House Letters: Near and Far

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A note The idea for House Letters came to me on one of the first Sundays of April 2020, a few weeks into the UK’s lockdown. I decided to set up an online publication project that would engage with the uncertain times caused by COVID-19, with submissions open to all – no prior experience in creative fields necessary. The only requirement was that contributors used ‘Near and Far’ as a jumping-off point, a theme chosen for its connotations with connection, intimacy and distance – being alone, together.

I received 18 works spanning poetry, essays, fiction, letters, photographs, drawings and more. They come from friends, family, those who would describe themselves as writers or artists and those who are not used to experimenting in this way. Some submissions are meditative, looking inwards towards one’s thoughts and feelings about the current situation, while others focus on wider societal narratives and the steps we can take to make changes.

Some are humorous, some dark, some are rooted in the present and others allow us to escape to places and memories further afield. Each contribution is completely different, and this is what makes them so remarkable – offering a vast range of viewpoints from lockdown lives across England.

None of us have experienced anything like this; we are adapting while we navigate the uncertainty and anxiety, collectively grieving for those lost.

Hopefully for those involved this project has been a way to keep spirits up, offering emotional release, solidarity or a way to stay connected to oneself and others through creativity. It’s made me feel closer to those that I cannot see for the foreseeable, and I hope that in years to come it will act as a time capsule, having captured a historic moment we can reflect on.

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8 Couch Call, Tice Cin Written in the middle of the night.

Thinking how we perform from far. My front garden is the spot of the road, some loitering.

10 Just a Touch, Kirsty Roberts A 35mm photograph capturing the desire for human contact during enforced isolation.

The temptation to reach for physical contact is natural and feels easy. Yet an insidious shadow lurks, reminding us of the risks.

12 Before Breakfast, Maja Lykke The subject matter is close to my heart but the format takes me back to my native Denmark. A national treasure of ours is a song about counting your blessings as the coffee is brewing. And in a time of emergency, it is more necessary than ever.

14 Chloe Ophelia A contemplation of the outside world just after sunset.

Everything seems distant but I appreciate its unusual beauty as if I am seeing it for the first time – its symmetry, the light, the colours.

Its stillness sweeps a sense of alleviation over my soul.

15 The Last Time, Jonny Holmes A reflection on leaving home for the first time, The Last Time is a celebration of the memories we share with those who we leave behind.

16 In Transience, Beth Holmes The precarious nature of private renting leaves millions of people with no choice but to live transiently. What does it mean to be intimately close to one’s home and community, but distant?

To be near and far at the same time?

18 Bloomii I wanted to convey a very candid conversation between two friends. It’s a simple act but I think it means a lot to keep in contact during these times.

20 In the Vicinity of Wanaka at Night, Ted McDonald I was walking to a cinema outside of Wanaka (New Zealand) two years ago. At a high point in the road, in darkness, the stars felt nearer and more distant than everything else; they were clearer than I think I’ve ever seen them.

21 How to Tame the Mountain Spirits, Pietro Bardini An informative guide that will familiarise you with mountain spirits, and show you how they can help liven up outdoor spaces during lockdown.

24 Farhana Khatun This is a letter to a friend who could no longer be one.

I was given an ultimatum to respond to by 1 January 2020 – I have still not responded to it and it’s already May. I just don’t like being told what to do.

25 Kaori Narita This soft pastel of the Wirral, as viewed from Liverpool, represents how during this time somewhere can be so close in its proximity, but far enough that it means we cannot go there.

26 Near Digitally, Far Physically, Gionatan Scali In this piece I tried to externalise thoughts and feelings about the lockdown, and in doing so possibly pushed out some new ideas acknowledging the fact that this is an incredible life-changing opportunity.

28 It’s a Short Walk From the Dinner Table to the Asylum, Cosima Cobley Carr This work examines the fine line between sanity and madness, looking at the phenomenology of our own experience and the societal rules that define us. In turn, by questioning how we categorise those we consider mad, this leads us to see the madness that underlies our everyday.

30 So Near, Yet so Far: An Age of Opportunity, Joseph McGuffog In the wake of the 2019 election, and five possible years of Tory rule, socialists are far from power. But a post-coronavirus society allows for the opportunity to rebuild our local services through independent business collaboration and localised economic growth.

