03.05.05..7:42 pm

This is a long one and I'm sorry. Really it's more theraputic for me to write it than for you to read it, so slog away if you like.

I got an email last week that took my three days to open because it was marked: ESSAY FEEDBACK. I fretted and paced about it, I would pretend like I was going to open it and then at the last minute just shut the whole screen down. The panic would rise and fall like a flock of seagulls in a tornado. And of course I did look and what a wait of anxiety! All it said was 'Lookin good kiddo, keep it up.' (not literally of course, but near enough!) No results, no marks, just that. Bah. Wait until I run this place, THEN they will see what REAL essay feedback is.

Man, I stink. I mean aside from not getting my cousin�s birthday present to him on his birthday as I promised my mother, I've not had time to shower in days, how Matthew puts up with me I'll never know, but I think he's starting to worry about thesis time. Three months of perpetual whiff. Charming.

Speaking of Matthew, and for that matter charm�

On Saturday Matthew and I had gone out for breakfast at our local little cafe. It's called Moonbow Jake's, I've mentioned it before I think, and aside from the naff name it's an excellent little place. It's where I get all my essaying and research done when the library is proving too much of a distraction. We had our coffee and toast and Matthew read the paper while I perused the Guardian Weekend supplement. Before we left the house I had asked Matthew if he could drive me up north of the river. I was going to work that night and wanted to use the Plum office phone (Plum being the company Matthew works for and I 'door' for, in case you've forgotten, it�s located at the Betsey) to call Joseph. I knew I wouldn't be able to make it up to his for the day, but I had at least thought I would give him a shout and squawk HAPPY BIRTHDAY down the line at him. But it was comfortable sitting in a sunlit window and I had started to think things like, Maybe I should just stay here... It was only about half 12, so it wouldn't have been a problem for either work or phoning. And it was so nice to have time with Matthew with no one else. We've both been so busy lately that a forty-five minute breakfast seemed like such a luxury, which is why I thought, That's it! Up to the Betsey we go, that way we'll get a whole extra hour together.

So we pay and pack up and get in the car and bicker about who was going to pay for gas (admittedly it was my turn and I knew it, but I was still going to argue. That's half the fun.) The gas station is less than a thirty second drive, maybe even a ten second drive from the cafe. We pull in to an enormous queue, a giant delivery van was right in front of us, a smaller car before that, all the pumps were taken. The car that pulled in behind us, however, started honking. The driver gesticulated through the windshield. As we had nowhere to go we gesticulated right back, shouting "We can't go anywhere! What do you want us to do? Drive up INSIDE the truck??"

This woman jumps out of the passenger side, furiously flapping her arms and emitting peculiar cockney vulture noises. We can't really hear what she's saying, so I go to open my window to tell her we've nowhere to go just as Matthew opens his door to say the same. He hadn't enough time to stand up before the guy in the driver's seat flew out of the car and started punching Matthew, throwing him against the door frame. I, completely stunned, just sat there staring. Scared out of my fucking gourd doesn�t even cover it. It seemed like a bizarre and horrific dream. I remember wondering how anyone could move so fast while the world was stopped. Matthew somehow managed to stumble, or got shoved into a more manageable hitting position, back into his seat, he threw up his arms to protect his head, but it didn't do much, the guy aimed only for Matthew's head and neck.

As soon as it started it was over. The woman had run round to pull the guy off. I didn't hear what she said, I was too busy frantically trying to undo my seatbelt to help Matthew, who by this time was bleeding profusely. Nonetheless as soon as he stopped he jumped back in his car and drove off. I don't know how or why, but I found myself scrambling for a pen to scratch into my arm the license plate number. As soon as she saw this she wheeled on me. "What do you think you're doing?" "Taking down that maniac's plate number" (I said calmly, I've no idea how, there didn�t seem any point in screaming anymore). She gleamed almost triumphantly spitting out that it wasn't his car, it was her husband's. And then puffed up furiously screaming, "And THAT is my SON!" Instead of helping, while Matthew was calling for an ambulance, this person, this thing who doesn�t DESERVE to be associated in any way with motherhood or womanhood, this person started screaming at Matthew for instigating it, "See what you've done?" she kept yelling. On and on she went, she wouldn't even let me close my door, she seemed determined to confuse the both of us as much as possible, even while Matthew was talking to the 999 operator.

