Over at least the last 24 hours, women have been posting their bra colours on social networking sites such as Facebook and Twitter. AFAIK this meme was started in Detroit, though the exact origin is unclear. It is intended to raise awareness of breast cancer, and in particular, reminding women to get themselves checked regularly.

I'm proud. I have known two people who have beaten breast cancer, and I know how bad it is; not just receiving the news, but receiving the treatment. It is for this reason that I support breast cancer research and efforts to raise money and awareness. I have a pink grip on my cricket bat that I don't intend to remove. I am proud of women sharing the colour of one of their most intimate items of lingerie (though, admittedly, this is the 21st century...) and of some men who are following the trend by posting pseudo-random colours into their social networking pages.

For those who are wondering, mine is electric blue, with off-white lace and crimson polka dots. Clearly, I am colour blind.

I have just returned from visiting my junior school for the first time in seven years.

I was actually terrified about going back. My best friend, who I met at the school when I was four years old, but continued until she was eighteen after I left aged eleven, took me on a tour to see all my old teachers and all the old classrooms. It hasn't changed. My teachers remember me, I chatted to my reception teacher for nearly an hour about our classmates. I remembered her as much younger. She's the same age as my mother now. I loved her so much, and I have so many wonderful memories of her, so it hurt a bit that it took her a push to remember my name, but after that it all came flooding back to her. She remembered my parents, what I was good at, how close I was to my best friend, my haircut, even my aptitude for spelling.

It was as if I'd never left. I saw the Junior Magistrate (some strange convent school role) who sent me a lovely card when I left, telling me to always remember where I came from. She remembered me and I'd never forgotten her. I saw my Third Form teacher, who'd completely forgotten me. I saw my Upper II English teacher, who remembered me as if she'd taught me yesterday. She hasn't changed either. 

I am so thankful that I have had such a wonderful education. I will always remember the teacher I had at that school when I was eight years old. She was a wonderful woman who had had a difficult life. What I didn't know at the time she taught me was that she was battling breast cancer, and she died last year. My memories of her are fond, and I will keep them close to me always. All of these women, every last one, were, and still are, the women who shaped my life.

Heat. Fans spinning. I breathe in.
The air matches my temperature.
There is no sense of separateness.
I feel the pulse of the house.
We are one contiguous system.

Sawdust stirs on the window ledge
matching the grit in my fingernails.

A roaring hunger.
Stiff whiskers search the corners.
A ridged oesophagus arches.
Paper lungs inhale sawdust and fur.
Clattering retreat. Quiet. Holding a breath,
Standing in darkness again.
Fans spinning.