AR Benjamin is a London based writer poet experimenting with intersectionality, space and time, to construct socio-political thought provoking works on special identity. A Black British writer whose parents are from the Caribbean, her fiction and poetry explore the migration of belonging in stationary abstracts and spaces and has been published by Full House and Brown Sugar Literary magazines. Her non-fiction work has been published by those including the Cabinet Office and Ministry of Justice. She has worked with the Chaucer Foundation and her poetry and playwriting has been performed at the UK’s leading British Library.
The following work includes external links to YouTube.
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WHEN YOU FEEL THE SOFTNESS OF YOUR GOD’S KISS TOUCH YOUR FEET
[Official Sensitive] – Dec – 19
As I wonder the stitched corridors rouge carpets nip like teeth catching
stubbed toes. I hear whispers from paintings – coffined pastures and powdered faces, horse-like, mouthing healings to specific passers-by.
Travailing back to rooms with nattering keyboards; crashing courageously as winds
grow hoarse from the waves breeze; the smell of butternut soup on -not-a-Monday births hovering eyes inside of the walls, now eating their stains pearl white and in unison.
Having declined a cocktail lunch, your arm reclines onto the lid of the machine, forever wanking over the latest GDPR obsession. Some watch, pointed
shoes allowing for the direction of travel aiming you stare, at rain beating on the glass roof like the suns only protection.
I used to think it was the corridors muting the light of my lamp. Now, I think it is the chandelier kissing hope, and the dawn of light stroking the corners of night; as they always are; side by side, softening the creases. Protecting the glows.
[Official Sensitive] – Dec – 20
The lights are fast and there is no time. We get out of the bullet-proofed car. I tell him I’ll take them off and hold them in my hands. It is cold and has again begun to snow. Some recognise him as we stride. Only eyes from those who know of his Red Box glance – My shoes in my hands, his arms are strong.
Why are you with this man?
The driver has no eyes and his indicators smile when we look back. Not even the cyclists are moving – But we are inside – He waits for me while I powder my breath, and make sure the black and white pencil dress still clings like a sloth to its rest. His smile is as wide as the security screens scanning for uninvited press while coats are being robed. Champagne and formal but subtle head nods when we walk through. The room is a larynx. I pretend I do not see his extended arm. Why are you here?
It is Friday and these are the awards. We take our seat at the head table while chittering with the teeth and lights. A nod to the photographer him yes, but not me, and the photographer’s eyes understand each time.
I have purposefully stuck to water. It stops me from being swept by the rocks and allows me to ask the tall famous model about her daughter, who I met last year before dark. Before it was clear, I was only half interested in making my own.
I know she knows. She is a sister in arms, laughs when he whispers in my ear. Daggers me with a hug. At glances when the lights are dim, she forces her eyes to whisper, be careful and do not lift the mask around strangers.
I do not lift the mask. His face is flushed as polish. I should have asked Eleanor to attend instead. She’ll be one of the them, I already know it. I can smell the eyes gnawing me in the morning.
We are in public.
The tall model adjusts her dress, unable to retire she views the smudge of Haute Chocolate, Frrrozen they call it, laying on her thigh. Her face has changed into cotton wool and espresso eyes. She is red and I know I should be too. She stares at me how I imagine a mother would.
I should really go.
His breath smells like what he says. The model has already had PR training and knows what not to say. He does not see when she clasps my hand with a mothering blackness.
There are separate routes in.
The head of office does not ask why I am late. She knows she has no authority over him, but she has waited until the end of the day when his door is closed and
the computers dismantle recording functions. I feel her tongue swallow as I try to delete the car logs.
You said you were home at 11.55.
You both need to stop.
Niece
mummy.Felt. like she was. put.In. a irreparable position. Sometimes darling.life does that.sometimes you can have it. all.choose. both options.though sometimes life can make.you have to choose.between a rock & a hard place.your mummy tried to choose.the rock.but she couldn’t. morality is difficult. and often a shade that can be misconstrued.
the hard place brought up mummy & rock but rock.needed mummy. rock was a baby.still rock tried to protect your mummy from what rock knew about laugher. you’re too young to know who laugher is for now.But rock was scared that mummy would be just as scared as she was. So little baby rock.took all the weight to protect.both.her & mummy -but remember. you are not meant to put weight on babies bones.because they are not formed properly yet.too much weight will break their bones which would really hurt. and then the Adults.would have to take baby to wait.in a very long queue.at hospital weee weeee yes darling.to fix the bones.