Leaving Matthew in the car on the phone, with this woman still screaming obscenities outside, I ran into the Esso shop where a queue of people were paying, and tried to procure some gauze and stop myself sobbing at the same time. I remember thinking how numb everyone seemed. No one seemed to know how to react so they just didn�t. Outside, that woman was trying to rally people to her side. A man had got out of his car to ask Matthew to pull up so he could use the tire pump, and had sort of huffed annoyed that he�d have to drive around the car when he saw the side of Matthew's bloody head and neck. "See?" She kept shrieking, as though it proved her point. "He's doing it to him now! See?" I had to force myself not to try screaming over her: DOING WHAT?! WHAT IS IT THAT HE IS DOING? She circled the car; it was like being trapped by a hyena, she refused to let any one who appeared to want to help near us. All the while trying to get them to corroborate her version (which was now that Matthew had tried to attack her).

By this point I'd persuaded Matthew to leave the car because I couldn't help him sitting there, I think he was waiting for this guy to come back to pick up his mother so he could take a better look at him, at least this time he�d be ready for him. By the time the paramedics arrived I had cleaned up Matthew with the pretty bloody useless strip of antiseptic towel the gas attendant had given me, the police had taken down both our stories, and had the numbers of two or three other people. One of the witnesses approached me before leaving telling me that she was their neighbour and that she would tell the police that Matthew hadn't even had a chance to stand up before the other guy struck.

So we spent the rest of the afternoon in the Lewisham A&E.

The attack had opened up an old wound (from his pilled and pissed bike accident of the weekend before), which is why he bled so much. Because there's concern it might get infected he's on antibiotics, they just reglued it shut as giving him stitches this time would further increase the risk of infection.

You know, I've never seen anything so utterly and needlessly violent. At the hospital I cried and cried into Matthew�s shoulder. All day and most of Sunday I had to convince myself that it wasn't my fault. That if I hadn't wanted to be driven, none of this would have happened. If I had just stayed put for an hour and waited, none of this would have happened. But there again, as Matthew says, even if someone had come into the cafe and told us, You're scheduled for an attack outside a petrol station in two minutes, so I'd recommend you try the next one, would we have really listened? I've got the license plate memorised. If I can remember it in fifty years I wouldn't be surprised. That woman's face too. I search for both of them on the street, check myself turning corners.

It's easy to say that Matthew shouldn't have got out of the car, that we should have just ignored them, but whether Matthew opened the door or not, it was in now way threatening and in no way justified the attack. He�s fine, he�s an idiot who keeps forgetting to take his antibiotics, but he�s fine. And I am too for that matter. Where Matthew is nonplussed and refusing to dwell on it, I�m angry. I�m not even angry. I�m livid. I�m fucking furious. I've gone over a thousand ways I might react, a thousand scenarios in which I see either of them again. I�ve no idea of course. I�d like to think I�d be calm, finagle a name, an apology, a confession out of them and then fling a remark at them so savage and scathing they�d sink to the ground in tears, throw themselves at the mercy of the police and die, impotent and buggered in prison. But it�s not likely.

The REALLY irritating thing about it all is that I didn't get any work done that day. I didn't even go in to do my shift, I called Sarah to find me a replacement. Which means I�m poorer than poor this week. The REALLY REALLY irritating thing is that the gas station didn't even have CCTV camera's set up in the forecourt. They'd only just recently taken it over and hadn't gotten round to doing that bit yet. Fuckers.

I hope you had a better weekend than all this! The good news is that Sunday and yesterday I worked for nine hours straight each day, another 7 today, which has seen the completion of another essay and halfway finalised editing of the other! They get handed in on Friday, so you'll have another 3 months of peace before I bombard you again with essaying woes. O, and IN OTHER good news: Matthew and I will have been together and entire year on Sunday. Freaky delightful, I'll say.

Love to you

****meep