Generation Rent

Published in The Apiary Volume 6 (Edited by Dara McQuade)

No, please don’t. Shit. Broken. One yolk ruptured and the water not even boiling. 89p down the drain. Why the fuck did you buy Burford Browns? Britain’s favourite hen, the box said. Hazel shells and sunset orange yolks. Sure, they're not gonna care. Alright, it’s fine, get the other three cracked into the cup. You can do that fancy lowering in like the chefs on YouTube.

You should've accepted the kindness of a free meal. The government wouldn't give you anything beyond a Thursday night bang of the pots, and a “pay rise” that forced you to shop at LIDL but your friends, they would've taken you out for brunch. You proud ejit. Now you’re stuck ruining overpriced eggs and hoping avocados will ripen before your eyes.

Laughter behind you, the low hum of scandal, shenanigans; shits and/or giggles.

There had been no resistance to your pitch – “a fiver, a bottle and we’ll do our own.” - like selling time to a clock. Five brunchees had arrived with eight bottles, the maths both did and did not add up. You contributed your Bluelight discount and a bottle of cava that was a Christmas present. It had only survived this long thanks to dry January.

They were the last six avocados in a war-torn vegetable aisle. Two are still so hard they’d be best used to bludgeon their brethren. You turn away so you don’t cough into the ingredients. Problem is the dining table, unfolded to seat six, is a hop and skip from your left bum cheek. “Everything alright?” “Your palms are dry, here, let me.” She reaches into her clutch, locates a cream that costs a day’s work and there follows a gentle scrub on your hands. “Hey, you need a drink.”

You accept a glass. “Thanks for having us, you’re a star.” “It’s nothing, thanks for letting me host.” You take a sip and smile as you turn back to the stove, then hear a conversation about going back to university, part-time, to study fucking poetry. Twenty hours a week as an osteopath and he earns more than you. Private healthcare. Not his fault the NHS don’t hire his brand of medicine, he argues.

Two bottles down and the volume rises. You feel a twinge in your temple, but you can’t ask friends to keep it down. With the mug tilted gently you hold the handle between your thumb and index finger, then lower the cup full of eggs into the simmering water. You hear your name, a question maybe? But you’re consumed by the coming together of roiling water and primordial ooze. Goosebumps rise on your arms as the whites solidify into ethereal strands like tentacles on a cosmological jellyfish. They want to escape, to explore, to have a life of their own.

You feel dizzy, and let out the breath you’re holding. Your heart races as you tip the cup and the yolks slide gently into the saucepan. Three out of four survive the journey. You look into the pot, and it’s a crystal ball containing tiny galaxies, spiral arms of stars spinning around nuclei made of good cholesterol.

Lather, rinse, repeat, you’re in the zone. You crack five eggs into the cup, feeling confident, two yolks break. £2.67. No matter, you’ll eat those. Resisting the temptation to stare into the crystal ball, you mash the four avocados that are edible. Well one was on the turn, but three-parts scrumptious flesh to one-part tasteless paste is, you reason, an acceptable result.

Your shoulders and neck jerk as a sharp laugh erupts from the rising drone behind you. You tune in briefly to the conversation, just in time to hear Niamh and Grant talking about a second honeymoon, then a first child. Joe’s barely listening, he’s waxing lyrical about the hero’s journey in greek poetry.

You look at the band of white skin on your finger. Two years of saving. You had a date, June 2020, deposits paid and gone. The irony of course, is that living alone is more expensive. The heroes of the pandemic years, those who risked their lives and for whom arias of clapping were raised; those heroes don’t get mentors or a sunset ending, they get sore backs and a pat on them.

Further baby talk drifts over your shoulder. Imagine - Mortgage. Child. Children - Maybe in the seventies. Granny and Granda raised a family of four on nurses’ salaries, paid off their mortgage and bought a little land on the side. And you, you can’t afford brunch. Bottomless or otherwise.

Pathetic.

You add the spices, pre-mixed in a ramekin and it’s like you’ve breathed life into the inanimate. The guac shimmers with the sea salt, peppered with chilli flakes like parrots roosting in a jungle canopy. You check the two pots of eggs and remove the first from the heat. If they’re to gently ooze like the adverts they can’t be overdone. You must let go ‘The Nightingale Pledge’ for an afternoon, and allow that salmonella is preferable to an overcooked yolk.