So it took.all baby rock had. when the wind blew. to try and stay still. but sometimes. rock was thrown to and fro. sometimes.rock was only big enough to fight to stay. where she landed.Now. mummy had pink ribbons tied to. both baby rock and hard place.so she laid slit in the middle. unaware that would loosen her grip from one side of the slip. or maybe she did.know that.and. chose. freedom.with only soft sighs.skies.like cuddling.little feet like yours.all night.because see.neither are optimal choices. a rock. a hard place.for someone who.has been swept by their own winds.to stay in those of others.
and you will hear.people say.forgive.and forget. sometimes you have the best intentions to forget.because to hold on.only weighs you down.but when you wake up in a cold sweat. middle of the night.trying to catch your breath. It’s difficult to sleep.both as and on a rock.alone. its cold.and its jagged edges.sometimes.leave scars.from the.cuts.and sometimes.during the day and sometimes at work.it makes it hard to forget.and your mummy wasn’t strong or. humble- which darling is also strong- enough to accept baby rock looked at.the laugher and your mummy.and instead of making your mummy upset- Remember what I said about baby bones and hospitals? don’t worry. your mummy would bring you.
But when you do something that you’re not meant to do.or in this case.don’t do something that you are meant to do.that brings you to feel bad about yourself. which doesn’t feel very nice.like when you get told off for not sharing your toys when you know that is the right.so when they were older.baby rock wanted to talk to your mummy about it all.about laugher. the wind.and the bones.but because of the not feeling very nice.because mummy wasn’t strong enough yet.she didn’t want to talk about it.but
Sometimes you have to air
things out. Sometimes you need
air to get to the cut for it to heal.
Communion
Hollow red, an opening
in her stomach. Eye bloodshot
as glass shattered in bar on Monday Blue, her
hand manoeuvres an involuntary jolt the way his usually does: two
open with automatic artillery abreast; though now she realises the extent of her arm
on his
extended
scowl.
Ocean and feng shui
deep – Rockets of black and yellow
reach her sockets as the kiss of Mahonia fortifies her
stomach over and over. Arms positioned like mother of Alpha and Omega she waits for Saviour removed.
Body play dead.
Hands over head.
Sense trickles back to him bright as the sky in the roof.
Waiting room again.
All seated stare in
any direction but theirs,
while he dotes. Doctors are all teeth and no eyes until they
exit again.
Stars are sighted and
moans at night form the backdrop
for the eclipse. Like lion with cub he strokes the live
carcass now growing on her lip. Whistling, while she makes him his food
at noon,
honour
on, a
Sunday.
Addiction
Waiting, for me, has always been a deeply terrible thing.
Patience, when the water distils, decodes to trust.
If I am patient with you, I trust not just you, but who
I am when I am with you under the light and moths.
In the middle of a sea we only see our dreams
but now – scenes hoarding pains waves.
The Oxygen kit was showmanship until we
capsized again. Against red and black ants
forever disturbing the growing sugar canes.
You know. This is a trust not to be craved.
No matter how much you try to plant, I have a trust that can’t be sown.
No matter how much you seek, I know all the places to hide
as clear as white dots appear when we close our eyes
you know. This is a trust that can’t be saved.
No matter how much we try to plant our minds, this is a trust no job can open.
No matter how much we try to hide these lies, only truths comply
as clear as the white dots appear when you close your eyes
you know. This is a trust with insufficient funds.
Your Silence will not Protect You
He summons me back.
“Why did you leave?”.
He is nothing but Whiskey and Cîroc. I hold my breath as I kiss him.
“Where’s your ring”, ignore him. Window. Damn. Off license, men outside.
“Oi!” his voice erupts like the waters he wishes I did not give away.
“Where is your engagement ring”?
I do not try to rip my arm from his grip, he has earned more than he is taking. His loyalty softens anything he does here, I understand the blood not rushing to my arm. He thought it would all be over after the case; there is no buckle to prevent these papers from escaping into puddles on Harrow High Road.
I feel the material of the seat obsess over the pieces of flesh on show. It is summer. In West London all of the houses seem to have, Eden, laughing at their fronts.
