The past few days have been all about relationships. In fact I seem to have a fairly broad panarama of relationships within my life at the moment.
- Relationships that are broken and in no need of fixing (Me and my father)
- Relationships that are broken and are in need of fixing and should be easy to fix(Gabriel and Lian)
- Relationships that have been fixed and are now trundling along quite pleasantly (Me and my brother)
- Relationships that have been recently established that seem to want to go somewhere but because of time and geographical constraints they seem to be actually going nowhere (Me and Sarah)
- Relationships that broke but may be fixed although I'd prefer them not to be (Andrew and Kevin)
- Relationships that broke (if they ever existed in the first place) that I'd definitely prefer not to be fixed and will make substantial strides to make sure that they are not fixed (Andrew and David)
- Relationships that are completely solid even though they involve one party cleaning up the faeces of the other on a daily basis (bit of a unique one, this - Me and Ripley)
- Relationships that had a wonderful and heartening reunion last night (Lukas and basketball).
Colin managed to get me to talk about that first relationship on the above list this morning. He apologised for giving my dad my number; which he'd done in a moment of forgetfulness. I asked him to ask dad not to ring that number, but Colin said he couldn't guarantee that. Colin said: He's finally started looking at acting his age, you know. I asked how Colin knew this and he said he went up to see him last week (which is quite a trek, all the way to Inverness) but didn't tell me as he thought (quite rightly) that I would not be interested. Colin continued: He's ignored his age too long, Bryn. All those years he pretended never happened have caught up with him; he's realised actually how old he is and it's really hit him and he's not coping with it well at all. I told Colin I couldn't find it in my heart to care. Colin asked me would I care once the bloke is dead? I told him that I thought it unlikely.
Gabriel's ear is not looking very attractive. It bled overnight and he woke up looking like an extra in Apocolypse Now. I helped him wash all the blood off and it started bleeding again but not too badly, so I've stuck a plaster over it and we're hoping it'll sort itself out. I asked Gabe if he still had his ear-ring and he confirmed he had. Then I asked what he was going to do about Lian and he said he didn't know. They spent all day at school yesterday forcibly ignoring each other. I asked if he wanted her back as his girlfriend and he said that he did, so I told him he would have to apologise and see how things went from there. The longer you leave it, I advised him, the more difficult it'll become and the more distant from her you'll become. The more time you spend apart the harder it'll be for you to be able to patch things up. Gabriel said that she should be apologising to me but I told him that it was not going to work like that. I'm leaving it up to the pair of them to sort things out. If they both want it to be sorted out, that is.
I had a quick look around the internet last night for how people in Myanmar celebrate birthdays but Google largely came up blank. Found out though that in nearby Thailand the custom is for the birthday person to be the giver of gifts, rather than the receiver, so some of my original thoughts were very much along the right lines. Nothing definite so far on Myanmar though - I have another Detective Dad session tonight. If I can find out more it may give Gabe something further to think about when considering if he should apologise or not. No matter what I think of Lian (I'm perched on the Lian fence) she's a positive influence on Gabriel's emptions, which is good - if somewhat selfish - news for all of us.
Someone who has a positive influence on my own emotions is of course Sarah, although she's not having as much of an influence on my emotions currently as I'd like her to have. She phoned me last night and casual chattage ensued. Ruth has settled down after the weekend fun, and negociations with Daniel established the reasons behind her fleet feet at the weekend and an understanding. More efforts are to be made to intergrate Ruth into the new side of Daniel's family rather than just lumping them together.
I'm not sure where this alleged relationship with Sarah is going, if anywhere. When we said our goodbyes we'd made absolutely no arrangements to actually see each other again. I think if either of us tried to, the question of the distance between us may arise and that tenuous link between us may shatter. I think we're being too polite with each other - for A to come to B, A would have to endure a three hundred mile trip and six hours of their lives (or more); it's a tough thing to ask for. I need (yet again) to push myself and get my widening butt down to the coast. The further time that expands between now and the last time I saw Sarah, the less interested in her I become, but I think that is down to pure laziness on my part.
To end on a positive, Gabe's poor mood of yesterday meant no issues in getting Lukas back to basketball, as there was no need to ferry Gabe in the opposite direction to the Martial Arts academy. How strange it felt walking through those familar doors at the leisure centre after a three month break; helping Lukas get changed in the man-sweat-drenched changing rooms and seeing him sport that comically oversized green jersey. Typically, he didn't score a single basket, but made the usual menace of himself over every blade of grass on the court. His soaked face - in sweat and joy - when his game was over (the Lizards lost) was something wonderful to behold.
No real plans for the weekend other than thwarting my son's reluctance to visit Poppy's memorial on Mothering Sunday.
Friday, 20 March 2009
Thursday, 19 March 2009
Time To Say Sorry
Happily enough, I managed to get to see Gabriel on his birthday, but not on the most pleasant of territories.
It was one of those 'first step through the door' moments. As I mentioned yesterday, I was not expecting much in the way of birthday celebrations for MiddleSon; at least not within my household - at Lian's it would presumably be a different matter. But this was not the case. Andrew collared me as I was removing my scarf and coat and said he thought I'd better have a word with Gabriel, as he'd barricaded himself inside his room as soon as he'd come home. I placed my coat carefully on the hooks by the kitchen door, then took the dozen or so steps up to Gabriel's room.
I didn't bother knocking on his door, or trying the handle - I am sure Andrew would not be likely to misrepresenting the situation as this is of course not the first time Gabriel has not chosen solitary self-enforced confinement as a method of dealing with something. I put my ear slightly towards the door so see if I could here anything, but nothing. So I said, Gabriel?
Still nothing - although maybe I heard a sniff; not sure. So I cleared my throat and said Andrew says you seem upset, can I talk to you about it?
In the past it's taken several attempts for me to break down Gabe's Leave-me-alone-cos-I'm upset resistance, but today it took barely a whimper before I heard sounds inside his room indicating his furniture being moved around. Then his door croaked upon a few inches. I wondered if he was about to come out, but when he didn't appear I recognised the door opening as an unspoken invitation towards entry. So in I went.
Gabe had re-seated himself on the floor with his head against the bed. His upset was obvious; his eyes were swollen and his cheeks were glisteningly red. There was also a trail of blood down the side of his face, starting around his right ear.
I parked myself down beside him, and said: Lian?
Gabriel sniffed again, then nodded, brushing some hair out of his eyes. I asked him why he had barricaded himself inside his room as I thought he was too mature now for such tactics. He said he didn't want either Andrew or Lukas to see him in this state. I could quite empathsise with this - when I began exploring girls at fourteen Colin's eleven-year-old-boy-pain-in-the-ass quotient exploded exponentially.
I went on to ask Gabe what had occurred. He said he'd had a row with Lian that morning and that she'd finished with him. I asked what the row was about and Gabe told me it was because Lian hadn't got him anything for his birthday. Gabe said: I said I got angry and tried to pull my earring out but it wouldn't come out so I made my ear bleed. The blood on his face looked quite recent, which I pointed out. Gabe said he'd tried to clean himself up once he was home but the ear just started bleeding again. I glanced at it and told him it'd probably be best to leave it alone for the rest of the evening.
Then I said did Lian say why she didn't get you anything for your birthday? Gabe said she didn't really say anything. Then he admitted he didn't really give her chance to say anything.
I asked if Lian had ever asked what Gabriel would want for his birthday. Gabe shook his head then said she never said a thing. I sort of guessed she wasn't that interested, but I still expected her to get me something. But she didn't get me a thing. Then when I got angry, she said she didn't want me to be her boyfriend any more - that's when I tried to rip my earring out. People started laughing at me then I started getting really mad and getting mad made me cry and more people started laughing at me so I ran off. I haven't seen her since then.
So I said to Gabriel: Did you ever consider looking up how birthdays are celebrated in Myanmar? Gabe looked at me with a puzzled-little-boy expression, then asked me what I meant. So I went on: I know Lian was born in this country, but from what little I've learnt about her and her family they still maintain their cultural standards around Myanmar rather then here. Gabriel said I still don't understand you, so I said Lian still does things as if she was living in Myanmar, and not in England.
Gabe said: What's that got to do with her not getting me a birthday present? So I explained: What do you know about the way they celebrate birthdays in Myanmar? Pressie-giving is a very capitalist thing, you know. You've no idea what Lian thought she was supposed to do. If she's never received presents herself on her birthday, she'd hardly likely to think of getting you one on yours. For all you know, she might have been expecting you to get her a present. That might be what they do in Myanmar, I don't know, I've not really a clue. I think you've been very rash and I'm sorry to say you're paying the consequences. I'm sorry, but it's just lazy thinking if you consider every culture does things the same way.
Gabriel's face began to redden further. He said: So you're saying I should have gotten her a present? I said not necessarily, but I think you should have checked first with, say, Maung, of what happens on birthdays in Myanmarese culture. You've just assumed things happen in the same manner they happen in Western culture and hence you're in a mess.
Gabe took in a huge lungful of bedroom funk then let it out slowly. Then said, okay, what do I do?
I told him I didn't really know, other than apologise. Gabriel frowned and said why should I apologise? I don't even know if I've done anything wrong - what would I be apologising for? So I told him: When it comes to women and apologising, it doesn't really matter if you've done anything wrong. Just say sorry and I'm sure they'll think of *something* you've done wrong.
It was one of those 'first step through the door' moments. As I mentioned yesterday, I was not expecting much in the way of birthday celebrations for MiddleSon; at least not within my household - at Lian's it would presumably be a different matter. But this was not the case. Andrew collared me as I was removing my scarf and coat and said he thought I'd better have a word with Gabriel, as he'd barricaded himself inside his room as soon as he'd come home. I placed my coat carefully on the hooks by the kitchen door, then took the dozen or so steps up to Gabriel's room.
I didn't bother knocking on his door, or trying the handle - I am sure Andrew would not be likely to misrepresenting the situation as this is of course not the first time Gabriel has not chosen solitary self-enforced confinement as a method of dealing with something. I put my ear slightly towards the door so see if I could here anything, but nothing. So I said, Gabriel?
