Monthly Archives: September 2012

Friendship long distance

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She’s arriving tomorrow morning. I should be asleep as I’m picking her up from the airport at 8am, but I’m a bit too excited.

I’ve “known” April for over seven years now. We first encountered each other because of the “next blog” feature on either mine or her blog. Hers was an online account of things she observed in her daily life as a young mum in British Columbia – called simply “Pissoff”, she liked pear cider, but didn’t get enough of it, and she had little time for short men. Mine was also an online account of my daily life, but mixed with the sometimes surreal hypothesising of parallel encounters where I actually opened my mouth and told people what I thought of them, or even acted on my desires to maim those who crossed me. I think the election of the new pope and his resemblance to Ann Widdecombe had something to do with April Pissoff commenting for the first time. Or maybe it was Ryan the catholic (“Bravo!”) whom I’d torn to shreds after he decided, unwisely, to make a comment about about gays being cursed and destined to eternal damnation.

I guess you had to be there.

Over the course of a few months in 2005 there grew a friendly band of like-minded people who shared a creativity with words, pictures and graphics. In a strange sort of way, we got to know each other through our virtual lives; there’s a brutal honesty that comes through when people write about stuff on the internet, even if it is something as mundane as Coffeemate.

So it came to pass that I became more comfortable relating my thoughts to people I’d never met than those who were part of my real life – nothing new there – but I struck up a close bond with that woman from Vancouver Island and it only took one invitation for me to book my flight over there to visit in the summer of 2006.

She popped over in 2008 with Mish-Mash (who John Pigster joked “used to be a man”).

And then there was also the Vegas trip of 2009, where I travelled alone and met up with April and her friend for a few days, enjoying the museums and galleries in that cultural capital of Nevada.

It’s odd that somebody who you only meet on a small number of occasions can be counted as a genuine good friend, but the internet is a great ice breaker when you’re a bit nerdy and shy.

I wish I could promise the bright lights and excitement of Vegas during the next couple of days, but I can’t – this is Bolton. I have, however, fixed my security light in her honour and there’ll be food, wine, laughter and the odd Coast Salish death stare to put me in my place.

The proceedings may see me increasing my credit limit to allow for an Italian road trip next spring. And what the hell if it does? Life is made up of experiences; spend more time with those who love you and who you love and, on balance, it’ll be great.

School dinners

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When I spend time with my parents, conversation often turns to the youngest (human) family member, my niece, Little Con. She’s recently started her second year at primary school and I asked my mum (Big Con) as to how she was settling in with her new teacher, classmates, and the like.

“She came home starving the other day; hadn’t eaten a thing”

With our family, food is everything. I can trace this to a few things:

  • My parents being children during the Second World War (Mum’s family were in Liverpool and living on rations and whatever could be grown in allotments, Dad’s family were in the south of Italy and literally had to go and dig in the forest for food after the Nazi occupies had taken all the village’s provisions);
  • My Dad being Italian;
  • The acknowledgement that our combined tempers become unbearable when we’re hungry (we’re a pretty irascible bunch at the best of times)

So the news that Little Con “hadn’t eaten a thing” all day at school was tantamount to national disaster.

Con used to take a packed lunch to school with her, but her mum recognised that a hot meal during the day might be better for her powers of concentration as the intellectual effort was increasing. But things aren’t the way they were when we were at school. When we were at school, you lined up in the dining hall and you were given a plate of whatever was on the menu that day -no choice. The dinner ladies patrolled the tables to ensure that you ate everything (including the odd bit of gristle) and that you drank plenty of water before the main treat of pudding completed what generally a good meal.

I understand that primary school children are given a choice these days, but they don’t know what the choices are until they reach the end of the dinner queue, by which time it’s too late to go back and they end up with a crappy sandwich that they don’t want.

Choice and young children do not mix, this is developmental fact. This is something that parents and people responsible for the care of little ones need to understand, especially when it comes to providing food to kids who rely on school for their only hot meal of the day.

I’m going to write to my Little Con’s school and tell them what’s what:

  • Hot meal every day, including pudding
  • One meat (if necessary), one veggie option
  • Chips no more than twice per week
  • Lots of veg
  • A healthy mix of flavours
  • No choice
  • No processed shit
  • SAS trained dinner ladies
  • Death to any parent who complains

And now as I hit the “publish” button, I see what a cock up I’ve made of my bullets.

Unhappy anniversary

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This weekend marks a couple of terrible anniversaries.

Two years ago, a close friend lay struggling for life in intensive care while his partner was left dealing with hideous anguish and the inevitability of the love of his life being cruelly taken from him.

One year ago, I was deliriously happy, but confined to indoors decorating the home that I shared with the love of my life while the rest of country enjoyed one last fling of summer and she attended a conference.

My beautiful friend lost his fight for life, leaving his grief-stricken partner to pick up the pieces amongst much confusion. That night of 1st of October, 2010 was the saddest climax to a fortnight of disbelief at the rapid demise of a man who I’d loved as a brother, but which saw the rising in stature of another man who I’d walk barefoot over hot coals to make a cup of tea for if he asked. I’ve never witnessed such love as I was privileged to be part of that night as I sat in the hospital while Martin was comforted by the nurse and handed the belongings of his beloved. I was terrified as I went to say goodbye to John’s body, yet strengthened by Martin’s dignity as we were taken into the ward. My dear Piggy had left us long before that moment, before I’d seen him earlier that week, but he’d left an indelible mark on Martin, on all of us, that, well, it’s indelible.