The driver’s eyes meet mine like a blind date, they question why I am not scared.
“So, why’d you take it off? Do you not want to marry me?”
I sigh as to savour each second I am floating with my eyes closed. I cannot find the words to explain to him:
That I cannot drink it away.
That I am sorry the blackness has not removed.
That I feel caged for not wanting to have a party, thrown in my honour.
I know I did when I was with them. And I don’t know why I did it. That I know he thinks being like them will close this river Jordan with its disintegrated fish bones, gnawing eyes and staled bread. I am not sure who the Israelite or Canaanite is here,
Which one of us is King David.
“Are you serious right now? Look at me!”
The driver, coughs: “the journey must resume”.
I always despised the way he would show off his money. Feels of rivers distilled from the blood of unkept children every time I remember the way he gets it. He acts like he clicks his fingers in restaurants, now throwing passes of pink notes in show that the driver is his bitch.
“I will take her home for free”, the driver retorts: he is not his bitch.
There is something about seeing someone’s eyes in a mirror. I know his hands are on the steering wheel, but his left pupil burns through mine, illuminating my hands holding my stomach and mouth as dead mice fall from my eyes.
“Do you want him here?”
“Oi, don’t talk to her!”
Today his protectiveness is my priest. I lay this him in my lap. For the first time he does not fight when I try to take his hat off in public. I stroke his ears and imagine the times he received the news, his friends telling him where they had seen me, with who. There is no telling what this driver will do, if I let him take me home for free. Nothing is for free.
“Please, just drive”.
Family
I awake to Salt playing again. She has put it on repeat.
We promised each other we would breathe in her strengths, her kicks and
know they will become ours.
The fighting scenes are my peace and my mattress is married to it.
I awake, to the screams again. Though apparently it has stopped.
“Turn it off please. Turn it off. Seriously! Seriously, but her eyes tell me who I am.
There is nothing on the screen.
I rest my head on the breast of a woman, I’ve not done so since eight.
I awake. Unknown number again. There is no clock for peace.
“Hi! My name’s Catherine and I’m calling from XXXXX. I hope you don’t mind,
I picked up your story in the news and it is so inspiring! We want to feature you in-“
“Fuck off my phone. My sisters have no father. My brother is broken. His dad is threatening to take him away. He is the reason I am still breathing. I once had an older sister, but half-way through she flipped.
I have no family left. This is not a fucking show.”
I awake to hear her praying, holding up her hands on a
mountain top while I sacrifice the food and books to
fit the purpose and ask for redemption. There is still no
answer no matter who lends a word thus this slope-intercept form has arisen.
I awake. There are 6 people dressed in black.
Ghosts of the Old Bailey
1. Don’t be scared. Things on the ground will move when you are not. Ensure the right people are by your side, even if that means a shadow
You walk in through the metal gates
The camera’s sing Amazing Grace
Your hands are held with love and faith
Your mind is dark as night.
You hear your name, stairs hesitate
there’s nothing left to escalate
Your sweat asks why your sisters late
Your neck hairs kiss the air,
In the bog your friend says: ‘there’s no light ere’
She proper strut, its bad to say
My girl lost weight and she looked great!
But where we were was on her face
Her eyes froze just like ice.
And when we saw her mother pray
The police nodded ignore her mate
I swear, her face, my girl, poor babe
I wrapped my arms round her.
And the uniform guy come and said: ‘they are ready for you now madam’
***
2. The Maintenance Man is who he is. Don’t fight it, don’t. Not one bit of it. You don’t need to fight here.
I dare say I don’t like her companion,
Not, fond. It is awfully difficult
-To watch her all alone, her-her breath short-
To approach this victim whose no family.
Does a uniform hold virtue ransom?
Ask her friend, are my dreams, is reason fraught;
Why must her “pal” say I, just open doors?
Well, pal is not in the gallery – shock!
Strength, you clothe those without stomachs for eyes;
Cloak seeing hairs on her neck jump each probe.
Can the defence tell that his bullets shock?
Back and forth like oscillations, in time,
on time, inside, her, detonating, low
***
3. The defence will say: ‘I only ask these questions because we are here’
I start with her mother, off course, on course.
‘She said you have made all of this all up’,
I’d never heard a retort quite so coarse,
“Is there a question for me to respond?”