Still nothing - although maybe I heard a sniff; not sure. So I cleared my throat and said Andrew says you seem upset, can I talk to you about it?
In the past it's taken several attempts for me to break down Gabe's Leave-me-alone-cos-I'm upset resistance, but today it took barely a whimper before I heard sounds inside his room indicating his furniture being moved around. Then his door croaked upon a few inches. I wondered if he was about to come out, but when he didn't appear I recognised the door opening as an unspoken invitation towards entry. So in I went.
Gabe had re-seated himself on the floor with his head against the bed. His upset was obvious; his eyes were swollen and his cheeks were glisteningly red. There was also a trail of blood down the side of his face, starting around his right ear.
I parked myself down beside him, and said: Lian?
Gabriel sniffed again, then nodded, brushing some hair out of his eyes. I asked him why he had barricaded himself inside his room as I thought he was too mature now for such tactics. He said he didn't want either Andrew or Lukas to see him in this state. I could quite empathsise with this - when I began exploring girls at fourteen Colin's eleven-year-old-boy-pain-in-the-ass quotient exploded exponentially.
I went on to ask Gabe what had occurred. He said he'd had a row with Lian that morning and that she'd finished with him. I asked what the row was about and Gabe told me it was because Lian hadn't got him anything for his birthday. Gabe said: I said I got angry and tried to pull my earring out but it wouldn't come out so I made my ear bleed. The blood on his face looked quite recent, which I pointed out. Gabe said he'd tried to clean himself up once he was home but the ear just started bleeding again. I glanced at it and told him it'd probably be best to leave it alone for the rest of the evening.
Then I said did Lian say why she didn't get you anything for your birthday? Gabe said she didn't really say anything. Then he admitted he didn't really give her chance to say anything.
I asked if Lian had ever asked what Gabriel would want for his birthday. Gabe shook his head then said she never said a thing. I sort of guessed she wasn't that interested, but I still expected her to get me something. But she didn't get me a thing. Then when I got angry, she said she didn't want me to be her boyfriend any more - that's when I tried to rip my earring out. People started laughing at me then I started getting really mad and getting mad made me cry and more people started laughing at me so I ran off. I haven't seen her since then.
So I said to Gabriel: Did you ever consider looking up how birthdays are celebrated in Myanmar? Gabe looked at me with a puzzled-little-boy expression, then asked me what I meant. So I went on: I know Lian was born in this country, but from what little I've learnt about her and her family they still maintain their cultural standards around Myanmar rather then here. Gabriel said I still don't understand you, so I said Lian still does things as if she was living in Myanmar, and not in England.
Gabe said: What's that got to do with her not getting me a birthday present? So I explained: What do you know about the way they celebrate birthdays in Myanmar? Pressie-giving is a very capitalist thing, you know. You've no idea what Lian thought she was supposed to do. If she's never received presents herself on her birthday, she'd hardly likely to think of getting you one on yours. For all you know, she might have been expecting you to get her a present. That might be what they do in Myanmar, I don't know, I've not really a clue. I think you've been very rash and I'm sorry to say you're paying the consequences. I'm sorry, but it's just lazy thinking if you consider every culture does things the same way.
Gabriel's face began to redden further. He said: So you're saying I should have gotten her a present? I said not necessarily, but I think you should have checked first with, say, Maung, of what happens on birthdays in Myanmarese culture. You've just assumed things happen in the same manner they happen in Western culture and hence you're in a mess.
Gabe took in a huge lungful of bedroom funk then let it out slowly. Then said, okay, what do I do?
I told him I didn't really know, other than apologise. Gabriel frowned and said why should I apologise? I don't even know if I've done anything wrong - what would I be apologising for? So I told him: When it comes to women and apologising, it doesn't really matter if you've done anything wrong. Just say sorry and I'm sure they'll think of *something* you've done wrong.
Wednesday, 18 March 2009
Give Us Yer F**king Money
I've had my fair share of aggressive cold-callers in my time (including one numpty from Virgin Credit Cards who somehow thought he'd managed to ascertain my complete credit-worthiness via a thirty-second chat then liberally chastised me for when I expressed my desire to decline to take out payment insurance for my credit-card balance) but yesterday's really nicked the garibaldi.
He'd almost had me hypnotised with his speel. True, alarms bells were warming up as he went on and on, speaking in a unique form of English that contains no spaces or pauses between individual word, and off these alarm bells sounded once the word 'andnowsirifyou'djusttellmeyoursortcodeandbankaccountnumber' spilled down the phone at me.
And the strange thing was, he rang - or at least he claimed to ring - from Cancer Research UK. Naturally, when a charity cold calls you it'd be slightly rude to ignore them, so I listened to what he had to say. He'd gotten my details via a sponsored walk I'd done with Lukas some years ago now (at least three), and went on to talk about the marvelous advances that had been made in cancer research in recent months. He had me interested and enthralled, a little.
Then he moved on to asking me whether I'd be willing to set up a regular payment from my bank account of £10 to the cause. Even though this tickled my suspicious, I said I would. He went a little overboard in his thanks and then made that pertinent request: For my precious account number and sort code.
So I said I would be unwilling to do that, but I would instead go to the Cancer Research UK web-site and set up my regular donation via that method. I would have thought - having gained my support - it would have been enough for him. But this wasn't the case; he started blurting on about administration costs (whilst ignoring the obvious plot-hole about the administration costs of cold-calling people) and tax implications and the government taking some of my dosh.
After a few further moments of chest-beating my suspiciousometer reached max and I put the phone down on him, convinced now I was being played as a potential sucker.
I immediately phoned Cancer Research UK via a number on their web-site and informed an interested lady that I had suspicions that someone was perhaps using their goodwill and data and attempting to dubiously get funds off potential supporters. This lady immediately adopted a slightly weary tome and explained that the person calling me was very probably genuine as that was something Cancer Research UK have recently taken to doing public donations have been dropping rapidly sue to the current financial woes of the capitalist world. I said that I didn't think this too good an idea. The lady said she could place a mark on their database indicating I didn't wish to be called in this manner. I said I'd like that to happen and the call ended.
This mark obviously didn't occur with immediate effect as Mr Aggressive called me back, apologising for being cut off earlier. I stopped him dead in his tracks, reiterating that I was going to set up my payment via the web-site, that I did not wished to be harrassed in this way, and that I thought this an irresponsible and slightly dubious tactic. He began to bark at me so I just shouted over him that I was not going to argue with him and put the phone down.
He didn't ring back.
I am right, aren't I? That this is irresponsible? I can imagine someone less suspicious than me handing over their details to the charity and then when everything goes through hunky-dory-like, the next time they get a request for their account details (possibly for some Nigerian businessman to launder a couple of billion pounds into the UK for the estate of some recently-deceased distant relative) they may be that little bit more willing to be a little bit more naive?
Whatever - it's just my opinion. I didn't set up the direct debit but I will. Probably.
The brewing Colin v Bryn verbal boxing match is still yet to explode. I know this is pushing aside something that is inevitable but I'm not in the mood just yet. Today is a good day (Gabe's 14th) so I've no desire to allow dampeners to be placed upon it. I've already had a fruitless day of meetings. One guy in my last meeting called the queries I've placed over his specifications as 'you being pedantic' - unexpectedly Peter Handyman jumped in before I became enraged and smacked this upstart down. He said: I am sure Bryn has far more pertinent reasons why he has raised these queries against your designs other than being pedantic and you will take notice of them and you will re-submit your specifications and Bryn will review them again, Understand?
Wow.
And so today marks the fourteenth anniversary of my second little screaming bundle of joy adding one to the world's population. And we didn't give him the best of starts in bequeathing him the instant weight around his shoulders of being called 'Gabriel', but I can blame Poppy for that, and thank her family friend or aunt (I cannot remember which) 'Gabrielle'.
Hardly noble I know but I'd asked Gabe several times what he would like as a present but had grown tired of his usual answer of dunno, just give us the money. So I got him a card, stuck twenty quid in it and left it on his bed this morning just before I left for work (as middle-son was in the shower at the time).
I may see him tonight, and I may not. Probably may not. Thankfully I'm perfectly at ease at no longer being the most important person in his life. I cannot compete with someone who has breasts. Okay, so I have breasts, but I'm not suppose to have!
He'd almost had me hypnotised with his speel. True, alarms bells were warming up as he went on and on, speaking in a unique form of English that contains no spaces or pauses between individual word, and off these alarm bells sounded once the word 'andnowsirifyou'djusttellmeyoursortcodeandbankaccountnumber' spilled down the phone at me.
And the strange thing was, he rang - or at least he claimed to ring - from Cancer Research UK. Naturally, when a charity cold calls you it'd be slightly rude to ignore them, so I listened to what he had to say. He'd gotten my details via a sponsored walk I'd done with Lukas some years ago now (at least three), and went on to talk about the marvelous advances that had been made in cancer research in recent months. He had me interested and enthralled, a little.
Then he moved on to asking me whether I'd be willing to set up a regular payment from my bank account of £10 to the cause. Even though this tickled my suspicious, I said I would. He went a little overboard in his thanks and then made that pertinent request: For my precious account number and sort code.
So I said I would be unwilling to do that, but I would instead go to the Cancer Research UK web-site and set up my regular donation via that method. I would have thought - having gained my support - it would have been enough for him. But this wasn't the case; he started blurting on about administration costs (whilst ignoring the obvious plot-hole about the administration costs of cold-calling people) and tax implications and the government taking some of my dosh.
After a few further moments of chest-beating my suspiciousometer reached max and I put the phone down on him, convinced now I was being played as a potential sucker.
