MY PURPLE PLASTIC MICROPHONE

It was given away, I was told. Given to a child from the Kingdom Hall whose speech development was impaired. He started to speak more clearly after he had my purple plastic microphone, I was told. Was it true? I don't know. It was definitely imbued with years of magic, whispers of songs held inside the hollow curves of plastic — a haven for my voice. I’d hide in the alley at the back of the shed and whisper songs into it, silently at times.

I really wanted a tape recorder to record some of the songs I'd sing to the next-door neighbour — now I use my phone. I can still remember one of the first songs I wrote. I was a little older then, maybe around 9. I even choreographed a dance for it and got two other little girls from the hall to perform it with me at a farewell party — the farewell party that the song was spontaneously created for. A goodbye song inspired by the autumn leaves that had fallen from a large tree in the old people's home garden — that's where the party was held. It wasn't an elderly farewell; my mum's close friend was moving to Oxford. We performed the song for her. Her hair was the reddish colour of the leaves I threw in the air during the chorus. So, I wasn't always shy. Not when the song had to be sung.

I loved my purple plastic microphone. I had so many beloved objects as a child — my bedroom was full of them. I remember on occasions when some were given away or thrown out — I think that’s when I became a radical minimalist who throws out 'excess'. I streamline: all white and clean. I look up at my desk and realise I’m becoming the child I was again. Many beloved items surround me. I learnt then that what you love can’t have any sentimental value — it’s too sad when it gets taken. Now my belongings are mine again.

The day I got the microphone, if I remember rightly, was a surprise present day. I arrived home from school and my mum had filled the living room table full of toys and gifts from the local children's gift shop in Muswell Hill. It’s gone now, as is the little bookshop that was close to the station — it’s a barber's now. I was shocked at all the presents — as was my dad; he didn't agree with it, I think. Anyway, my mum learned it from another girl's mother from the hall — she did it for her little girls too. As we didn't do birthdays or Christmas, she had a special present day to compensate. I giggle as I write that. Giggle with a slight frown. This present day happened once. "Every day's your birthday" was the new phrase. From my grandpa, I've been told.