It was a peculiar morning on our street. The usual sun-drenched stone pavements where blanketed by a thick fog, masquerading its usual mid morning amazement and trading it in for something much more mediocre. I’ve never been one to assume signs from weather were foreshadowing what was to come from the day ahead, however if there was any morning to start believing such a thing, today would be the day. Half of the fog was probably contributed from the many fireworks that had been lit the night before to welcome in the New Year with quite literally a bang.
	I picked a social street in the middle of London, something that perhaps my estate agents had purposefully forgotten to mention to me, however the cobbled rocks beneath my feet felt like home, and I gladly accepted them in exchange for being woken up once or twice a week at an ungodly hour in the morning to late night party-goers and high heeled women trudging home after what can only sounds like a pitiful night of desperate grinding, from the sounds of monotonous clunking in their walking patterns. I’d be lucky to catch a glance of one of them every now and again, an early leave at one o’clock in the morning, mascara streaked down her face, ankles wobbling precariously as she attempted the treacherous journey down our pavement. A pavement that made it hell for them, yet seemed to welcome me with open arms each morning. But perhaps that’s because I worship my flats, and the only high heels I have are long forgotten, deep in my wardrobe, or perhaps still at my parent’s house. I wouldn’t know. I didn’t care.
	They all shared something in common, however, which was determination. I always saw the same girls walk back down the street, and sometimes I even recognised their footsteps. The same feeling when you know whether it’s your mother or your father coming down the stairs as a child. I felt connected to them. That in some possible way we shared a common trait. Mine was far more concealed, however.
	But this is my problem. Or so I’m told, it seems, by my closest friend. She invited me round to her flat a few days before hand, she had big news. So I caught the underground straight over to hers. She sounded simply ecstatic, an emotion that it was hard to pull out of Gill on some occasions. The tube wasn’t a place I liked to be for long, it reminded me of limbo, or more what I assumed limbo to be. A long tunnel full of people, not there anymore, but not quite where they should be either. Not looking at anyone else, merely doing what you had to do to reach your destination. I kept my hands on my lap, and only touched a pole if I had to. I even preferred to stand. You get a number of weird looks if you don’t rush to a seat the second it becomes vacated. What’s wrong with her? Why doesn’t she want to sit down?
	Because I wasn’t like you, actually. I never let my knees be deprived of the wonder that is standing up. And as such, they aren’t screaming at me for a break every two minutes, begging my brain to let them rest, bargaining with my bottom to relax on a chair for a few seconds. They’re quite content with keeping straight, taking the weight of my body with pride. I feel if they could speak, they wouldn’t even say anything. They’d merely look at the other knees on the train and smirk as they all panted from the three minute walk it took to get from Platform One to Platform Two.
	I suppose that makes me look quite pompous, to wish such a thing. That’s not in my nature, I promise you. Well, maybe a little bit, but then again who isn’t guilty of feeling proud every now and then. My body was the only thing I had going for me, for the very fact I didn’t ruin it, but looked after it. Most of my boyfriends throughout my school and university life found my body sexually appealing first, and then realising I had a rather nice personality to go with it. That was fine, until they dumped me brutally. Apart from Tony, who I dumped, however I walked in on him sniffing my sisters knickers when I invited him back to my parents house once. He insisted that he thought they were mine, which would have been an easy misunderstanding if my sister wasn’t 14 years old and the pair he was giving a good seeing too hadn’t been proudly displaying the face of Minnie the Mouse.