Judith Wilson is a freelance design journalist and
writes for national magazines. She has grapheme
synaesthesia. She is currently working on her first
novel.
Judith Wilson
‘Milk
/ Curdle
and orange makes you sick,’ I told Ned, and he nodded sagely. ‘Mam says.’
‘It curdles,’ he said, standing on one skinny leg. Outside the sky was whisper blue.
‘I know,’ I said. I didn’t.
My stomach was a night-spangled fairground, lurching and fizzy with tangerine light.
‘Shall we try?’ I asked him. Vomit in my throat.
‘Sure,’ he said, picking cornflakes from the packet with thumb and little finger. ‘Today I’m Queen Isabella
of France.’
He likes history. That’s all I can say.
He leaned down from the breakfast table, dragging the lilac dog bowl slip-slopping water onto the stone. A
trickle ran down its second O.
‘Get the ingredients,’ I commanded, flailing my arms.
‘Mais bien sur.’
We lined ‘em up. Mam keeps milk in a chocolate-striped jug. ‘Cartons are common,’ she says. It didn’t
matter about the juice pack. And I liked the picture of the palm fronds spikily green.