‘Your grandad from Jamaica, wrote to say,
In a statement! That you were jealous, true?’
This is the first she’s seen it. Dropped the tray,
And it echoes throughout this hollow room.
Almost as though to help fill the silence now broad,
To help expedite my face now flushed,
She says as though this case has just no luck,
As though she owns a double decked white truck,
‘That he would carry her, I used to say
That he would marry her, I used to pray’.
***
4. Look at everyone in the room, including your barrister(s), judge and jury.
Emotional Intelligence is key. (N.B.) However, trust me, it is not infinite. Do not use it all on this case.
He re-jigs his speech, wig – They seem like clay,
He tussles his demons – now here to play,
When I met them in the holding room – No,
I didn’t think her stand would land like this,
It is her birthday, you know, tomorrow?
Though he won’t mention it,
Her response to his question. She was equipped,
‘What’s skunk’, he asks, to undermine her character
‘A form of Cannabis’. Short. He’s been kicked
‘Do you smoke Cannabis?’ Now will she sturt?
She says she has smoked it before, (case hurt),
Like Cameron and Obama have admitted;
I can’t help but smile at her return.
She has done her job, I see a juror wink
***
5. Whether it goes fast or slow, stay in control, answer in your own time, in your own way
Why must they ask about my mother again?
This is the only time I swallow my tears
And bow my head.
I remember his hands, him on top of her
Why would he want to hurt us like this?
I remember bile growing on his feet,
He locked her in a room and seldom
Let her leave.
I saw it when I walked into the house with no alert.
I pray they do not remember this when they are older.
I tell them all the truth. There is no taking back
What has been done to me. I could not live with
Him touching my little sisters.
***
6. Continue, head up, do not be shamed. Put the blame where it belongs, it is never with the victim. It may take time to believe it, really believe it, that is okay. Honesty is what is on your side here. It is not about the outcome, it is about you trying to help keep the streets a safer place. Whatever happens, well done, it is beyond brave.
You may not want to but I decline a break.
I think no time will unfold the lines on your face; the
habits formed; destructive; soil like; dirt.
You may be in the dock for an hour, less, more,
Remember emotions are maths equations here,
If you can, try and cry at the right time. Controlled.
It may sound cold and I am sorry, but that is how
It is, sometimes.
***
7. I am so sorry. I am so sorry. I can’t help you, they will have no father! I begged you not to do this. I can’t help you now, I’m so sorry baby.
I see my baby standing tall as I taught her,
She refuses to bow her head I can see as the
Doorman lets her through.
I look in her eyes and I can tell. I try to speak
With mine, ask her why, wonder why, now,
Wonder why you feel the softness of your God’s
Kiss touch your feet now, why now?! Head up.
She doesn’t see it, her eyes are still open
I see her confusion, I never wanted this, I see her
Wonder why the floor is hugging her
And why my eyes watching her
Come apart and everybody
But me tries to nurse her
Back to consciousness.
She does not go to the gallery
I have seen my daughter rock,
Back and forth where all galleries
Are public. She is what I taught her.
I know I have done something right, for,
We have tried to do all to make her stop.
She has been broken into, her TV has gone,
Her bed and quilt too. Somehow she remembers
What I read her all of those years ago,
Do not be sold, for our mothers have told
Us as history has,
Your Silence will not protect you.
13 Neins
Mum was out, I was 9.
The gym was down the road. I was 9.
That’s where she was. I was 9.
Rejection is a lot to some. I was 9.
My brother was 4. I was 9.
My stepfather was old. I was 9.
My nein died. I was 9.
My nein died. I was 9.
Mum was at the gym. I was 9.
Stepdad wrestled with me and bro,
I threw the guy, I mean really threw
I was winning! Yo, I was 9.
I said you’re weak ‘cos you got beat by me, and I’m 9!
Brother went to the living room, I was 9.
At night, the breeze froze all around me, the trees swam,
The air; there was no air.
He shut the door, SLAM.
The spoon got stuck inside the pan.
Where’s my mum, I’ll tell her.
-Blind-
The coverings off my apple slid,
The guava from behind looked ripe.
He sprinkled fairy dust on fake lips,
All white. I was 9.
Baby, Listen, You’ve Stars in your Eyes
As the black velvet sparkle called night
Wraps itself over slitted sparks called stars,
It drops,
Droops like water in pairs called tears.