I immediately phoned Cancer Research UK via a number on their web-site and informed an interested lady that I had suspicions that someone was perhaps using their goodwill and data and attempting to dubiously get funds off potential supporters. This lady immediately adopted a slightly weary tome and explained that the person calling me was very probably genuine as that was something Cancer Research UK have recently taken to doing public donations have been dropping rapidly sue to the current financial woes of the capitalist world. I said that I didn't think this too good an idea. The lady said she could place a mark on their database indicating I didn't wish to be called in this manner. I said I'd like that to happen and the call ended.
This mark obviously didn't occur with immediate effect as Mr Aggressive called me back, apologising for being cut off earlier. I stopped him dead in his tracks, reiterating that I was going to set up my payment via the web-site, that I did not wished to be harrassed in this way, and that I thought this an irresponsible and slightly dubious tactic. He began to bark at me so I just shouted over him that I was not going to argue with him and put the phone down.
He didn't ring back.
I am right, aren't I? That this is irresponsible? I can imagine someone less suspicious than me handing over their details to the charity and then when everything goes through hunky-dory-like, the next time they get a request for their account details (possibly for some Nigerian businessman to launder a couple of billion pounds into the UK for the estate of some recently-deceased distant relative) they may be that little bit more willing to be a little bit more naive?
Whatever - it's just my opinion. I didn't set up the direct debit but I will. Probably.
The brewing Colin v Bryn verbal boxing match is still yet to explode. I know this is pushing aside something that is inevitable but I'm not in the mood just yet. Today is a good day (Gabe's 14th) so I've no desire to allow dampeners to be placed upon it. I've already had a fruitless day of meetings. One guy in my last meeting called the queries I've placed over his specifications as 'you being pedantic' - unexpectedly Peter Handyman jumped in before I became enraged and smacked this upstart down. He said: I am sure Bryn has far more pertinent reasons why he has raised these queries against your designs other than being pedantic and you will take notice of them and you will re-submit your specifications and Bryn will review them again, Understand?
Wow.
And so today marks the fourteenth anniversary of my second little screaming bundle of joy adding one to the world's population. And we didn't give him the best of starts in bequeathing him the instant weight around his shoulders of being called 'Gabriel', but I can blame Poppy for that, and thank her family friend or aunt (I cannot remember which) 'Gabrielle'.
Hardly noble I know but I'd asked Gabe several times what he would like as a present but had grown tired of his usual answer of dunno, just give us the money. So I got him a card, stuck twenty quid in it and left it on his bed this morning just before I left for work (as middle-son was in the shower at the time).
I may see him tonight, and I may not. Probably may not. Thankfully I'm perfectly at ease at no longer being the most important person in his life. I cannot compete with someone who has breasts. Okay, so I have breasts, but I'm not suppose to have!
Tuesday, 17 March 2009
One Word Too Many
I've never been able to deal with the tensions that exist between two parties when some grievance has arisen between them, hence dirtying the air and making an argument or at the very least a warm discussion between them. I experienced this several times with Poppy - at many stages of our marriage on a daily basis. Eventually we both learnt that it aided the continuation of our sanity(s) if we slept whenever a disagreement arose, then awoke in the morning and ignored that such a disagreement ever happened. This only worked for the petty ones of course. The more major ones often required the services of a United Nations negociation to lessen the chances of a major world incident breaking out. Such as my reluctance to embrace fatherhood once Andrew flopped out of Poppy's womb and put my childhood things to one side. If she could see me now - having had fatherhood (and sole fatherhood) thrust upon threefold there's hardly anything of me left that isn't a father. I wonder if she'd approve? I doubt it - she'd find some chink of a fault somewhere. There was only ever room in the Universe for one perfect being as far as Poppy was concerned and of course that was the role she selflessly devoted herself to. Until *that* gene kicked in and started eating her brain. Then everything changed.
Back to the future. My current dilemma is with my brother, who - having obviously given my home phone number to my dad - has allowed accidentally the first word spoken between myself and my father to pass between us for well over a decade. And I ain't exactly feeling chipper about it. You can think of me what you want - I'd thoroughly both hoped and expected my dad to die without me ever speaking to him, seeing him or even acknowledging him as my father. I am a forgiving person most of the time, but some positions in your family and their associated responsibilities mean some acts - if perpetrated - cannot so easily be forgiven and forgotten.
Am I over-reacting? It was just a word. One word. And I didn't even have to say anything in response to picking up the phone, so it's not wholly not my fault. But just hearing his voice felt like the punch that killed Houdini. And for added power there was the additional consideration that the person I expected to be on the other end of the phone was someone I wanted to talk to a great deal; instead I got the one person I wouldn't speak unless you threatened one of my children with torture. That's what makes it so outrageous.
Colin has tried to broach the subject of this with me a couple of times but each time I've smacked him down with a dedicated affirmation that I've no willingness to discuss it. There are questions I have that I need answers to but at the moment I do not want to ask them. The highest in priority being why Colin saw any reason for him to give my dad my home phone number. He cannot pretend that he does not know how I feel about my dad and him having any association with me or my children. It was a stupid and thoughtless thing to do.
Moving on...
Of course I am not the only one having family problems; and I can add Sarah as a member of that club. She's having problems with Ruth, based around Daniel's girlfriend and *her* children. Daniel only has Ruth every other weekend, but since Christmas Ruth has shown a reluctance to go to her dad's because of the way his girlfriend's children treat her. I learnt all this when Sarah called me last night.
I asked if these children were the kind seemingly possessed by demons. Sarah paused a little and said she'd only met them once and they seemed okay - if disinterested, clinging and blank-faced qualifies as okay. She explained that Ruth is not the kind of girl that takes any form of ribbing or sarcasm or name-calling well. She's not a bully-victim, Sarah went on - She has an expected number of friends and seems to be warmly enthusisatic about school and there are no problems; or at least none that Sarah is aware of. But she likes to hang around with "nice girls" and runs a mile if any with more dubious intentions happen along.
I told her I could be of no help whatsoever as the father of three boys. Sarah went on to chat about them a little while. I updated her about Gabriel and Lian (not that there seems to be much to update there), then she said she was surprised Andrew had not gotten himself a girlfriend yet as from the photos I'd shown of him he looked quite a catch. This formed furrows in my brow until I realised I'd never let on about Andrew's preference for boys. It never occurs to me to - Andrew is homosexual and homosexuality is Andrew; it's nothing to pay special attention to. Unless he dates either ne'erthewells or his former teachers...
Back to Ruth, Sarah said that Ruth doesn't like going to her dad's because he now lives on the edges of Portsmouth meaning that when she visits she's well out of any sort of familiar environment, and she doesn't like to spend time away from her friends. So she may just be using the kids-from-hell excuse to create a stink. I laughed a little and said it's good to know I'm not the only parent in the world with manipulative children. Sarah laughed as well, so that was good.
Then I got a telling off for having not previously told Sarah that tomorrow is Gabriel's fourteenth birthday. She said she would have sent at least a card if she'd have known. I apologised and said his birthday seemed to have crept up on me (as do all events these days) and he hasn't made a fuss and doesn't like one.
We talk more without really talking about anything and then we mutually ended the call. I like conversations like that.
So, another big day tomorrow: Gabe's 14th. And yes, yet again, it makes me feel old.
Back to the future. My current dilemma is with my brother, who - having obviously given my home phone number to my dad - has allowed accidentally the first word spoken between myself and my father to pass between us for well over a decade. And I ain't exactly feeling chipper about it. You can think of me what you want - I'd thoroughly both hoped and expected my dad to die without me ever speaking to him, seeing him or even acknowledging him as my father. I am a forgiving person most of the time, but some positions in your family and their associated responsibilities mean some acts - if perpetrated - cannot so easily be forgiven and forgotten.
Am I over-reacting? It was just a word. One word. And I didn't even have to say anything in response to picking up the phone, so it's not wholly not my fault. But just hearing his voice felt like the punch that killed Houdini. And for added power there was the additional consideration that the person I expected to be on the other end of the phone was someone I wanted to talk to a great deal; instead I got the one person I wouldn't speak unless you threatened one of my children with torture. That's what makes it so outrageous.
Colin has tried to broach the subject of this with me a couple of times but each time I've smacked him down with a dedicated affirmation that I've no willingness to discuss it. There are questions I have that I need answers to but at the moment I do not want to ask them. The highest in priority being why Colin saw any reason for him to give my dad my home phone number. He cannot pretend that he does not know how I feel about my dad and him having any association with me or my children. It was a stupid and thoughtless thing to do.
Moving on...
Of course I am not the only one having family problems; and I can add Sarah as a member of that club. She's having problems with Ruth, based around Daniel's girlfriend and *her* children. Daniel only has Ruth every other weekend, but since Christmas Ruth has shown a reluctance to go to her dad's because of the way his girlfriend's children treat her. I learnt all this when Sarah called me last night.
I asked if these children were the kind seemingly possessed by demons. Sarah paused a little and said she'd only met them once and they seemed okay - if disinterested, clinging and blank-faced qualifies as okay. She explained that Ruth is not the kind of girl that takes any form of ribbing or sarcasm or name-calling well. She's not a bully-victim, Sarah went on - She has an expected number of friends and seems to be warmly enthusisatic about school and there are no problems; or at least none that Sarah is aware of. But she likes to hang around with "nice girls" and runs a mile if any with more dubious intentions happen along.
I told her I could be of no help whatsoever as the father of three boys. Sarah went on to chat about them a little while. I updated her about Gabriel and Lian (not that there seems to be much to update there), then she said she was surprised Andrew had not gotten himself a girlfriend yet as from the photos I'd shown of him he looked quite a catch. This formed furrows in my brow until I realised I'd never let on about Andrew's preference for boys. It never occurs to me to - Andrew is homosexual and homosexuality is Andrew; it's nothing to pay special attention to. Unless he dates either ne'erthewells or his former teachers...
Back to Ruth, Sarah said that Ruth doesn't like going to her dad's because he now lives on the edges of Portsmouth meaning that when she visits she's well out of any sort of familiar environment, and she doesn't like to spend time away from her friends. So she may just be using the kids-from-hell excuse to create a stink. I laughed a little and said it's good to know I'm not the only parent in the world with manipulative children. Sarah laughed as well, so that was good.
