long term relationship by this point. It had been fairly disastrous. Here was someone four years on that I still thought about. I still liked him. I really liked him. He was single. I was single.
I stayed rooted to the sofa.
And that was that.
Haddock fell from my life like sand through my fingers, like Bros from the charts.
These things happen. Who gives the Berlin Wall a second thought these days?! Things that were enormous parts of our life get forgotten. Once Haddock had been everything . . . and then he was almost nothing.
The diaries themselves followed me round everywhere. To halls of residence, to houses shared with other students, to flats shared with lovers. They came with me wherever I went. I never looked at them. I just never wanted them to be found by other prying, piss-taking eyes. I didn’t want other people to see my excruciating tales of unrequited love, of madness and of sexual frustration. I kept them with me simply to keep them safe. Every November 5th I meant to put them on the bonfire. I just never got round to it.
And that was that. Again.
Until . . .
I had a funny feeling about Nottingham. On a train on the way to that interview at the University of Sheffield in late 1990, we pulled up at platform 4 of Nottingham station. I had to catch my breath. I will never be able to explain why, but I had a feeling. It was not specific, but it was overwhelming.