Deafened by that roar we call silence
Numbed, by that love we call fear
As pear drops fall from that roar you call
Enlightenment.
(EXTRACT FROM LATE SARAH…
I could finally hear Luke’s car. The week before I’d seen him in Borough. He was walking with his girlfriend and we were marching to demand Afia’s £2.99 back for the chicken she now realised was inhabited by a dead fly, under its very own wing. Luke was a nice guy, warm and protective. I was happy to see him with his girl. The last I’d heard was that he’d survived; the last I saw was the blood. When asleep it stained bedsheets like invisible memories, dried and flaking.
‘Yeah whatever, I apologised for it.’
Having been released from youth offenders a month prior following a year holiday — taking things without asking whilst brandishing weapons despite saying ‘thank you’ is not classed as “naughty but well-intentioned” by the courts — now with a fresh tag on my ankle, with eleven months left to go and no more release warnings, I knew that perhaps I needed to be cooperative. Certain my disagreeing on Shakespeare did not justify the teacher calling ‘security,’ I simply reminded the silly hag that escape plan was yet to exist in the College because it was not yet a prison?
‘Sir?’
He closed his eyes.
We both pretended we could not hear Many Men, blasting from Luke’s car outside.
…Wish death upon me
‘…Look, Sarah. Sar…’
…Blood in my eye dog and I can’t see
‘…I tell it straight; you know that’
…Tryna take my life away
Finally, Luke turned it down — The N word was prohibited on the college road.
Mr Ohrah was the kind of man that dropped the top of his purple convertible when gliding into work. Also, the license plate bent three’s into R’s to spell his name. When he moved, nothing did; not even the gloss of beard that ironed over sideburns. A golden brown, they were rulered to a chisel and reminded you of sunflower oil and fried dumplings on a Sunday morning. Like the sun had personally fused hairs along his face and jaw to close pristine. Finally, he leaned in too. Elbows on knees they lifted the fingerprint in his chin:
‘You should know, I’ve been looking for a reason to kick you out.’
‘Ppshh, right then. Thanks!’
A black coffee table separated us. He could have called, written, emailed me for that. I felt it necessary to cut the crap, but he wene on:
‘You saw me with my afro last year, yes?’ And now he wants to make small talk. Is this a joke or what?
‘Errrr, not being funny Sir, but—’
‘WAIT!’ He had no patience left and it was only 10 AM! ‘When I went for this job, I had my hair as I do now, fresh cut, low. Once I had my feet under the table, afro!’ His fingers flicked air as though revealing a magic trick.
‘Ohhkay, I quite like my hair at the moment, Sir’
‘Sar!’
‘Yes?!’
‘You could do my job!’
‘Huh?’
His sigh made it clear we had reached the end of the conversation. He stood as did I however, in his glare towered thunder and it knocked me back into my seat. Then, he came from a different angle.
‘Do you remember what you got last term?’
Now, dear Reader, whilst I would have much preferred to tell Ohrah it was time for me to leave the dusty gates of New Cross and travail to cleaner heights, he was still the headteacher. If he was going to give me the boot, as long as it was before first break and enabled me to slip out, I really didn’t mind. My friends were waiting for me back in Elephant and, well, with us I was an anomaly when it came to education, anyway. Kareema let me know Mr Ohrah called my name on the tannoy. I heard her and everyone else in the background:
‘You better not be leaving, I swear! Where you?’
‘Top of the hill.’
‘Err, excuse me!’ Ms Crainer should have known she needed a far firmer tone. Never stood a chance. I heard her in the background, and the rest of the lot.
‘Oi, Sar, don’t have it fam!’ Only Oscar would say that, never having been called to the office once!
‘Babe, just be calm,’ said Afia. You could always tell her voice, it was silky and velvety at the same time, like a Terry’s Chocolate Orange dipped in white chocolate.
‘We gotta go babe.’
‘Oi miss, shat-up man!’ I thought Luke fancied Ms Crainer; he was just too mean for it to make sense.
‘Go on babe! Ms is having a breakdown…And tell big L to stop being such a twat!’
@
The grades from my first term in College were not great and as much as I didn’t show it, I’d stopped hanging around everyone. I wanted to study, but that was after the fact. My eyes swam in the blue carpet still sitting in Mr Ohrah’s office.