Then I got a telling off for having not previously told Sarah that tomorrow is Gabriel's fourteenth birthday. She said she would have sent at least a card if she'd have known. I apologised and said his birthday seemed to have crept up on me (as do all events these days) and he hasn't made a fuss and doesn't like one.
We talk more without really talking about anything and then we mutually ended the call. I like conversations like that.
So, another big day tomorrow: Gabe's 14th. And yes, yet again, it makes me feel old.
Monday, 16 March 2009
Unwanted Encounters
I am beginning to hope that my chances of the kind of relationship I'd like with Sarah are not as elusive as she seems to be. I tried four times to ring her on Saturday, each time being rewarded with a ringing that went on longer than The Last Of The Summer Wine. Upon the third attempt I tried ringing her mobile (I didn't try that method immediately as I didn't want to appear completely desperate) but that came back dead and switched off.
This annoyed me intensely, initially. I would not think it would be too much to expect that a person who has requested you call them be available to receive your call - not to be available borders on rudeness. But this emotional state lasted bare seconds (on each occasion - although by the fourth occasion this period has extended to beyond a minute) until I came back to sanity with an understanding that there'd probably be a perfectly forgivable reason for Sarah's unavailability.
So I went to bed on Saturday with a tendril of unfinished business flapping about. Thankfully I was tired so my thought processes failed to remain fixed upon this minor issue for any notable length, and I wafted gently into unconsciousness with swift effect.
I chose to leave this business unfinished for much of Sunday, as I was in a practical mood and the fairness of the weather saw me outside performing a few minor jobs that winter had seen me procrastinate about. Then once inside I donned my curlers and housecoat and set about the necessary household chores and even lumping in a handful of unnecessary ones. That's me and housework - I'm never keen to embrace such tasks but once I seem to get going I find difficulty in stopping.
Then came dinner and the Poppy Memorial discussion and Colin swearing and Andrew stomping off. Oh and Wales beat Italy; which probably was totally expected (although I do know enough about Rugby to know that Wales are probably much better than Italy).
Finally, once the dishwasher was loaded and the boys were upstairs and Colin was back absorbed in the Rugby and I had a very small measure of Glen Ord in my hand (it being Sunday) I sat down at the kitchen table and punched Sarah's number into the phone one further time.
And finally it got answered. And finally, it was Sarah! She was profuse and genuine in her apologies for not being available, and indeed her explanation was perfectly reasonable and somewhat alarming. She'd tried to drop Ruth off at Daniel's (her former husband's house) at six o'clock as arranged only to find Daniel not home, so she drove all the way home only to be immediately phoned and sworn at to a major degree by Daniel who said he'd been delayed at work and that Sarah should have waited (a whole hour sat outside his house!?) until he'd got home and by not doing so was trying to stop Daniel from seeing his daughter. Sarah offered a timetable re-arrangement but this was deemed unsuitable for Daniel's needs who remained adamant that she bring Ruth over now. So she drove Ruth back and handed her over. Then on Saturday she'd gotten a tearful call from Ruth saying that she'd run off from her dad's house as Daniel's girlfriend's children were being nasty to her so Sarah drove back to where Ruth had told her she'd run off to to pick Ruth up and take her back to Daniel's where they'd all had a heated talk for far too long, the upshot of which being Ruth came back to Sarah's. This was at half-ten last night by which time understandably Sarah was slightly frazzled and just wanted to tunnel into bed and go to sleep.
Once she'd gotten all this out she asked how I was. I told her I was okay, and then (for want of anything better to talk about) I told her about my request of my boys to visit Poppy's memorial and their reluctance to do so. Sarah said: I suppose they've all dealt with losing their mum in their own ways, and perhaps are a little scared of taking some steps back in acknowledging that aspect of their pasts. I said I didn't think it ran as deep as that, I just thought all three of them could not really be bothered. Sarah asked if I was bothered. I told her not overly, but it felt the right thing to do. I then moved the conversation on from what was too morbid a subject.
Sarah asked how I was getting on with my Lent resolve. I told her I was sticking to it. I didn't tell her that last Thursday I'd completely forgotten about it and had eaten a ham sandwich for lunch.
Then I heard a doorbell go at Sarah's end. She asked me to wait and I did so. And when she came back to the phone I immediately heard how flustered she sounded. She told me that Daniel had just turned up on her doorstep demanding to talk to her, and that she'd ring me back once he'd gone. I'd barely time to say okay and bye.
I topped up my drink and began to re-read Saturday's Guardian. Barely fifteen passed before the phone rang, so I picked it up and said Hello with (what turned out to be un-) suitable brightness.
Colin? said an old and sadly still familiar voice. I seemed to have swallowed a grapefruit as I suddenly could feel one in my throat. I croaked out a 'No' then put the phone down and stepped away from it and into the lounge. Colin seemed to be in a Sunday-afternoon daze on the sofa, so I shook him back to full consciousness and told him he had a call. As he blinked back to full awareness he asked who from and very coldly, I said: Dad. I watched as Colin's face paled then he hurriedly vanished into the kitchen, shutting the door.
Fifteen minutes later he emerged from the kitchen, wanting to talk to me, but I told him not to speak to me.
And with grim inevitability, Sarah never rang back.
This annoyed me intensely, initially. I would not think it would be too much to expect that a person who has requested you call them be available to receive your call - not to be available borders on rudeness. But this emotional state lasted bare seconds (on each occasion - although by the fourth occasion this period has extended to beyond a minute) until I came back to sanity with an understanding that there'd probably be a perfectly forgivable reason for Sarah's unavailability.
So I went to bed on Saturday with a tendril of unfinished business flapping about. Thankfully I was tired so my thought processes failed to remain fixed upon this minor issue for any notable length, and I wafted gently into unconsciousness with swift effect.
I chose to leave this business unfinished for much of Sunday, as I was in a practical mood and the fairness of the weather saw me outside performing a few minor jobs that winter had seen me procrastinate about. Then once inside I donned my curlers and housecoat and set about the necessary household chores and even lumping in a handful of unnecessary ones. That's me and housework - I'm never keen to embrace such tasks but once I seem to get going I find difficulty in stopping.
Then came dinner and the Poppy Memorial discussion and Colin swearing and Andrew stomping off. Oh and Wales beat Italy; which probably was totally expected (although I do know enough about Rugby to know that Wales are probably much better than Italy).
Finally, once the dishwasher was loaded and the boys were upstairs and Colin was back absorbed in the Rugby and I had a very small measure of Glen Ord in my hand (it being Sunday) I sat down at the kitchen table and punched Sarah's number into the phone one further time.
And finally it got answered. And finally, it was Sarah! She was profuse and genuine in her apologies for not being available, and indeed her explanation was perfectly reasonable and somewhat alarming. She'd tried to drop Ruth off at Daniel's (her former husband's house) at six o'clock as arranged only to find Daniel not home, so she drove all the way home only to be immediately phoned and sworn at to a major degree by Daniel who said he'd been delayed at work and that Sarah should have waited (a whole hour sat outside his house!?) until he'd got home and by not doing so was trying to stop Daniel from seeing his daughter. Sarah offered a timetable re-arrangement but this was deemed unsuitable for Daniel's needs who remained adamant that she bring Ruth over now. So she drove Ruth back and handed her over. Then on Saturday she'd gotten a tearful call from Ruth saying that she'd run off from her dad's house as Daniel's girlfriend's children were being nasty to her so Sarah drove back to where Ruth had told her she'd run off to to pick Ruth up and take her back to Daniel's where they'd all had a heated talk for far too long, the upshot of which being Ruth came back to Sarah's. This was at half-ten last night by which time understandably Sarah was slightly frazzled and just wanted to tunnel into bed and go to sleep.
Once she'd gotten all this out she asked how I was. I told her I was okay, and then (for want of anything better to talk about) I told her about my request of my boys to visit Poppy's memorial and their reluctance to do so. Sarah said: I suppose they've all dealt with losing their mum in their own ways, and perhaps are a little scared of taking some steps back in acknowledging that aspect of their pasts. I said I didn't think it ran as deep as that, I just thought all three of them could not really be bothered. Sarah asked if I was bothered. I told her not overly, but it felt the right thing to do. I then moved the conversation on from what was too morbid a subject.
Sarah asked how I was getting on with my Lent resolve. I told her I was sticking to it. I didn't tell her that last Thursday I'd completely forgotten about it and had eaten a ham sandwich for lunch.
Then I heard a doorbell go at Sarah's end. She asked me to wait and I did so. And when she came back to the phone I immediately heard how flustered she sounded. She told me that Daniel had just turned up on her doorstep demanding to talk to her, and that she'd ring me back once he'd gone. I'd barely time to say okay and bye.
I topped up my drink and began to re-read Saturday's Guardian. Barely fifteen passed before the phone rang, so I picked it up and said Hello with (what turned out to be un-) suitable brightness.
Colin? said an old and sadly still familiar voice. I seemed to have swallowed a grapefruit as I suddenly could feel one in my throat. I croaked out a 'No' then put the phone down and stepped away from it and into the lounge. Colin seemed to be in a Sunday-afternoon daze on the sofa, so I shook him back to full consciousness and told him he had a call. As he blinked back to full awareness he asked who from and very coldly, I said: Dad. I watched as Colin's face paled then he hurriedly vanished into the kitchen, shutting the door.
Fifteen minutes later he emerged from the kitchen, wanting to talk to me, but I told him not to speak to me.
And with grim inevitability, Sarah never rang back.