John lives on in our hearts and fond memories, and in the strength of his super hero Tazzy. :@)

Just twelve months had passed and my life was brilliant. I was stupidly in love with the woman I’d been waiting for all my life. We’d built a home together and had plans for a future. Desperately trying to decorate before getting carpets laid, I spent the weekend up a ladder getting splattered in paint (B&Q rice cake matt emulsion) while she attended a conference. It was hot, the sun shone all that Saturday, but I persevered and finished the dining room. Eager to tell her of my progress, I waited for her call or text to say that proceedings had finished for the day; all I got was a text to say that things had gone on longer than expected and that she didn’t have time to call before going to the evening meal and disco. I thought nothing of it, but thought it odd and was disappointed that I didn’t get at least a goodnight text that night.

And so signalled the start of my justified suspicions. The rest is history… that eats at my very being every day that I breathe.

So this weekend, I think of Martin and Piggy, and of Ali. Piggy was a shit, but I will never for one second doubt his love for Martin. Ali was a shit who betrayed me in the worst possible way and left me bereft and so confused as to my belief in human relationships.

Thinking of the former though, I draw comfort from Martin and hope I can follow his example when it comes to strength and dignity. But for now, I’m still wishing that she’d have called me that night.

Sideways glances

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I spent most of today at my parents’ house. It was quite pleasant; the usual stresses of their bickering numbed by chronic sleepiness and a general feeling of “I’m feeling ok today” that’s missing for long periods. There was no real reason for me being there, I just fancied hanging out with them, doing nothing but enjoying the growing cantankerousness (if that’s a word) of their advancing years, fighting the losing battle of reason versus parents. Plus, I couldn’t be bothered cooking and the lamb stew my mum was planning on preparing appealed to me.

The little dog was with me. He likes the attention his adopted grandparents give him, but not quite as much as the pizza, pudding and biscuits they treat him with. The fee of a spectacular high-five performance on his part is little price to pay for junk food and cuddles.

My parents, the family, have always been cat people. Cats have been part of our lives since I was a young child. Only one feline family member remains today: Otto the one-eyed pyjama case. He’s very shy. I’d never realised this when I lived at home, but since moving out, I noticed how he’d run and hide when an unfamiliar voice came into the house. Needless to say, when Rocky announces his presence at the back door with much howling and barking, Otto scarpers.

And so this was the pattern for our visits there for the past five years… until recently. A few months ago, Otto developed a “stuff you, you insane bag of fur” attitude, resulting in him hanging around, in pyjama case mode on Mum’s knee, whenever I call round there. And Rocky is terrified of him, to the point that the little dog has developed owl-like head movements so he can keep track of the cat whenever he’s there.

So that’s good.

Tomorrow I’m back in the office. It’s a nice enough job that pays OK, but I’d much rather just hang out and absorb the insanity and comfort of my parents and animals. Tomorrow, I shall allow myself to be wound up by people queue jumping in the traffic jam to work, the mental assault by e-mail, and idiots using the lift to travel just one floor – all the time thinking about my Friday evening meal and the impending visit of the lovely April…

Manners, bitch

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Rain hit my windscreen as I sat in my usual queue of traffic this morning.  The left wiper scraped and juddered up, juddered down, juddered up, juddered down.  I hate this car.  I resent it.  It tortures me on intermittent wipe with its juddering wiper blade.

There’s always a queue there, and always, I take my place in it along with many others who just want to get through the fucking lights before they… just.. go.. no… it’s amber… don’t stop!  Before they change to red.  And there are the others who sail past us all and cut into the lane at the last minute. I never let them in.  I’d rather throw myself in front of their cars than let them jump the queue.  Today, however, was different.  Distracted by the juddering wiper blade and the unfamiliarity of the radio presenter, I wasn’t quick enough to prevent being cut up by some woman in an Audi.   She’s obviously a nasty piece of work who probably does vile things to small animals, you can tell the sort.  

I spent the next ten minutes behind her as we crawled forward towards the traffic lights.  Ten minutes in which she didn’t stop fannying around with her hair. I contemplated the consequences of ramming her really hard.  Obviously a dead car and possibly a conviction for me, but at least she wouldn’t have been messing about with her hair anymore.

What is it about the back of somebody’s head that induces such violent daydreams in me? Bad manners, generally. I have an imaginary skewer with which I’d like to make a very large human kebab on which perpetrators of crimes against me meet a slow death by cattleprod.  I can’t remember who’s on there specifically, but any ill-mannered, inconsiderate arsehole should be on the lookout for my metaphorical spike.

My thoughts of an apocalyptic outcome to my commute were broken when I discovered some soft mints that had gone hard over night.  They stuck to my teeth when I chewed them.  

Why do people make things that stick to your teeth?

It’s still raining.

 

The dog that snored

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This is an introductory piece that I write as I wait for sleep to take me this Sunday night Monday morning. I was exhausted for most of the day, but life pinged into my head at bedtime, as usual. Comme d’habitude, as the Frenchies would say. Sempre.

So, I try to sleep while my subconscious keeps me awake, trying to avoid the dreams that come most nights. Dreams where it’s all ok, dreams where the nightmare of the betrayal is relived. And alongside me, the snoring dog. My companion for the past five years. The one constant who I can rely on for bad smells in the house and car, embarrassment while on our walks, unpredictability with young children and strangers, destruction of my home, unconditional love.

I must try to sleep. I shall try to leave this with a touch of creativity; a photo of my smelly little companion who snores beside me. I can’t even figure out how to get rid of the bloody keypad..

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