‘Be nice now Sir, I really did try.’ He stared at me so deep he saw through to my birth. ‘I know that was the only thing keeping me here, but I really don’t want to be kicked out at—’
‘You got a B in English.’
‘Nooo?’
I know what you’re thinking, B, a low B at that! But just a few months ago I had forgotten how to speak in class. A B, a low B, was good!
‘Chemistry, Sar?’
‘Yeah?’ This wasn’t necessary.
‘You changed from that to Philosophy, I hear?’
‘Well, my form tutor suggested—’
‘—that you swap because you were failing.’
I wouldn’t have put it like that myself.
‘Actually Sir, I went to her’— She was American and had a mane.
‘Uh-huh’
‘And she said: “:You’re nwat on the streets anymore!’’ Refreshingly brash, like a sip of your friend’s lemonade that actually turns out to be gin!’
‘Get on with it…’
‘She told me to try Philosophy and I said yes—’
‘—I said hurry up’
‘Basically Sir, I came to that late so it doesn’t count.’
His eyebrow lifted to an edge.
‘You got an A.’ Huh? I leaped out of my seat like a deer in blue headlights. He smiled, now with the remote in his hand.
‘WHAT DA FU!—’ Without saying a word, the slanted head, the stare were all imperatives for me to sit, back, down.
‘And then there’s Psychology.’ He created a whirlwind with his teeth. One that carries sound from the body sideways in a flow, overtures arising through feet from mouth to hair, shrugging in a sway that said forget it, well done for trying.
Now facing the flat screen TV, he mumbled something; sounded like a rev but I couldn’t quite ebb towards his flow.
‘Clarkson.’ Again, he said it again.
‘…Um, Jeremey Clarkson, Sir?’ He still hadn’t turned back round.
‘You got 99 out of 100.’
My face felt like I was in the middle of spitting chewed lemon seeds.
‘Alright, headteacher or not, don’t take the piss now.’
He changed the channel from a hunter gatherer show to MTV Base – Lil Wayne played, battling the Skepta blaring from the boot of Luke’s blacked out Merc, now dancing with the pavement, again.
‘Turn that crap down or go home! He started to take the 5 steps back from the window, dodging the plant the Danish receptionist watered for him every morning. When he reached me, I had tears in my eyes.
‘You got 99 out of 100 Sar, we’ve never had that here!’
He stood and watched me wipe my waters. Both in silence, he handed me a tissue while I attempted the process of releasing my hands from around my nose and jaw, somehow more and less squared than before.
@
During the two days following the meeting everything was the same. Except now, I didn’t purposely skip classes. Walking to meet everyone at the turnstiles to exit, I felt my earphones being lightly pulled. Afia.
‘Didn’t you hear?’
‘What?’
Kareema came running over.
‘They’ve just called your name on the tannoy!’
‘Oh! Yeah — I’ve got that class now.’
‘Say it like you mean it Sar, be happy,’ said Louise.
‘I’ll be a few hours behind you. Where you guys gonna be?
‘Either Elephant,’ skipping the turnstiles with Louise, Kareema answered, ‘or Vauxhall’
They were outside with the boys now when Luke shouted:
‘ENJOY IT MAN!’
@
Along Mr Ohrah’s corridor bellowed a sparkling silver conference room, only able to be seen through the 5 cm gap of glass that stood vertical to its frame. Though off limits to students, there assembled a strange line outside; creatures hugged books and whispered when speaking. We were very different. They did not have the usual popular arrogance of our urban kid: nonchalant about life; quiet but loud; low eyes yet a high want-to-learn, somehow. They were quieter: always, only spoke in class when they had a point, or were asked to; often being forced to, and were beyond mild-mannered — The Hummingbirds. My main group were my beautiful Robin-Hawks and, there is something about this identification which still gets me. Mr Ohrah came out of his office when he heard us all giggling.
‘You alright Sir, just waiting for my, you know, GIFTED and TALENTID, class.’
Instantly heading back towards his door he shook his head, bellowing:
‘Urgh. Some people have got both, you’ve only got one; you don’t need to be so loud.’ He paused, before turning back round to us while opening it. ‘You’re gifted, not talented, get over yourself Sar.’ And he didn’t even look back when he closed it! No one realised we’d all witness Patrick being run over by a van multiple times to his death because they were looking for his cousin, the following week…