Sunday, 15 March 2009
I Can't Go for That (No Can Do)
Sometimes, it is highly surprising how much resistance one can encounter from three teenage boys (or rather two teenage boys and one who's almost a teenager) when you present them with even the simplest of requests. Of course, I face these expected pressures whenever I nudge any of my three towards their allotted task in the household chores rotation (now fully back in use after Gabriel's shouldering of all tasks following his light-fingered Christmas activity), but that's fair enough. Housework and children go together like chilli and chocolate (no matter how much the manufacturers of Walker's Crisps are trying to persuade us) and it'd be ridiculous to hope otherwise. Even then I just get the merest rumblings of discontent rather than out and out rebellion - what comes with the 'all lads together' attitude of growing up motherless. At least that's my theory. Despite what Colin may say and think the house is never utterly spotless but neither is it dirty and chaotic - we've learn how to establish a happy equilibrium that functions the way that we want and need it to so we're happy. It was much the same when Poppy was still alive. She never burdened herself (or burdened us) with hours of pointless housework for the sake of keeping everything nice and shiny. As long as we were all practically and functionally clean it was good enough for her and it was certainly good enough for the rest of us.
So, when I suggested we all get together and visit Poppy's memorial stone next Sunday (I'd changed my original idea from this Sunday to next Sunday as next Sunday is Mothering Sunday - a day that very nearly escapes any attention from me every year as neither myself nor any of my sons any longer possesses a living mother) I was stunned by the frowns and groans and lack of interest my quite reasonable suggestion engendered. And when I became insistent that it was something I think we ought, as a family, to do, the frowns and groans became angrier and the resistance to this notion became substantially more pronounced.
I'd insisted in all three of them being present around five for a family dinner, as I'd slaved over a lasagne - a properly constructed one as well, nothing packeted and both sauces created from scratch. And of course a separate veggie one for eldest-son. This is largely one of my most efficient signature dishes and usually a winner. I'd even made enough for Colin, but he disappointed me in not joining the family throng at the kitchen table, instead insisting on eating his dinner on his lap whilst watching Italy v Wales. So, once all three boys were heartily tucking in to their grub I broached my idea of visiting their mother's memorial stone on Mothering Sunday.
The most opposed: Andrew. He said he just did not see the point. So I said to him that there really was no point, that was the whole point. It felt the right thing to do, and sometimes it just seems right to do things that you think it is right to do. Andrew said that I was making no sense and that he would not be going. When I asked him why and he just said it didn't seem right to him to be visiting a mother's memorial when he'd forgotten virtually all about his mother, was coping quite adequately without one and had not as yet forgiven his mother for leaving him and his brothers.
I got no support from Gabriel, who I'd supposed would use the excuse of his need to be with Lian twenty-four-seven (school and sleeping permitting) to turn down my proposal. Instead, he took a different route - he agreed with Andrew in that visiting Poppy's memorial would be pointless as - he rather cold-heartedly pointed out - she was dead, reduced to ashes and it made no difference to her whether we visited her memorial or not. He said: I hardly think she's in heaven looking down on us, in fact, don't people who commit suicide go to hell? Not that I think either heaven or hell actually exists, he added.
I said that that was a terrible thing to say, but Gabe just shrugged and said I don't make the rules.
When I pulled Lukas into the debate he said he couldn't even remember anything about his mother so there would be no point in him going as it wouldn't mean anything to him, but he'd come along if I twisted his arm painfully enough. I told him I wasn't going to force him to do something if he really didn't want to.
So, my hopes dashed. But then my trusty knight on a shining steed came unexpectedly forth from the rugby, looking ruddy-faced and brimming with temper.
He addressed my boys in general and said: You three really are selfish c***s, aren't you? And yes, he did actually use the c-word. The ambience surrounding the kitchen table dipped and became beyond silent. Colin went on: Before your mother became your mother you do realise that she was first your dad's girlfriend and lover, then his wife? And that perhaps because of this your dad would like to pay respects to his late wife, rather then your dead mum? And therefore perhaps it might just be decent of you to do something for him for a change, instead of continuing with the charade that everything just resolves around you?
No one replied to this, so Colin stomped back out of the kitchen and returned to the rugby.
I took up my fork and re-commenced dinner. Andrew was the one who broke the silence: He said, are you going to let him talk to us like that? Before I could answer, Gabe jumped in and yelled Shut it Andrew you d*ck! Colin's right and if you can't see that then you're the biggest d*ck ever!
And then Lukas sniggered.
Andrew calmly placed his fork on his plate, stood up, and left the table. We heard the opera of him stomping up the stairs then slamming his door.
We ate the remainder of our meal in silence. Andrew's went in the bin. And I've no idea who won the rugby.
So, when I suggested we all get together and visit Poppy's memorial stone next Sunday (I'd changed my original idea from this Sunday to next Sunday as next Sunday is Mothering Sunday - a day that very nearly escapes any attention from me every year as neither myself nor any of my sons any longer possesses a living mother) I was stunned by the frowns and groans and lack of interest my quite reasonable suggestion engendered. And when I became insistent that it was something I think we ought, as a family, to do, the frowns and groans became angrier and the resistance to this notion became substantially more pronounced.
I'd insisted in all three of them being present around five for a family dinner, as I'd slaved over a lasagne - a properly constructed one as well, nothing packeted and both sauces created from scratch. And of course a separate veggie one for eldest-son. This is largely one of my most efficient signature dishes and usually a winner. I'd even made enough for Colin, but he disappointed me in not joining the family throng at the kitchen table, instead insisting on eating his dinner on his lap whilst watching Italy v Wales. So, once all three boys were heartily tucking in to their grub I broached my idea of visiting their mother's memorial stone on Mothering Sunday.
The most opposed: Andrew. He said he just did not see the point. So I said to him that there really was no point, that was the whole point. It felt the right thing to do, and sometimes it just seems right to do things that you think it is right to do. Andrew said that I was making no sense and that he would not be going. When I asked him why and he just said it didn't seem right to him to be visiting a mother's memorial when he'd forgotten virtually all about his mother, was coping quite adequately without one and had not as yet forgiven his mother for leaving him and his brothers.
I got no support from Gabriel, who I'd supposed would use the excuse of his need to be with Lian twenty-four-seven (school and sleeping permitting) to turn down my proposal. Instead, he took a different route - he agreed with Andrew in that visiting Poppy's memorial would be pointless as - he rather cold-heartedly pointed out - she was dead, reduced to ashes and it made no difference to her whether we visited her memorial or not. He said: I hardly think she's in heaven looking down on us, in fact, don't people who commit suicide go to hell? Not that I think either heaven or hell actually exists, he added.
I said that that was a terrible thing to say, but Gabe just shrugged and said I don't make the rules.
When I pulled Lukas into the debate he said he couldn't even remember anything about his mother so there would be no point in him going as it wouldn't mean anything to him, but he'd come along if I twisted his arm painfully enough. I told him I wasn't going to force him to do something if he really didn't want to.
So, my hopes dashed. But then my trusty knight on a shining steed came unexpectedly forth from the rugby, looking ruddy-faced and brimming with temper.
He addressed my boys in general and said: You three really are selfish c***s, aren't you? And yes, he did actually use the c-word. The ambience surrounding the kitchen table dipped and became beyond silent. Colin went on: Before your mother became your mother you do realise that she was first your dad's girlfriend and lover, then his wife? And that perhaps because of this your dad would like to pay respects to his late wife, rather then your dead mum? And therefore perhaps it might just be decent of you to do something for him for a change, instead of continuing with the charade that everything just resolves around you?
No one replied to this, so Colin stomped back out of the kitchen and returned to the rugby.
I took up my fork and re-commenced dinner. Andrew was the one who broke the silence: He said, are you going to let him talk to us like that? Before I could answer, Gabe jumped in and yelled Shut it Andrew you d*ck! Colin's right and if you can't see that then you're the biggest d*ck ever!
And then Lukas sniggered.
Andrew calmly placed his fork on his plate, stood up, and left the table. We heard the opera of him stomping up the stairs then slamming his door.
We ate the remainder of our meal in silence. Andrew's went in the bin. And I've no idea who won the rugby.
Saturday, 14 March 2009
This May Be The Start Of Something
So, in the end, I returned Sarah's call. I decided the best policy to be for me would be have no expectations; and make no rehearsals as I am habitually guilty of. Just pick up the phone, listen to what she has to say, make conversation and see what happens going forwards. I did have to wonder exactly what I was becoming. Apart from an idiot, of course.
Yesterday evening found me alone. I had no idea where Andrew was - I was just glad he was out somewhere as he's been a social hermit for about a fortnight now, which I don't think is good for him at all. Gabriel I assume was at Lian's, although I'd no evidence of that, but if he's not at home, school or kick-boxing there's hardly anywhere else he's likely to be. Lukas had left me a note blu-tacked to the fridge saying he was at Danny's. Colin was not around - which was the biggest relief - and indeed has hardly been around all week. I genuinely hope he's carving inroads into his alleged quest for employment and accomodation.
So I came home to emptiness (aside from Ripley who immediately set about playing with my socks which soon became a tad annoying as I was still wearing them) and Lukas's note, fixed just below Sarah's phone number. As my solitude wasn't broken as I fixed myself a cheese salad sandwich and once I'd wolfed it down I decided that I really ought to phone Sarah, for politeness-sake at the very least. So I grabbed the phone and punched in her number, forcing a burp out that was hiding in my stomach, just in case.
The first voice I heard was female, although obviously not an adult. It said hello - and I was a bit taken aback as of course I was all prepared to be talking to someone significantly older. I quickly pondered the protocol in such circumstances - should I just ask for mummy, as I was assuming I was speaking to Ruth, Sarah's daughter, or should I make at least an initial indication of who I was, and exchange three-second's worth of pleasantries? In the end I plumped for a friendly Is that Ruth? Followed by a request to talk to her mother, once the high-pitched voice on the older end had confirmed that she was indeed, Ruth.
I heard the phone being clunked down and the sound of footsteps fading. And then muffled voices. And then nothing...
After about forty seconds of nothingness I attemped a loud "hello?" down the phone but to no avail, and I could imagine the phone on the other end of the line sitting forlorn and forgotten, wherever that was - if it was our phone it would be on top of the fridge.
I wondered if I should replace the receiver and try again, or just wait. In the end I waited. And then I waited a bit more. Then I hung up, redialed the number, and got the engaged tone.