32 Beth Nugent Photographs highlighting ‘mundane’ moments that have become significant during quarantine.

Moments flitting between our adult and childlike relationship that would otherwise go unnoticed.

Even though we are adults, and the three year age gap between us has closed as we have grown, I still, and always will, look up to him as my older brother.

36 Ironing, Ben Cowie This is my first foray into fiction. I intended to write a short horror story, knowing only that I wanted it to be about a lonely mother’s connection with her children and a horror befalling her.

What I landed on was an expression of my unrealised COVID-induced anxiety through Sheila. Her fear serves as a metaphor for deep uneasiness.

38 Virtual Stag Do, Ben Holmes Depiction of a stag do done virtually as we could not go to Prague.

Even when we are far from our family, friends and things we want to do, we can stay close.

39 Haikus, Ben Holmes and Kaori Natari A collection of our thoughts and activities during quarantine / me (Ben) trying to learn my Japanese girlfriend’s culture.

Couch Call Some friends when they ring, after days days have sluiced them into maintenance, they chat chatting, ‘Come let’s do all of, any of it when this is done or just some but only if…

Will we be tired?’ the queued up topics could go rounds in a ring while they pause, their cheer almost nearly slipping to the floor, hands catching corners of mouth and eye crease, kinda the way I picture a woman made in clay her own well-heeled sculptor will come back to do a tummy tuck should anything sag his antenna will protrude within reach of what he may feasibly fix and trim – the line between barely made and not. Friends’ ankles tilt on the couch as to swirl in a meditative circle

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creaking, one will wander, over to that sound of stretch, but the call carries and beyond them the TV and 4am man singing. Yes. Lose focus, hang up.

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Before Breakfast Worlds are built on words. And wars fought on opinions. Brewing your morning coffee, the news come in.

It can be hard to keep your head straight and your mind calm when life seems like a maze designed to keep you trapped inside your head. It is yours for the taking, even when out of reach.

A moment of hesitation.

It is easy to be dismissive and pessimistic. Yes, the ideal life is a hoax.

Nothing is ever simple – and the more you think about it, the harder things become.

It is easy to hate and loathe. It is easy to point fingers. Forget what you know, and take everything for granted.

Busy, busy, busy, constructing your own reality. Drown out the noise of your own dissatisfaction. Giving in is giving up.

Stop and smell the coffee.

There is sweet convenience in bias. Shutting down will get you nowhere.

You see it now: without a hint of remorse, life got the better of you.

By refusing to acknowledge the legitimacy of any other truth but Your Own Truth, you have missed out. For a society with so much freedom to Speak Out, when are we meant to have a dialogue?

Crying belongs to the night, trying to the day. Maybe now is when you get to take a step down. Give up what you’ve held on to. Give in to that which pulls you under.

What happens in-between you and them, now and forever? That stolen window of time that is yours and yours alone.

This is where the magic lies.

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It is easier to dream of a better tomorrow than it is to start working for it today. It is easier to curse mundanity than it is to honour the time we’ve been given. It is easier said than done, of course it is.

But why finish a sentence with a full stop when nothing in the real world works this way? There’s no finishing line, only moments of intent and action.

But first, coffee…

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The Last Time Can you see the blood moon from the Dales?

Under its light we desperately try To keep the party going, But people keep going missing Without saying goodbye.

At some point we do everything For the last time.

But if I can see the blood moon From my window, We share more than just space And even the last time can Last forever.

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In Transience noun: transience; plural noun: transiences; noun: transiency the state or fact of lasting only for a short time; transitoriness.

The Cambridge Dictionary notes a tendency in the US to use ‘transience’ when referring to living only temporarily in a place: ‘in many American cities, transience in one’s 20s and 30s is an accepted part of modern life.’[1] Yet this situation is not confined to America. The precarious nature of private renting in the UK has left me – along with 11 million others – bouncing from six or twelve-month contracts, unable to be rooted in communities.[2] When I was in my early twenties the impermanence was manageable. With the help of an assortment of flatmates the properties I shared became homes, if only for a year or so. But while I’ve sometimes decided to move, I’ve also been left with no choice – so an awareness of fragility has hung over each tenancy agreement. Moving house is disruptive, draining and costly. And I am acutely aware of getting older. Maybe I would like pets one day – often forbidden in rented properties. Perhaps I’d like to put up a shelf without fear of losing my deposit, or plant seeds somewhere I know I’ll stay long enough to watch them grow. Be part of a stable, nurturing community. Unless the housing system is radically, structurally reformed the entirety of ‘generation rent’ could become transient. Communities risk atomisation, lacking effective bonds and solidarity.