The stars align. It’s time. You pull the sourdough tray halfway from your lacklustre oven and realise, you didn’t turn it at the seven-minute mark. The front four pieces are just warm bread. The middle four would make a Welsh choir burst into song. The back four are black around the edges with centres cooked tough. No matter, you’ll eat those.

Two pieces of sourdough each. The guacamole will spread, shit, no it won’t. One piece of sourdough each, that way you don’t have to eat the burnt ends. Once generously coated in guacamole it starts to look something like brunch. Two eggs each for Grant, Niamh and ahh shit. The first set of eggs is a hard-boiled disaster.

You fish them out and leave them to one side while the kettle boils. The second set of eggs are food porn. ‘Oohs’ and ‘Ahhs' are oohed and ahhed as you deliver three believable plates of smashed avocado and poached eggs. You even introduce it as such. “Tuck in guys, the other three will be ready in a moment, there’s been an egg-cident.” Peals of laughter, you could cry.

You’re in the groove, five eggs cracked into the mug, none break. The kettle is rumbling but can’t seem to reach a climax. You look at your drink then decide you’d better clear up a little. By the time the squeal arrives the counter is clean, the sink is three quarters full, and you turn on the hot water tap.

Okay, temperature up high, water in, eggs in. Gently. Now temperature down low. You deliver a punnet of strawberries to the table along with olive oil, balsamic vinegar and a large glass teapot of cool green tea flavoured with lemon and cucumber. “Oh, this is lovely.” “Thank you.” “What a babe.” “Etc.” Their chorus follows you back to the kitchen.

You extract the eggs, or rather you butcher them. All five yokes are undercooked and they break one by one in the ladle. Another £4.45 for a total of 712 pennies pissed away by your culinary inadequacy. Your ears prickle and a hum rises, your skull a hornet’s nest. You get a yolk drizzle with which you dress the toast and avocado. There’s no time for a fourth attempt. You avoid eye contact as you bring to the table three plates of tepid bread, smothered in avocado topped with the first run of eggs; lukewarm and solid.

“This is lovely.” They say it in various formats. A deafening echo chamber. “You forgot your drink,” Niamh says, pointing to the countertop. When you return, she’s swapped her perfect brunch for the disaster you served yourself. Your chest reddens. A meaningful look, one that chases the swarm away, insists that you will eat the perfect plate. “Now you’re double parked as well,” Joe says. He laughs as he sets a second glass of Prosecco beside your plate.

“I love how open plan the place is.” You agree. “And the south facing window really warms the room.” You had the heating on for three hours before they arrived. Normally in February that would mean sleeping in two pairs of socks. Thankfully, your grandparent’s place is never cold.

Even now the conversation is a reverberating mass. You struggle to break in, but questions come your way and the barrier softens. It’s like scaling a prison wall, but they’re throwing you a bedsheet rope reinforced with two decades of affection. “Oh, work is as it is,” you say. “You should try agency,” Joe suggests. He continues “Why be the only cog spinning in a broken machine? I treat a few agency workers and they say it’s a new lease of life and I, well we, would love to see more of you.” He means well.

Conversation moves on, you eat. Burford Browns, wow. You thought it was poultry propaganda but these eggs are something different. “You’re still double parked.” Caroline observes. A war cry is raised that culminates in James’s voice, “Finish it fresher!” “Oh, to be a fresher,” you say, and you do finish it.

Something wrong with the guacamole, the avocado that was on the turn? Nah, doesn’t make sense. Shit. Spice mix for six, four avocados. Your heart races and you’re sure you see James wince like an advert for sour sweets. You wonder if anyone else noticed. Duh, Niamh would brunch five Sunday a month if it were possible and Caroline works in a restaurant that has four rosettes, whatever that means. Caroline and Niamh are discussing a tarot reader they both visited on separate trips to Dublin.

Your cheeks warm and your brain tingles. “Is the water meant to be running?” Shit. You spring from the chair, slipping in the advancing water. You turn off the tap and reach for a tea towel but floor is drenched. Small waterfalls cascade over the faux marble worktop and the pond at your feet is expanding malignantly towards the table.