Damn. This was not the success I was hoping it was going to be. I waited a few minutes before trying again, and this time I got four ring-tones before it was answered and to my relief, I finally found myself speaking to Sarah. For want of anything better I could think of to say, I said Hi, It's Bryn.
Oh, hi Bryn, Sarah replied with reassuring brightness. Did you just ring a few minutes ago and speak to Ruth? I told her I did, but then that the line when dead. Sarah apologised and said I was in the bath, didn't Ruth get back to you? I said no, but not to worry.
Then a unexpected silence began. Which then unexpectedly stretched. Until finally I said you rang me, a couple of days ago?
Sarah replied in a thoughtful voice: I did. I did indeed.
When this prompted nothing further, I apologised for not getting back to her sooner, explaining that I'd had a busy couple of days (which was of course, not exactly truthful). Sarah said there for no need for me to apologise. And again, followed this up with a silence I had no idea how to fill. So for a second time I thought things were not going a quarter as well as I had hoped.
But finally Sarah spoke. She said, I'm sorry I haven't rung to speak to you earlier, but ... I've been thinking quite a bit about things, and I'm not the bravest person in the world, as you've probably noticed.
I said I hadn't; whilst wondering where all this was going.
Sarah half-laughed and said: You see, I'm a terrible coward. Which is why I was so awful to you after our meal together.
Again, I felt a need to interject and deny any wrong-doing on her part, so I did so. But Sarah dismissed this, saying that it was clear I didn't want the evening to end, and she'd been wrong to leave me standing outside the Travelodge all alone and abandoned.
This seemed to be getting a little awkward; I had visions of Sarah imagining me to be some one-dimensional sex-addict, but I didn't really know how I was going to disillusion her of this.
But she pressed on: The thing is, Bryn, since I've been back in Southampton my mind has surprised me. It's surprised me how much I've been thinking of you.
[oh be still my beating heart]
Then Sarah said: And the weirdest thing is, I don't know how to stop thinking about you, or even if I want to stop thinking about you.
My breathing quickened, and I couldn't think of a single thing to say.
But before I could say the things I didn't have to say, Sarah said: I'm sorry Bryn, I shouldn't have called you. Plus this is a bad time as I have to go out as I have to take Ruth to Daniel's (whom I assumed to be her ex) as it's his turn to have her and I can't really talk any further.
She asked me to ring her again tomorrow, early afternoon, when she had more time. Then we exchanged goodbyes and the call ended.
So more opportunity for my mind to continue to turn somersaults. But by golly, I will be ringing Sarah a little later on today.
Yesterday evening found me alone. I had no idea where Andrew was - I was just glad he was out somewhere as he's been a social hermit for about a fortnight now, which I don't think is good for him at all. Gabriel I assume was at Lian's, although I'd no evidence of that, but if he's not at home, school or kick-boxing there's hardly anywhere else he's likely to be. Lukas had left me a note blu-tacked to the fridge saying he was at Danny's. Colin was not around - which was the biggest relief - and indeed has hardly been around all week. I genuinely hope he's carving inroads into his alleged quest for employment and accomodation.
So I came home to emptiness (aside from Ripley who immediately set about playing with my socks which soon became a tad annoying as I was still wearing them) and Lukas's note, fixed just below Sarah's phone number. As my solitude wasn't broken as I fixed myself a cheese salad sandwich and once I'd wolfed it down I decided that I really ought to phone Sarah, for politeness-sake at the very least. So I grabbed the phone and punched in her number, forcing a burp out that was hiding in my stomach, just in case.
The first voice I heard was female, although obviously not an adult. It said hello - and I was a bit taken aback as of course I was all prepared to be talking to someone significantly older. I quickly pondered the protocol in such circumstances - should I just ask for mummy, as I was assuming I was speaking to Ruth, Sarah's daughter, or should I make at least an initial indication of who I was, and exchange three-second's worth of pleasantries? In the end I plumped for a friendly Is that Ruth? Followed by a request to talk to her mother, once the high-pitched voice on the older end had confirmed that she was indeed, Ruth.
I heard the phone being clunked down and the sound of footsteps fading. And then muffled voices. And then nothing...
After about forty seconds of nothingness I attemped a loud "hello?" down the phone but to no avail, and I could imagine the phone on the other end of the line sitting forlorn and forgotten, wherever that was - if it was our phone it would be on top of the fridge.
I wondered if I should replace the receiver and try again, or just wait. In the end I waited. And then I waited a bit more. Then I hung up, redialed the number, and got the engaged tone.
Damn. This was not the success I was hoping it was going to be. I waited a few minutes before trying again, and this time I got four ring-tones before it was answered and to my relief, I finally found myself speaking to Sarah. For want of anything better I could think of to say, I said Hi, It's Bryn.
Oh, hi Bryn, Sarah replied with reassuring brightness. Did you just ring a few minutes ago and speak to Ruth? I told her I did, but then that the line when dead. Sarah apologised and said I was in the bath, didn't Ruth get back to you? I said no, but not to worry.
Then a unexpected silence began. Which then unexpectedly stretched. Until finally I said you rang me, a couple of days ago?
Sarah replied in a thoughtful voice: I did. I did indeed.
When this prompted nothing further, I apologised for not getting back to her sooner, explaining that I'd had a busy couple of days (which was of course, not exactly truthful). Sarah said there for no need for me to apologise. And again, followed this up with a silence I had no idea how to fill. So for a second time I thought things were not going a quarter as well as I had hoped.
But finally Sarah spoke. She said, I'm sorry I haven't rung to speak to you earlier, but ... I've been thinking quite a bit about things, and I'm not the bravest person in the world, as you've probably noticed.
I said I hadn't; whilst wondering where all this was going.
Sarah half-laughed and said: You see, I'm a terrible coward. Which is why I was so awful to you after our meal together.
Again, I felt a need to interject and deny any wrong-doing on her part, so I did so. But Sarah dismissed this, saying that it was clear I didn't want the evening to end, and she'd been wrong to leave me standing outside the Travelodge all alone and abandoned.
This seemed to be getting a little awkward; I had visions of Sarah imagining me to be some one-dimensional sex-addict, but I didn't really know how I was going to disillusion her of this.
But she pressed on: The thing is, Bryn, since I've been back in Southampton my mind has surprised me. It's surprised me how much I've been thinking of you.
[oh be still my beating heart]
Then Sarah said: And the weirdest thing is, I don't know how to stop thinking about you, or even if I want to stop thinking about you.
My breathing quickened, and I couldn't think of a single thing to say.
But before I could say the things I didn't have to say, Sarah said: I'm sorry Bryn, I shouldn't have called you. Plus this is a bad time as I have to go out as I have to take Ruth to Daniel's (whom I assumed to be her ex) as it's his turn to have her and I can't really talk any further.
She asked me to ring her again tomorrow, early afternoon, when she had more time. Then we exchanged goodbyes and the call ended.
So more opportunity for my mind to continue to turn somersaults. But by golly, I will be ringing Sarah a little later on today.
Friday, 13 March 2009
A Relief When It's Over
There are two things that rank high upon my list of loathsomeness - forced jollity and enforced charity. So of course this means the most loathsome day on my calendar is the annual festival of discomfort that is Comic Relief. I've never been able to combine successfully the thoughts of charity and the concept of laughter. I assume that the majority of people who exist in situations where charity is required find nothing funny about their lot, and so someone far better off lomping around dressed as a chicken with an over-sized and scarlet conk does seem to be taking the pi$$ a little. It rather smacks of oneupmanship; showing that *you* have the time, money and inclination to act in an inappropriate fashion whereas those you are allegedly helping have not. I'm all for charitable giving - I have not grown curmudgeonly enough to dismiss anyone with genuine desires to aid the less-than-fortunate. It's just the in-your-faceness of it that grates with me. And I find very little of it actually comic; it's primarily a relief when it's all over.
For once, my workplace has embraced today's events with the suitable level of subduedness that these credit-crunched times perhaps call for. Wear a football shirt and pay a pound. I can live with that as it hardly matches last year's 'Wear a Silly Hat Day' for pointless and unfunny zaniness. So this morning I dove down into the dank depths of the more unheralded regions of my wardrobe and pulled out a totally forgotten Aston Villa shirt from the misty Dwight Yorke era (about a decade ago). I had to get the boys to shoe-horn it onto me, and the sponsor's name is stretched almost to unreadability across my manboobs, but what the heck, me no professional athlete.
Around 75% percent of the workforce fell in line with the footie shirt motif, and it slightly saddened me to see how little geographical considerations now affect the decision of choosing which team to support - unless Manchester United, Chelsea and Arsenal have all upped sticks and shifted their stadiums to the midlands and nobody has told me. In my fledgling footie fanaticism days the school playground was roughly divided fifty-fifty between Villa and Birmingham City (not counting the odder choices like West Brom, Wolves or in one very strange case, Plymouth Argyle). If anyone pledged allegiance to (the then huge-team of the moment) Liverpool, for example, they were rightfully dismissed as glory-hunters, shunned, beaten up and/or stoned to death.
As my own love of football has suffered a slow and general disintegration over the past decade or so, none of my children have shown the slightest hint of interest in the game - indeed neither Andrew nor Gabriel have any sporting inclinations whatsoever. Whilst Andrew seemed content today in his usual sensible attire, both Gabriel and Lukas expressed dismay this morning that I didn't keep a locker full of football shirts for them should the need ever arise that one be required. So neither could join their schoolmates in footie-kit-frolics. Lukas came down in his basketball shirt, but as I've related before he-so-small and shirt-so-big I didn't think it appropriate for him to attend school with his nipples and ribs on display, so I dispatched him upstairs for something more suitable, however...
...on my way to work I passed a school-aged person who'd chosen that day to attend his education wearing one of those sumo-style fat-suits, a bikini, and a grass skirt - so I was quite pleased not one of my three lads possess the self-confidence to be so - er - outrageous. As I went past him (I am assuming it was a he - I don't think a female would chose to dress as an overweight female as it would not necessarily be funny) he looked at me provocatively and began to repeatedly squeeze his left boob. This actually brought a slight smile to my face.