The proportion of households renting privately has doubled in the last decade, primarily due to the effects of austerity.[3] However the trajectory of the UK’s housing crisis stretches back to the 1980s, when council homes were privatised in their millions. Since then public bodies have mostly abandoned large-scale housing construction, and decision-making has been left to the market’s ‘invisible hand’. A massive amount of housing is now entangled in buy-to-let, with rental prices dictated by landlords.

The ensuing shortage of housing and extortionate costs means that, without inherited wealth, homeownership is unattainable for growing numbers of people.[4] ‘Affordable’ housing and help-to-buy schemes tend to benefit those who could afford property regardless, and social housing, meanwhile, is only a possibility for those most in need. In fact, more young adults remain living with their parents for longer, unable to afford to rent.[5] 16

Rented accomodation tends to be low quality and cramped – a shocking third of properties fail to meet living standards.[6] The hierarchical relationship between landlord and tenant, on the other hand, leaves one beholden to another’s compassion (or lack of it). In the seven years I’ve rented I’ve experienced rogue landlords attempting to keep my deposits; my chest wheezing from damp; an eviction notice in the midst of a global pandemic.

Others have suffered worse: raising children in squalid conditions, or being forced into homelessness by rent increases and low pay – it’s no coincidence England’s rough sleeping figure has increased by 165% since 2010.[7] Renters themselves are more likely to feel lonely, they tend to hand over a third of their monthly incomes and two thirds have no savings.[8] This is particularly dangerous given the job losses because of coronavirus.

The lack of legislative support offered to renters during the pandemic is unacceptable. Landlords have been offered mortgage holidays but the ‘ban on evictions’ has only extended the notice from two months to three. As well as a total eviction ban, renters need a universal rent suspension and the cancellation of debt during this period. Think of the Uber drivers who contracted COVID-19 and were so terrified of eviction they continued to work, eventually dying.[9] The tenants told to use their ‘lunch and holiday savings’ to pay rent, by an agent for a billionaire landlord who rejected their plea for coronavirus relief.[10] And in the long term? While we need a mass house-building programme consisting of affordable homes and social housing, if renters’ rights improved, and the market regulated, it could be a viable alternative. Think of Germany, where renting is the norm: secure tenancies, rent controls at prices affordable for those on low incomes and the end of ‘no-fault’ evictions.

To get there, we cannot only depend on parliamentary processes. Local organising is crucial. Renters unions – member-led campaigning unions like the London Renters Union – are organising renters to win homes for people, not profit, and ensure we have ‘decent, affordable and secure homes’.[11] Unions are key to renters developing power, and show we can support each other through action. Coronavirus has universally suspended the status quo: now is the time to redress the imbalance of power between landlords and tenants. We can start doing so by cultivating grassroots movements, uniting and demanding change.

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In the Vicinity of Wanaka at Night Out in these hills and suburban roads is the unblack darkness of solitude and ultramarine thought.

Everything my mind ensnares with prehensility softens, saturated with aloneness, and sinks.

For every absent thousandth person there’s a star.

Manifold lights wash out darkness and the few steps between me and cosmos.

Day and night exchanged for supernal time.

Each moment of subject-object drowning buoys me on lightyears.

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Befriending the Mountain Spirits Rehoming spirits of the Apennines meadows into the balconies of English housing estates calls for ingenuity in reproducing the conditions of their native habitats. Here, they remain dormant for months beneath a thick covering of snow. With the spring thaw they awaken and begin rejuvenating stagnant pond water that has settled at the mountainside.

Conditions are very different on our balconies. Mild winter means the spirits’ slumber is superficial, and damp winter conditions and car exhausts take a toll on more delicate spirits. Nevertheless, there are plenty of dependable crevices on balconies which, with care, will make an attractive refuge for years to come.

In this step-to guide I will present practical examples which will help you identify the work of the spirits and tame them as friends.

TRUST PREPARATION Mountain spirits respond well only after a thorough trust preparation. Your relationship must be dug during spring and incorporated with liberal quantities of play time throughout the summer.