“Where’s your mop?” You point towards the boiler cupboard as a third tea towel reaches saturation. Despair rains down upon your bent neck. “Don’t worry, it’ll be grand.” You look up to see Joe, holding a bucket and haloed in light. A thrill rolls through you.

Two minutes later you and Joe are laughing as you ring out a bath towel into the bucket. He’s now pantomime mopping for the entertainment of the room, nudging around the table leaving Caroline and James with wet ankles; then pretending to flick mop water at you. You wind up a tea towel and whip it gently at his thigh.

Once the towels have been hung and the mop stored you catch sight of the sink. The scene of the sin, a moment of lost concentration that almost ruined everything. You reclaim your seat, eyes low, cheeks burning, muttering apologies which go un-noted. You look up to see Niamh using a finger to clean her plate.

Clear crockery, satisfied smiles. Caroline is slapping James gently on the wrist as she laughs at his joke, something about not being able to get the staff these days. You say something vague about checking the towel cupboard. As you rise Grant puts a glass of Prosecco in your hand. “Take this,” he says, “There’s monsters in the long grass.” Your core shakes but the laughter can’t make it through.

From the corridor you hear scrapes and bangs and return to find Grant and James clearing the table. You try to intercede, but Niamh pushes out your chair and offers her hand. Fear shatters, like a sugar-glass window that’s had a spaghetti cowboy thrown through it.

A clean table, crowned with six empty bottles and a glass teapot. “Shall we head out for the day then?” Murmurs of assent circulate, then grow to exclamations and the verdict is unanimous. The hum rises and for a moment you are part of it. No one says they’ll cover you, but they would.

“I'm sorry guys, I’m due for Ballycastle.” It's a convenient truth, your parents will indeed arrive in at four, to drive you to a free dinner. A carefully planned sequence of events so that you could avoid them offering to take you out. “Not to worry my dear,” Niamh says, “Grant honey, there should be another bottle, can you check?”

“Hold on you don’t need to do that, sure - we hardly see you anymore.” Niamh silences Joe with a look, and the normally steady table wobbles at the exact same moment he inhales sharply through gritted teeth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t,” He fumbles. “I mean, we’ll take you out.”

You thank him. “That’s really sweet Joe, but I haven’t seen nan since Christmas, and she wasn’t in good form then.” Questions whistle towards you. You pluck them from the air like Mr Miyagi and when the dust settles there is a heavy silence.

Time slows, painfully. Then Grant asks from left field “James, what exactly did that psychic tell you two at Glastonbury?” James and Joe switch into performance mode, taking up their favourite story about the palm reader and the orange umbrella. The photo made it onto the BBC’s Glastonbury coverage, and the story is so well worn that Caroline and Niamh can continue their astrology conversation on the side. The last bottle of prosecco lasts well over an hour.

In the flurry of smiles and hugs as they leave you are joyful, and you hope they'll have a wonderful time.

Before you wash up you sit a moment. There’s a little mess left on the table. Silence weights heavy on you. The moment stretches on. A raw solitude.

On the table you find a thank you card containing two five-pound notes and a tenner. It’s addressed from all, signed and messaged intricately. The card directs you to the fridge and not only is your bottle of cava still there, but it now has a friend. A smile guides a tear to your chin that would have otherwise run into your mouth.

Your phone dings. A banking app announcing a five-pound payment from Joseph Bradon. The reference – ‘Services rendered’ - with a semicolon and a right-sided parentheses. Cheeky bastard, but you smile and laugh as another tear falls.

Why be the only cog spinning in a broken machine? Well Joe, how about because it’s the right thing to do? The moral superiority brings on a rush. You feel a little lightheaded.

You start to clear up, but find yourself gazing at the glass bottom of the teapot. Spilled leaves trail down from the strainer forming mandalas, and something that could be a snake or a half-moon.  You turn to look at the kitchen. Grant and James cleaned the pots, and the drying rack is full. The sink remains a dark swamp of delph. Above and below water, the crockery is stacked precariously. Plates piled inches above the waterline, cutlery atop like spines on a dinosaur. Teetering. Ready to fall.

Blog Post Title Two

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.

Blog Post Title Three

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.

Blog Post Title Four

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.