In line with my decisions of Tuesday I trod over this morning to one of my colleague's desks, a guy called Andy, who was wearing a Liverpool shirt. He eyed me with a mix of bemusement and suspicion, which dismayed me slightly, but then I realised that the only times I've really spoken to him in the three years since he joined us have been for work-related issues. Indeed all I know about him is that he has two steel plates in bolted into his skull holding his face together after he was elbowed there about a decade ago whilst playing Sunday League. He's given up going on planes as he's sick and tired of having to explain why he sets the metal detectors a-wailin' at airport security checkouts. Other than that, I think he has two daughters (as he has a photo of two sweet-faced little angels on his desk) but I've no idea how old they are or their names (or even if they *are* his daughters).
So I said hello and that I was wondering if anyone was going to the pub today as I felt like a beer or three at lunchtime and would like to join them. Andy blinked for a few seconds as his brain computerised this unheralded request - then I prepared myself for rejection as his face slightly reddened and he licked his lips. He said I'd picked a bad week as the usual 'pi$$-heads' (his words) were joining
a mighty thong of employees at lunchtime traipsing around the town rattling collection tins at passers-by all in aid of (naturally) Comic Relief. He said they hadn't asked me to join them as they (quite rightly) didn't consider I'd be interested, adding that he was sure everyone'd be back at the pub next week. I nodded my thanks and told him no worries and then headed slightly crestfallen back to my desk.
Since then I have been mainly thinking about Sarah and my inability (so far) and indecision to call her back. Despite all those concrete decisions I made on Tuesday It appears I remain a coward in at least one respect. I know I am jumping the gun but I need to get my head around everything she is likely to say to me.
Let's finish with a joke. It's not my favourite but that's too obscene, and most of my other favourites are too long, so here goes: Two goldfish in a tank; one says to the other, "how do you drive this thing?".
For once, my workplace has embraced today's events with the suitable level of subduedness that these credit-crunched times perhaps call for. Wear a football shirt and pay a pound. I can live with that as it hardly matches last year's 'Wear a Silly Hat Day' for pointless and unfunny zaniness. So this morning I dove down into the dank depths of the more unheralded regions of my wardrobe and pulled out a totally forgotten Aston Villa shirt from the misty Dwight Yorke era (about a decade ago). I had to get the boys to shoe-horn it onto me, and the sponsor's name is stretched almost to unreadability across my manboobs, but what the heck, me no professional athlete.
Around 75% percent of the workforce fell in line with the footie shirt motif, and it slightly saddened me to see how little geographical considerations now affect the decision of choosing which team to support - unless Manchester United, Chelsea and Arsenal have all upped sticks and shifted their stadiums to the midlands and nobody has told me. In my fledgling footie fanaticism days the school playground was roughly divided fifty-fifty between Villa and Birmingham City (not counting the odder choices like West Brom, Wolves or in one very strange case, Plymouth Argyle). If anyone pledged allegiance to (the then huge-team of the moment) Liverpool, for example, they were rightfully dismissed as glory-hunters, shunned, beaten up and/or stoned to death.
As my own love of football has suffered a slow and general disintegration over the past decade or so, none of my children have shown the slightest hint of interest in the game - indeed neither Andrew nor Gabriel have any sporting inclinations whatsoever. Whilst Andrew seemed content today in his usual sensible attire, both Gabriel and Lukas expressed dismay this morning that I didn't keep a locker full of football shirts for them should the need ever arise that one be required. So neither could join their schoolmates in footie-kit-frolics. Lukas came down in his basketball shirt, but as I've related before he-so-small and shirt-so-big I didn't think it appropriate for him to attend school with his nipples and ribs on display, so I dispatched him upstairs for something more suitable, however...
...on my way to work I passed a school-aged person who'd chosen that day to attend his education wearing one of those sumo-style fat-suits, a bikini, and a grass skirt - so I was quite pleased not one of my three lads possess the self-confidence to be so - er - outrageous. As I went past him (I am assuming it was a he - I don't think a female would chose to dress as an overweight female as it would not necessarily be funny) he looked at me provocatively and began to repeatedly squeeze his left boob. This actually brought a slight smile to my face.
In line with my decisions of Tuesday I trod over this morning to one of my colleague's desks, a guy called Andy, who was wearing a Liverpool shirt. He eyed me with a mix of bemusement and suspicion, which dismayed me slightly, but then I realised that the only times I've really spoken to him in the three years since he joined us have been for work-related issues. Indeed all I know about him is that he has two steel plates in bolted into his skull holding his face together after he was elbowed there about a decade ago whilst playing Sunday League. He's given up going on planes as he's sick and tired of having to explain why he sets the metal detectors a-wailin' at airport security checkouts. Other than that, I think he has two daughters (as he has a photo of two sweet-faced little angels on his desk) but I've no idea how old they are or their names (or even if they *are* his daughters).
So I said hello and that I was wondering if anyone was going to the pub today as I felt like a beer or three at lunchtime and would like to join them. Andy blinked for a few seconds as his brain computerised this unheralded request - then I prepared myself for rejection as his face slightly reddened and he licked his lips. He said I'd picked a bad week as the usual 'pi$$-heads' (his words) were joining
a mighty thong of employees at lunchtime traipsing around the town rattling collection tins at passers-by all in aid of (naturally) Comic Relief. He said they hadn't asked me to join them as they (quite rightly) didn't consider I'd be interested, adding that he was sure everyone'd be back at the pub next week. I nodded my thanks and told him no worries and then headed slightly crestfallen back to my desk.
Since then I have been mainly thinking about Sarah and my inability (so far) and indecision to call her back. Despite all those concrete decisions I made on Tuesday It appears I remain a coward in at least one respect. I know I am jumping the gun but I need to get my head around everything she is likely to say to me.
Let's finish with a joke. It's not my favourite but that's too obscene, and most of my other favourites are too long, so here goes: Two goldfish in a tank; one says to the other, "how do you drive this thing?".
Thursday, 12 March 2009
The Preverbial Spanner
As I lay on that blood-letting couch on Tuesday, pressing a small wodge of cotton wool to my pin-hole size wound, everything seemed in order. In a moment of peace and contemplative tranquility, I managed to come to a sense of understanding about the trials and (albeit relatively trivial) tribulations of my life and the branches of my everyday-ness; thus:
- Andrew is homosexual and I am fine with that and I should be proud that I am dealing with it as though it is nothing to be dealt with, which, in reality, it isn't. Countless other people (say, for example, Kevin's dad) would not have dealt with such a situation the way I have done. I never wanted a gay son - it's not something you actively desire of course because of the hurt you will suffer as you watch your son suffer as he fights against the lingering prejudices of a sometimes pathetic world. But I have a gay son and it is fine. I hope he will find his one true love that I think he needs to find and I shall support him in that in exactly the manner I would if he were heterosexual. I also need to take more of an interest in his schoolwork and forgive him for his occasional uptight-ness and superciliousness.
- Gabriel loves Lian (don't ask me whether Lian loves Gabriel) and although I have concerns over the equality of that relationship it seems to be what Gabriel needs right now so again, it's something I need to support him with. There's no question it is a relationship that has done him wonders; with the confidence and the kick-boxing and the slow lessening of his rotundity. I just need to keep an eye on how much Lian will push him i.e. further ear piercings or other parts of the body piercings. Perhaps I'm being a tad harsh on Lian - she seems fine from what I've seen from her, just a little quiet. I also need to take more of an interest in Gabe's schoolwork and forgive him for his occasional hurricanesque temper tantrums.
- Lukas is the least of my worries, or so seems to be, other the lingering question over his true, biological parentage; or rather not that there's a question over that, just the question of whether he ought to know the truth. But then that I think is a question for the future, he's certainly too young to consider being told that I'm not actually his biological dad. He needs to spend less time on the PS2 and I think it'd be good for him to be a little more gregarious as he seems to rely solely on Danny for friendship. Naturally, I will support him with his basketball when he finally returns to the court. I also need to take more of an interest in his schoolwork and forgive him for his lack of compassion and occasional blunt and hurtful honesty.
- I need to be tougher with Colin. His few days staying with us has mutated into a few weeks now and although he is not a burden (although a little more cash towards his continued upkeep would not go amiss) and he's fun to have around I'm not sure life on his brother's sofa is doing him any good. I need to talk to him about Maria and Holly and Amber and the ease in which he seems to have cast them from his life. Maybe he just doesn't care and genuinely so. But then again maybe he is pushing something deep down within him that ought not to be compressed. I think he needs to sort his life out, find his own place and a job (even if again it is untold miles from me) and I need to hurry him along a little to help him achieve that.
- I think I need to finally forgive Poppy for the way she left all our lives; and of course her own. I know I have moved on, but part of me still hurts, and I remain angry that she felt it unselfish to step out in front of that bus and leave me and more importantly her young sons behind. But I really need to stop wearing that - I need to take it off and toss it into the bin. It was a long time ago and my feelings cannot change the past, so I need to make peace with her. I haven't even visited her memorial stone for nearly two years now, and I don't think that's right.
- And I need to make peace for myself. I need to stop being the dead man walking, the forty-six-and-a-half-year-old simply functioning as a conduit to serve his children's lives, awaiting the day that the last one leaves me and then a little later on awaiting the day that they no longer care. There's still a me in here somewhere who once had needs and ambitions and a future. I still have a future, I just need to stop dismissing it as one filled with black days and loneliness. I think I still have something to offer, and even if Sarah didn't think that worthy of exploring out a potential relationship across the one hundred and fifty miles that separates us then surely someone else could find that I am actually worth something? I suppose I have Colin to thank for this new lease of mind - he hasn't actually shoved me, but he's been giving me a seemingly limitless amount of tender little pushes. I need to sort my body out (or continue to sort my body out), curtail the drinking (and I've made a few strides in that direction already) and get out into the big bad world more often. I've already decided to join the weekly work pilgrimage to the pub tomorrow. One small step for a Bryn, one giant leap for Bryn-kind.