The first encounter must be accidental – or at least seem so.

Uncommon river spirits can be found on lower altitudes of 300-800mt.

The encounter should happen between May and June.

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Encounter May (La Volta, River Secchia) We leave the car at the barrier, before the dried-up river bed grows rockier.

The sun hits our necks as we walk upstream, where the riverbanks are in full bloom and the trees are bursting with nectar. All around are mountain tops, though we keep at the base: 308mt above sea. After 10 minutes we arrive at a pond where a slab of concrete functions as an accidental dam. A previous downpour has accumulated at its base and, unable to leave, has created a pool.

The water is refreshing and not stagnant, despite a lack of apparent streams feeding it. There are no weeds touching our legs either – although small, oblong shapes swim between our fingertips. One of us has left a pair of red glasses on top of a towel on the slab. A breeze grabs the glasses, lifts the towel and leaves unnoticed. Wet and blind, we blame the mountain spirits as we walk back.

Play time July (Caprile, River Secchia) Hoping to find an attractive swimming spot we venture downstream. At 412mt above the sea the river is abundant. Through the crystalline water we see debris of rocks moving with the current. At this altitude the river is shallow enough for us to cross. I wear flip-flops, black, size 43. One of us spots an ideal tree on the other side. With its bendy branches and thick build we can use it to leapfrog into the river. As we cross, a swirl grabs my left ankle and lifts my flip-flop off my foot. Now with a limp, I keep venturing downstream. After 10 minutes we need to cross again. Afraid to lose my other flip-flop, I wait. To my left lies a pond. Its water is still, but not stagnant – no weeds either. I always keep a pair of red glasses with me now, which I place in front of the pond as a gesture for the spirits. One of us, bent in half, holds his stomach. ‘It’s back’ he laughs. A flip-flop – black, size 43, left foot – is making its way to me downstream. I thank the spirits as we return to the car.

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REHOUSING Once trusted, the spirits can be transferred to a new site. On a balcony try to shelter them from droughts and winds. Conditions should be well-lit throughout the day. Once settled the spirits will protect your house and thank you with gifts.

Avoid: airless areas; lack of foliage.

Environment and Sustainability In January we placed a Christmas tree on the balcony. A broken pipe forced rain to collect. With no means of escaping it stagnated during the winter months. The combination of tree, stagnant water and spring warmth created an irresistible refuge for the spirits. Now they are mature and express their gratitude with gifts.

March - The first gift comes with the spring clearance. As I collect the water in a bucket, I notice a dark, thick substance at its bottom. Upon inspection it is clear that it is a dried-up mouse. A welcome gift.

April - After a week of rain, a second tide swamps the balcony. I grab the bucket and collect the water. As its surface dries I notice a red blob staring at my feet. I crouch down, ear to the floor, and stare back at the eight eyes of a Woodlouse spider. This time it’s in pristine condition, not dry at all. I thank the spirits and wait for their next gift.

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Dear xxxxxxx, In December, we met in a coffee shop on the main road.

You had arrived early, waiting, thinking about the best way to address the elephant in the room, but there was no polite way to begin.

You tried anyway, skirting around the edge of the problem, armoured with small talk – or was it really catching up on the past year?

I could see the real question, pulsing in the air, muffled by tension.

You sat firm in your position and I admired that courage. This meeting was no easy feat. I’m barely there for you, stuck in my own world, looking for different ways to bury the same demon.

But that’s one of the great things about space, it gives you the room to breathe, to be… a little more.

To be brutal, to be fair you asked for too much, that I couldn’t bare to give you it all although I see the weight and worth of your words, drawn with love yet spoken with hurt.

We have changed too much, to go back to who we were.

It could be nice, to say hello and farewell when the moment occurs but now, I can only wish you love, and luck as it were.

With no more goodbyes left, xxxxxxxxx

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Near Digitally, Far Physically I guess we are feeling similar things right now. All of us are experiencing it.

Different rooves, same problem. Facing ourselves.

For those that are lucky enough to survive, returning to the outside world will be incredible.

One day soon, we will see each other again. Can you imagine? It will probably be weird. Even hugging someone will feel different. I was on the phone with my boss yesterday, discussing going back to normal life – what will it be like?

I think it will be one the most incredible things to happen in our lifetimes.

So near and far? I guess we are near digitally, far physically.

