Blue Monday by Hattie Logan
I’m not meant to be here. Of course, I’m meant to be here.
I will be sacked if anyone at work finds out where I am. Best keep this off Instagram stories.
I wonder what Grandad makes of this? Grandad wants me to go out and live, rather than watching him slowly fade away.
Well, this one’s for you, Grandad. You always did enjoy the Mancunian acid house movement. I’ve lost count of the times you’ve told me you wished you were there in the Haçienda dancing alongside Barny, Hooky and Bez. All night, every night. The fact that your single-parent status made raving with people twenty years younger than you unthinkable did nothing to deter you from your fantasy.
I’m standing in the middle of London’s O2 arena. I’ve been here so many times before, and each time I’m blown away by the sheer scale of the venue. Young people like myself in the prime of their lives share the arena floor with an equal amount of middle-aged blokes reliving their glory days. The stands are a similar story and rise high above us on either side. I’ve never enjoyed it up there, movements restricted to a chair, squinting to make out the specks of the band on the stage. I’m much happier down here in the centre of the action.
Around me, the crowd remains silent, patiently waiting. We all know what’s coming, know which song hasn’t yet been played. And we’re ready for it. I feel the pill I took earlier kick in.
The drum beat starts, instantly recognisable. This is it. This is what we’re here for. The crowd around me roars in approval. My voice gets lost amongst the sea of others.
Dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum dadadadadadada, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dadadadadadada.
The synth starts, playing the all-familiar melody over the drum beat, carefully crafting the layers that make this song a piece of art. Now the crowd starts to stir. Bodies start twisting, arms start pumping, feet start jumping. Slowly, surely, the arena becomes a 70,000-strong rave.
The song builds and builds. More drum beats join the first, the bass line blares out the speakers. My body is no longer my own, moving of its own accord to the beat of the music. I savour every moment, barely believing how lucky I am to be dancing along with the artists as they craft their masterpieces.
I wish Grandad could see this. I can picture him next to me, moving with as much vigour as the more able-bodied in the crowd. As the song builds towards the crescendo, I can’t hold it in any more. Tears stream down my cheeks as I release all the emotions I have held in since that night in A&E. I’m not ready to lose him yet. I have to be.
60 miles away in the hospice bed, Grandad takes his last breath.
An NHS Specialist Biomedical Scientist, Hattie started writing in early 2024. She grew up in Manchester and now lives in Cambridge with her husband and many houseplants.
Artwork by Alex Logan
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