Probe

Chrome coloured metallic tip on a long needle, taste the light thrill-buzz of electricity on my tongue to check that you are working. Cold to the touch. I move around, finding the perfect point of balance to rest your tip on the contacts. When there is continuity you beep. A thicker more corroded metal tip is also placed on the contacts, but this time there is heat. Strong enough to feel a centimetre away from my fingertips. I can sense the radius of that heat. When the solder melts and the flux is released, an acrid smell of smoke and electronic parts rises and I need to move my head away from the poisonous curls. Or I can go back to an earlier time, where a similar tip is made of glass and a bulb on the end is filled with a drop of mercury. I place it on my tongue when it is cold and let my own natural heat transfer, watching the mercury rise like a needle to a point that tells me I have a fever. To go back to another time, the electric contact is at the end of a small, red plastic wand, tethered to the game's box by a red wire. I need the utmost concentration and control over my hand. No shaking, just accuracy. This is the only way to navigate the metal route laid out through the painted body's parts. One deviation from the route and the wand and the track make contact and the red light in the nose glows bright red and the buzzer sounds, sending a thrill of failure through me.

Wooden Floor

Long pale panels, nailed together like criminals lined up for execution. Length-wise grain and fingerprint whorls and knots and dots of yet more nails. Scratched from wear and tear and the movement of furniture. Sometimes dark rosewood and glossy and sticky to the touch, sometimes pale beech and satin finished smooth on the fingertips. Where the planks aren't lined up perfectly are gaps that are minor speed bumps to my fingers running perpendicular along the surface. Smells of older woods that are dry and musty, covered in the future by potent lacquers that penetrate. Parquetry of smaller tiles all criss-crossed with random shades of wood, fit together in larger tiles that make for a floor that feels unbreakable under the heel of my boot, clonking throughout the house, creaking in spots I learn to remember and avoid. This wooden floor is raised metres above the ground and through a small hole in the wood come the earthy smells of hidden dirt, the wood cool to the touch for the river of breeze always flowing beneath.

Tar Road

Thin rubber wheel of the bicycle rolls smoothly over the dark surface, digging in gently, gripping the black porous dried tar. Still fresh from being laid, the earthy chemicals waft up on the wavering heat of the day. Walking barefoot is like cooking feet in a cast iron pan. Smooth to the eye, but when close up, laying hands on the bitumen is rough and sticky and hot. I remember riding my bicycle with milk crate filled to the brim with newspapers, making the mistake of pressing the front brake handle too hard, flipping forward over the handlebars and conking my head down on the tar. Dirty and grazed, I pulled myself to my feet and got back on the bike again. There was no one around and nothing else to do. Work had to be done. The wide and busy street has a constant noise of the sea of vehicles, broken every so often by buses or trucks. Here, where the street is narrow and one way only, all you can hear is the intermittent woosh of a car swinging by.

Bubble Bath

Warble of bathtub filling with water, mass production of bubbles rising to overflowing, fingertip dipped in wet heat, comes out covered in white foam. Turn the warm metal tap digging into my palm until the sound stops, punctuated by a drip into the cloudy mass of bubbles on the surface, hiding the water from view. Dipping my toes in, feeling them tickled by the fine bubbles up my ankle, the hot water envelops and caresses, dipping slowly in and out until I can stand in the tub. Artificial bubble gum smell from the blank and green bubble bath bottle, something based on Halloween, a toy I cannot remember. Fingertips becoming prunes, stifled by steam and heat until the bubbles slowly dissipate. Large white fluffy towel comforts and surrounds me, wiping away the last remnants of bubble.

Rose Water

Hiss of spray speckles the face with tiny, sweet smelling, refreshing droplets. Under the constant flow of drying air from the plane's fans, the water soaks quickly into my skin, feeding it with moisture. It's a temporary reprieve. The air conditioning begins its work on my skin again immediately. Inside this flying box of circulating air, I have flashes and pangs of being trapped, of claustrophobia. Another couple of sprays of rose water, this time on my neck and my arms. Some of the droplets catch on the hair on my arms, like bulbous insects on early morning dew covered leaves. I rub it in with my hands, soothing my palms as well this time. The small metal lid goes back on the 100ml atomiser bottle, sanctioned by airport security. I hold it up to the light and watch the liquid sway inside as I swirl the bottle around. It is clear through the porcelain translucence and I wonder exactly how much rose is in the rose water. An image of petals falling from a rose bush onto the surface of a pond appears in my mind's eye, quickly replaced by boots stomping on a collection of dead roses, droplets of essence falling through a grating into water below in a well.

Fly Swatter

Gripped tightly in fist, the lines from the plastic handle like rail road tracks on my palm. I swing hard enough to almost lose my balance. The air is separated like spaghetti, noodles caress my other hand as I bring the swatter down. The rough plastic holes are like a cheese grater on my palm. The colours are all cheap like the plastic, pale pastel yellows and blues, oranges and greens, worn and shabby from rubbing the other utensils in the drawer. Flashes of frustration as the fly escapes each time, maybe the only use for a swatter is to scare the damned things away. But this time the swatter hits, knocking the fly to the kitchen floor, struggling on the 70s linoleum, finding a crack to roll around in. I crouch and bring the swatter down to end the insect's misery. Tiny traces of blood and guts spread out on the tile, blending in to its nondescript pattern of browns and darker browns. Squeeze the trigger of cleaning spray, its environmentally approved chemicals shoved into my nose. Pad the wad of paper towel across, wiping away the evidence.

Pillow Case

Pale yellow pillow case, inexpertly sewed together by myself in primary school. Thin material, almost translucent, cheap. Not smooth, not too rough. Slight plastic odour coming from the dye, disappeared when washed. A rush of pride at having made it myself, at operating the sewing machine, sitting down, pedalling with foot the staccato whir of the needle punching in and out of the fabric. If I chewed on the pillow case, which I most probably did, it would be a gentle brush across my teeth, saliva pooling in the fabric, wet and dark when set free from my mouth. When slept on for too long, the stale rancidity of sweat and oils, dark yellow stains on the previously pure pillow inside the case. The pillow would always have to be tall enough and solid enough to keep my head above the mattress, but in later years I find I need two pillows. Else my balance is swayed and I feel as if my head is falling behind the bed, a feeling that persists. Turning over, sometimes taking the thinner pillow and holding it between my legs to stop the sweat from the heat of skin on skin.