Digitally, we can talk to each other through our screens: video call, send emails, play multiplayer games. I can play with my cousin who lives in the opposite side of the world. And this is amazing, but can it ever compare with us playing ball games in the same yard, or talking with a friend who is sitting next to you on the couch? Can we convey our emotions virtually, fulfil our senses digitally, feel as close to our loved ones as we normally would?

I would say there’s no comparison. We need some sort of physicality: seeing a loved one on the other side of the screen doesn’t affect feelings, emotions and engagement in the same way.

I guess for now social media can help us remain close. My friend and I were chatting about getting an app that could host parties: someone chooses the tune, and all the people involved in the chat sync to that track so that everyone in real time can dance to the same beat. Maybe something like this is already in existence.

However, when all this is over I reckon we should try to practise being active in physical interactions instead.

Before the pandemic took hold there was a crisis in independent music venues.

Spaces were shutting down and people were losing faith in going to gigs. But 26

now the venues are closed and we all miss venues. How could a live streaming experience ever replicate attending a physical gig, dancing with your friends under the stage?

I hope that when things go back to normal we will experience an increase of venues and people attending gigs.

While the world is in isolation we’ve got a massive opportunity to find the values we’ve lost, the people that we want to see, music we want to hear, venues we want to support.

All of this could bring us back together with more joy than ever.

So I suggest, after months of social distancing, a fair amount of near distancing to balance things out.

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So Near, yet so Far: An Age of Opportunity

They are our coffee shops, filled with students and the tech lot: coding, designing, social media managing. They are our bars. Blue-collar workers and silver-collar bartenders rub shoulders with writers, those big in property and construction, recruitment firm managers who hold meetings on tables in the back. ‘Networking’, I think it’s called. Political campaigners, Sunday Funday with the work lot. Taking the kids to the play centre or getting a dad and lad haircut down the road. They are where we relax, where we converse, dance, pray. Hold our wakes. They are the places where we spend our most valuable time, where life happens at its most functional. Simply, they are ‘where we wish to be’. In The Great Good Place (1989) Ray Oldenberg called them our third places – our homes and workspaces being the first and second respectively.

Oldenberg’s concept of a third place has been summarised into eight characteristics. I have updated them for this century.

1. Neutral ground: occupants are welcome to relax and are free from any emphasis on making purchases.

2. Leveller (a levelling place): socioeconomic status is not relevant.

3. Conversation is the main activity: conversation can range from light and breezy to political and philosophical. Conversation doesn’t have to be the only activity.

4. Accessibility and accommodation: third places must cater to a wide range of society – and be accessible to all. Think office workers on their lunch breaks and musicians after a gig.

5. The regulars: places must serve the community they are in but should also try to attract people from further afield in the spirit of collaboration.

This helps create regulars and the substance of them will shift with the space as it evolves.

6. A low profile: third places must be subtle – a canvas for experiences, a background for dialogue.

7. The mood is playful: hostility, violence and prejudice are forbidden. Social norms may vary slightly from place to place, but all third places are mostly void of tension.

8. A home away from home: occupants of third places will often have the same feelings of warmth and belonging as in their own homes.

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I disagree with the idea that a fourth place – an environment prevalent in today’s ‘knowledge economy’ that blurs elements of all three spaces – will save us. We need to pay attention to the relationships between existing places that, if promoted through a fascist or authoritarian lens, could decimate our privacy and freedom. Will we be monitored if we work from home, for example? For what reason can we trust these sacrifices of freedoms won’t spiral into a Huxleyan nightmare, where our freedoms are taken away from us in the name of convenience?

If our post-coronavirus environment carries true, and work and home become more integrated with technology, the only solution is to take the role of local government into our own hands. The localised clusters of mutualaid groups, the friendships forged by clapping on doorsteps – we can help local businesses work with our communities: think mental health charities carrying out activities in local bars, free meals for the vulnerable using allotment-produced vegetables cooked by local restaurants. The seeds for our own ‘magic money tree’ can grow in the heart of our communities.

It is essential that we merge socialising with reasonable amounts of consumption, a consumption that stimulates our local economy while giving us places to live, collaborate and organise. Late capitalism can be twisted, reworked, recycled ironically, to work for us not in spite of us. Like a computer: if it starts stalling every few hours, you probably need to open it up and look at what makes it tick.

