For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.
— Virginia Woolf
Virginia is in her kitchen licking a metal spoon heaped with lemon sponge mixture. A dash of her own ingredients. In 45 minutes at gas mark six the deed will be done. She looks at the clock, the hands are pointing to noon. She shudders to re-invent herself through hypnosis (whilst waiting for her lemon sponge to rise). She dreams of her lover, Vita. She dreams of her darling’s adventures – overseas. Her thoughts dart about like a handful of ball bearings flung at random countries on a map of the world.
To counteract the weight in her heart, Virginia leaves the front door to her Monk’s House unlocked – and drifts like an elongated question mark towards the sanctuary of the nearby River Ouse.
The acrid taste of river water replaces the spooned cake mixture on her tongue. Virginia counts to ten as she tries to pull off her wedding ring. At the count of five, she regrets this twist of fate.
Seeking an escape route underwater she ceases to stay afloat. The ragweed that might once have been trapped in a fisherman’s net will become her afterlife jacket.
Will Vita write letters to her, posthumously? Perhaps she will…incognito.