Let Me At That Bull

Inevitably, it all came to a head, and last night was the time and the kitchen was the place. Maybe it's the mood I have been in since Sunday, but I was itching for a fight, or at least someone I could lump my tension upon, so when the opportunity arose I grabbed it and reeled it in.

After another reasonably uneventful and uninteresting day at work, I came home to find the kitchen trashed - well not trashed exactly, but not one of my sons had made any effort to clear up after they'd all prepared (it seemed) individual meals, each with at least two dozen ingredients, with each ingredient used but (if not completely used) not rehoused in either the fridge or the cupboard or wherever said ingredient originated from (and not from Tescos Online). I could have screamed and bawled and stamped my feet like someone trying to put out a linoleum fire but I felt too dog-tired and defeated. Instead I gathered up the post which has been liberally tossed across the kitchen table (at least someone had fetched it in from beneath the letterbox) and perused it.

There were three letters. One was to the former resident of the house, but looked like a circular, so I just ripped it up and tossed it into the re-cycling. The second was to me, and was a reminder that was subscription to Total Film was up, and if I cared to renew I would receive a box-set of three Stanley Kubrick films (A Clockwork Orange, 2001 A Space Odyssey and Full Metal Jacket) I already possess. The third was to ... Poppy.

No - no it wasn't. It was to me. It's just that a raindrop or two had splattered down on the poorly-printed envelope, and had merged some of the letters together. "Mr" had acquired a little squiggle that turned it into something just about halfway towards a "Mrs", and the bottom half of the "B" of my initial had been obliterated so it had become a very poor "P". If you looked hard enough, you could just have mistaken this as a letter for a "Mrs P" and not "Mr B".

I felt like a sit down so I had one. I looked about the kitchen, and started feeling crushingly alone. All I had in companionship was the steady, metronomic tick of the clock, and the pulsing and rhythmic throbbing of the fridge. Oh, and a the odd bump from upstairs signalling the teenage occupants of the second floor of my house.

Then I shot up out of the chair and was punching Sarah's number into the phone before I really had chance to get my head around what I was doing. I put the receiver to my ear, adopting the stance I'd assume a businessman would adopt when making a really important call that would guarantee him a seven hundred thousand grand a year pension for life even if every turd started hitting the fan.

Sarah answered, and I said with polite energy that it was Bryn, and diving straight into the converation I advised her that as I had I had no other plans for this weekend, would she be interested in me coming down to see her in Southampton?

There was a slight pause. Then Sarah said: Are you sure? It's a long way down here you know. And it's not the nicest car journey in the world.

So I told her Southampton was not exactly Beijing, and I'm sure I could amply stomach an hour or three of vehicular perambulation if it meant I could get to see her. Sarah seemed a little taken aback at this (for no reason I could readily understand), but then said with suitable chripiness that if I didn't mind the trip then she'd of course be more than willing to see me. When and where?

I said it'd probably be best for me if I nipped off earlier than usual from work then bombed down the M1 and got down there as soon as I could. As to the where, as I didn't know Southampton at all, that'd be up to her.

So Sarah said: I'll tell you what, as you're going to tired out after all that driving, I'll cook a meal, how does that sound? I said it sounded perfect; then hastened to end the call before the risque topic of my accomodation for the evening arose.

I put the phone down in infinitely better spirits than with which I had picked it up.

Such warm spirits lasted a few bare seconds before Andrew came down and asked if I'd seen his thin, dark green jumper as he couldn't find it anywhere. This was the opportunity I'd been waiting for - I said that I didn't know where it was, had he forgotten where he had taken it off? For someone so bright - I added - you seem to be very forgetful these days.

Andrew knew immediately where this was leading and what words said underneath the words I had actually spoken. He said (and I think, a little unbelievably) that he didn't want to talk about what obviously I wanted to talk about, so if we could both just left things unsaid and got back to normality it'd be probably best for all concerned.

So I called Andrew an arrogant little $hit and yelled a few other things around the selfishness of his attitude. I then got called selfish for the way I'd behaved over the past couple of days. So I countered by saying I think I deserved a couple of days off from never acting thinking about myself, which Andrew just laughed at and said: When do *you* ever think about anyone else but yourself?

I really felt like hitting him, but I refrained myself. The logical Andrew; such an unlogical mind when it suits him. So I asked if I was thinking about myself when I allowed Kevin to move in the house? Then I asked if I was thinking about myself when I didn't create a stink upon being portrayed as a violent, drunken father so Andrew could draw close to Mr Aldridge?

Andrew just gave me a killing look, then walked soundlessly away.

I was breathing heavily, but felt the best I had felt for several days.