My Rival's House
Lochhead describes a rival's house, which has a lot of surfaces, luxurious sofas, uncomfortable cushions, mirror-like polished tables. She describes taking her shoes off at the door and carefully tiptoeing on the beautiful floor in socks, in order to protect the floor. There are dust-covers and shades to stop the surface color fading. The utensils for serving tea and sugar is silver and her rival glances over Lochhead and her male companion. She compares herself to the surfaces surrounding her in the eyes of her host, but she notes her host may think she means well, but she can tell what she thinks underneath.
She relays that her rival will fight in the future for her survival, and Lochhead sips politely and thankfully at the tea. She has a lot to thank her rival for. She has a son and a close-knit family bond, which furnished her house too.
Lochhead's rival is the Queen bee of the house, unconscious and dangerous, more so than Lochhead, who notes she used to be her own worst enemy, but her rival changed that. She serves dreams at breakfast time, and her tears flavor their soup. She will not give up.
For my Grandmother Knitting
The needles continue to knit in Lochhead's grandmother's hands, as if she were still a young fisher-girl. She is old nowadays, and she cannot grip things as well. She used to be able to gut a fish efficiently, and worked hard out of necessity. Now there is no need. The needles move in her hands - the hands of a slim bride, the hands that scrubbed her husband's back by the fire after he worked in the mines. They are also the hands of a mother who raised six children.
They say she doesn't need to knit. The grandmother has made far too many scarves and cardigans, the children say there is no need. She waves goodbye on Sundays with painful arthritic and wrinkly hands. Yet her hands still move in rhythm, knitting away. Her hands remember the patterns themselves, just as if they can't remember how to stop.
Photograph, Art Student, Female, Working Class
Lochhead describes a woman whose hair is cut up into a slanted style, an innovative style. She is wearing a daisy-print dress. She paints nail varnish on her tights to preserve them, because her loan will not cover buying new tights a lot. She is eighteen and simply wants to have fun. She isn't a ''chick'' and when she will be, she'l find the term offensive. She strives to be a ''dollybird'' instead, as is mentioned in her magazines.
This is the last year men will wolf-whistle at her, after all , they think she'll appreciate it. She dressed to impress them anyway. She doesn't object, and doesn't believe she has the right to. When her lecturer comments on her breasts to a male classmate, however, she smile, but realize it isn't right. She doesn't have the words to reply. Language doesn't have them. In the year 1966, there was sex, a lot of it, but never ''sexism.''
Soon Feminism will provide the right words. everything will become clear, she'll obey the language rules - she isn't anyone's ''skirt,'' and the term is ''gay,'' not ''queer.'' She also has 'the Pill,' now. This is portrayed in a black and white photo, a moment in time, captured by a boyfriend. Lochhead questions the girl within it, asking if it was strange to live in a time waiting for a change.