In times of social revolution third places have overthrown oppressors and sociological systems – cultures have fallen because of the conversations and actions of their inhabitants. Julius Caesar was knifed in the back at the Theatre of Pompey, signifying the beginning of the end for the Romans. The unique environment of coffeehouses spread knowledge during the Age of Enlightenment, underpinning much of the thinking we deal with today. The Sons of Liberty at the Green Dragon Tavern overthrew the British Empire.

This is the power of our communal spaces – this is the power of the third place. It can change the world. We cannot allow our third places to be manipulated by big money, be bought out. The only people who can invest in our local communities are us.

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Ironing ‘The clothes won’t iron themselves I suppose,’ Sheila thought to herself, ‘and the kids certainly won’t!’

Getting started was always the hardest part. As the ironing board clicked into place, a familiar bittersweet feeling resurrected itself. Knowing there was a pile of ironing to get through was daunting but, after a short while, Sheila would come to glide the iron over the garments with a special kind of love reserved only for her children. The mundanity of the task always gave way to a creative warmth. Since Gordon passed away, Sheila had poured her life and soul into homemaking, expressing herself through all that she did to take care of her family. It was her art.

She was ironing the first time it happened. It began with a sound. The piercing shriek of the smoke alarm stabbed through her mindful routine.

Initially she thought it was faulty, though that was a funny thought now. The alarm seemed louder than ever before and nothing had set it off – unless, perhaps, the steam from the iron caused it? The noise continued as she frantically pushed the red button on the alarm. It wouldn’t turn off. It grew louder as she became distracted by something out of place in the corner of her eye, contorted grotesquely in the corner of the living room. It seemed somehow too large for the space it occupied. Intense fear gripped her as it stared at her unwaveringly. Its gaze, glued to her every movement, seemed to be drawing her closer.

There was rarely anything on Sheila’s to-do list which wasn’t for the benefit of her children. That way, she never broke her connection with them. Though the second time it happened she was alone, as she had been before. The alarm screeched again. Sheila hadn’t taken the batteries out.

What if there was a fire while the kids were at home? This time she didn’t try to switch it off. The frenetic energy that went into pushing the button last time was expended on a panicked dash down the stairs instead. Her eyes darted around the living room and into the corner where she had seen it previously. Her mind convulsed in terror, yet she wanted to see it. She couldn’t. It wasn’t there.

Calming down, Sheila became annoyed with herself for letting her imagination get the better of her. She trudged into the kitchen to switch the 36

alarm off, pushed the red button, but it continued to pulse. Her sense of calm soon vanished as she saw it again, this time on top of a kitchen cupboard.

A staring smile perched among twisted limbs. The dead, still eyes insulting her existence.

Sheila managed to keep her children from learning about the occurrences, in spite of neighbours enquiring into the repeated problems with the smoke alarm. She’d taken the batteries out a while ago, not that it changed anything. It turned up at the house daily – so long as she was alone – always at the sound of the alarm, but not always in the same place. Yet it never fit into whatever crevice or corner it crammed itself into. Always staring, always repulsive.

Sheila started to receive letters from school regarding the appearance of her children. Their clothes were dirty and creased; hair unkempt. Though she read them, she seemed unable to process them, as if they were leaves on a distant tree lit dimly by a clouded moon. Her connection to all else was broken. All that mattered now was the smoke alarm. Not its sound so much as its lack thereof – Sheila knew it wouldn’t stay quiet forever. It would always return. Small drops of blood oozed from her fingers as she bit and picked in anticipation. This was all she did now. She was inert, an unmoving cliffside changed only slowly by the movement of the world around her. How could she do the ironing? What if it appeared? What if it wasn’t smiling at her this time? What if it appeared right behind her? Or right next to her?

What if it did more than just stare? What if it was always there?

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Haikus My president During these hard times Lots of bad advice around Do not ingest bleach Dark flat Our flat faces north No direct sunlight all day Where is my grater This one is self-explanatory Herd immunity What an absolute knob head Dominic Cummings Blessings Need salsa for tea Tesco reduced shelf ten p Life is not so bad Riverside walk Just opened tinnies Man shouts through the intercom ‘No drinks on the stairs’ Riverside walk continued Ham and cheese butties Don’t even think about it You fucking seagulls Triple word score You Scrabble cheater Bento box is not one word You lose sixty points

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