Fitting

The whole of the base corniche is like a clogged artery with all the one way traffic lights due to renovations, so I had to take the back roads, through the parts of Nice that toursits never see, the scum and the filth of poverty living like froth around the little pools of wealth that litter the coast.

Having seen the provisional wig, with its scattering of blond highlights teased through the blood red curls, I was satisfied that there was a back up plan. The two Soeurs Prioa in their dimly lit workshop of transformation and disguise were very understanding - and being adept in both real and synthetic hair, will be cutting what it left of my mothers tresses whilst fitting her with a new set of boucles. 'La mise en place' might even be fun in a kind of regressive theatrical way, and we have opted for a slightly different colour so that people might remark on the new style rather than the wig.

When we first went in, the dark red walls and black carpets created a partial night time that was unsettling, and initially made my mind jump to images of brothels and ladies of the night; of all the evils that darkness can hide. But the place was reassuringly scented, clean and beautifully maintained with antiques of the trade - a whole new world I had happily been blind to until now. They installed my mother in a swivel chair and began the procession and as each new crown appeared the reason for low lighting became apparent - without the shade your hair supplies your features are exposed cruelly. Blanche from the Glass Menagerie kept saying 'the lights the lights' and I felt overwhelmed by a sudden nausea and had to stumble out into the street for some air. My mothers head is so petite, the skull looks so fragile.

There I ran into Bennoe and Maureen coming along for walk, here from Dublin to do up their flat in Nice, and smiling I invited them in to the party. Inside Sylvie had just placed a voluptous mountain of ruby red curles on my mothers head, and she looked like a Rennaissance Queen. SO that was the ONE and we all managed to stave off the fear that was threatening to seep through from the outside glare of reality.

This morning things were like a slippery slope, neither of us knowing how bad things were going to get, pain and nausea and cold sweats and fear looming like the clouds hung thick on the horizon. I was glad of the trip to Nice, I even managed to stop into a shop - as long as noone tries to speak to me, I do not know whether I will be able to control the mask with strangers who do not need to know I am fine. I like driving with the music very loud most of all, like a bubble of sound containing me in my imaginary state of the future perfect.

But then i saw something - it seemed so unnatural. A seagull came swooping down onto the road in spite of the heavy traffic and scooped up the entrails of a dead pigeon. Birds eat seeds. Birds are beautiful feathered creatures that sing to us and fly around to remind us of the joys of freedom - like the little love bird that escaped from the zoo in st jean and speaks to me in the mornings.