So, as I said, all this became sorted on the blood-couch. And then I just happened to come home to news from Lukas that some lady called Sarah had rung and had left a message. The message - in Lukas's creaky handwriting - read, simply: Please call me. I've had a long think.
And I've now had a long think as well. And I still haven't decided whether to call her back or not.
- Andrew is homosexual and I am fine with that and I should be proud that I am dealing with it as though it is nothing to be dealt with, which, in reality, it isn't. Countless other people (say, for example, Kevin's dad) would not have dealt with such a situation the way I have done. I never wanted a gay son - it's not something you actively desire of course because of the hurt you will suffer as you watch your son suffer as he fights against the lingering prejudices of a sometimes pathetic world. But I have a gay son and it is fine. I hope he will find his one true love that I think he needs to find and I shall support him in that in exactly the manner I would if he were heterosexual. I also need to take more of an interest in his schoolwork and forgive him for his occasional uptight-ness and superciliousness.
- Gabriel loves Lian (don't ask me whether Lian loves Gabriel) and although I have concerns over the equality of that relationship it seems to be what Gabriel needs right now so again, it's something I need to support him with. There's no question it is a relationship that has done him wonders; with the confidence and the kick-boxing and the slow lessening of his rotundity. I just need to keep an eye on how much Lian will push him i.e. further ear piercings or other parts of the body piercings. Perhaps I'm being a tad harsh on Lian - she seems fine from what I've seen from her, just a little quiet. I also need to take more of an interest in Gabe's schoolwork and forgive him for his occasional hurricanesque temper tantrums.
- Lukas is the least of my worries, or so seems to be, other the lingering question over his true, biological parentage; or rather not that there's a question over that, just the question of whether he ought to know the truth. But then that I think is a question for the future, he's certainly too young to consider being told that I'm not actually his biological dad. He needs to spend less time on the PS2 and I think it'd be good for him to be a little more gregarious as he seems to rely solely on Danny for friendship. Naturally, I will support him with his basketball when he finally returns to the court. I also need to take more of an interest in his schoolwork and forgive him for his lack of compassion and occasional blunt and hurtful honesty.
- I need to be tougher with Colin. His few days staying with us has mutated into a few weeks now and although he is not a burden (although a little more cash towards his continued upkeep would not go amiss) and he's fun to have around I'm not sure life on his brother's sofa is doing him any good. I need to talk to him about Maria and Holly and Amber and the ease in which he seems to have cast them from his life. Maybe he just doesn't care and genuinely so. But then again maybe he is pushing something deep down within him that ought not to be compressed. I think he needs to sort his life out, find his own place and a job (even if again it is untold miles from me) and I need to hurry him along a little to help him achieve that.
- I think I need to finally forgive Poppy for the way she left all our lives; and of course her own. I know I have moved on, but part of me still hurts, and I remain angry that she felt it unselfish to step out in front of that bus and leave me and more importantly her young sons behind. But I really need to stop wearing that - I need to take it off and toss it into the bin. It was a long time ago and my feelings cannot change the past, so I need to make peace with her. I haven't even visited her memorial stone for nearly two years now, and I don't think that's right.
- And I need to make peace for myself. I need to stop being the dead man walking, the forty-six-and-a-half-year-old simply functioning as a conduit to serve his children's lives, awaiting the day that the last one leaves me and then a little later on awaiting the day that they no longer care. There's still a me in here somewhere who once had needs and ambitions and a future. I still have a future, I just need to stop dismissing it as one filled with black days and loneliness. I think I still have something to offer, and even if Sarah didn't think that worthy of exploring out a potential relationship across the one hundred and fifty miles that separates us then surely someone else could find that I am actually worth something? I suppose I have Colin to thank for this new lease of mind - he hasn't actually shoved me, but he's been giving me a seemingly limitless amount of tender little pushes. I need to sort my body out (or continue to sort my body out), curtail the drinking (and I've made a few strides in that direction already) and get out into the big bad world more often. I've already decided to join the weekly work pilgrimage to the pub tomorrow. One small step for a Bryn, one giant leap for Bryn-kind.
So, as I said, all this became sorted on the blood-couch. And then I just happened to come home to news from Lukas that some lady called Sarah had rung and had left a message. The message - in Lukas's creaky handwriting - read, simply: Please call me. I've had a long think.
And I've now had a long think as well. And I still haven't decided whether to call her back or not.
Wednesday, 11 March 2009
There Will Be Blood
I'm not a fan of needles, or indeed any sort of sharp object that insists on puncturing my flesh. But then that's not strictly accurate is it? I'm not a fan of the pain that puncturing needles generate - even though it's usually a short, sharp scratch (the innuendo police have successfully managed to cause the abandonment of the use of the work prick in this context - although scratch I've always considered is such a bland and unsatisfying substitute). It's an unique pain when you think about it - something that is really dreadfully painful and yet is over in less time than it takes you to change channels when you're flicking through and accidentally alight upon an episode of Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps.
Given all this, it's truly unfathomable then why I subject myself to a pair of voluntary pricks (or scratches) every four months or so, in that I'm a blood donor.
I've been performing consensual blood-letting activities for almost twenty years now, off and on. Yesterday was my twenty-ninth donation, which is a little lax over two decades, but as I said, it's been an off and on process. In ye olde days I had to travel right to the City Centre in order to be punctured which was an annoyance as it involved finding a parking place then braving the walk through hordes of pushy shoppers in order for me to perform my duty. But now there's a monthly service at the local community centre, a mere fifteen minute walk from my workplace. I'm now rattling off the donations, and whilst my original ambition of the century is now impossible (unless they narrow the 'time between donation' ban down from four months, which may be likely as it was once six months and in the US is down to two months) I should still reach seventy-five.
I've only ever had a couple of wobbles. The first time was on my twenty-fifth occasion when my blood was rejected due to lack of iron. The second was on about my tenth time when I did feel a bit grim and gray afterwards and had to have a prolonged sit down.
My most memorable occasion was the first. I'd been inspired by the Gulf War and the associated calls for blood as stocks were getting low. But then so it seemed had everyone else as the donation centre queues matched those for the cinema queues for the release of The Phantom Menace (and subsequent queues under signs saying "Those disappointed by 'The Phantom Menace' please queue here). Took me two hours to get to the front, and the first thing I was asked was 'Have you had breakfast today' to which I replied 'Nope, I don't eat breakfast' (as I didn't at the time).
BUZZ! WRONG ANSWER!! Please exit through the door marked exit.
So I returned the next day, breakfasted, and went through the whole process again.
I can remember leaving the centre after that initial donation in a bit of a daze. So much in fact that I came within six inches of walking straight out in front of a car. The headlines should I have been mashed by the motor would have been notable: BLOOD DONOR GETS BLOOD BACK IN RECORD TIME.
So yesterday, I waltzed down to the Community Centre in my lunch hour, wondering what would be different about today's experience. Each time they change something about the process - you'd think as people have been giving blood since them black-and-white days (A PINT?!) they'd have perfectly the technique by now. But every time I go there's some little change - some little difference from last time. First the Blood-Iron test was taken from the pad of your thumb, but that then migrated to the pad of your longest finger. And now it's moved again - to the side of your longest finger. Keep this up and in one hundred years it'll be your little toe. No idea why it keeps moving.
Then there's the post-blood-let rest - you used to get twenty full minutes on a nice comfy recliner after being man-handled there by a nurse and three burly male assistants. Matrons used to patrol these areas, admonishing anyone who fluttered as much as an eyebrow. These days you're just allowed about six minutes on the trolley you've just been punctured upon, before you're left to your own devices and have to wander all lighted-headed to the tea and biscuits arena.
Ah yes - the tea and biscuits (although I always have hot chocolate). The perk to having a pint of vital fluid sucked from your left arm. The lengths I go to for even a sniff of a freebie.
Yesterday's donation was probably the easiest I've ever endured. My finger-prick globule of blood sank like a stone down the test-tube filled with unidentified green liquid and I was swiftly on the trolley and needle-ised and even that was relatively painless (and I have a few horrors at that - the odd trainee who's treated the inner crook of my arm like a pin-cushion in the search for that illusive vein).
Whilst I was waiting for my heart to do the necessary and pump the red juice from my ruptured vein, I had ample opportunity to think. And think is what I did, and of course about miriad subjects. And I came to a few conclusions and decisions.
Walked back to work after my hot chocolate and ginger cake and spent the afternoon feeling positively rotten. Another sign of my age I think - I used to be able to pass off a donation without any affect; indeed once less than an hour after one donation in my later twenties I was on a football pitch being crap in defence (as was the norm). These days I just feel desperately under the weather for the remainder of the day. So I just spent the evening with Ripley on my lap, watching whatever non-rubbish stuff I could lay my eyes upon, and ignoring everyone else.
Given all this, it's truly unfathomable then why I subject myself to a pair of voluntary pricks (or scratches) every four months or so, in that I'm a blood donor.
I've been performing consensual blood-letting activities for almost twenty years now, off and on. Yesterday was my twenty-ninth donation, which is a little lax over two decades, but as I said, it's been an off and on process. In ye olde days I had to travel right to the City Centre in order to be punctured which was an annoyance as it involved finding a parking place then braving the walk through hordes of pushy shoppers in order for me to perform my duty. But now there's a monthly service at the local community centre, a mere fifteen minute walk from my workplace. I'm now rattling off the donations, and whilst my original ambition of the century is now impossible (unless they narrow the 'time between donation' ban down from four months, which may be likely as it was once six months and in the US is down to two months) I should still reach seventy-five.
I've only ever had a couple of wobbles. The first time was on my twenty-fifth occasion when my blood was rejected due to lack of iron. The second was on about my tenth time when I did feel a bit grim and gray afterwards and had to have a prolonged sit down.
My most memorable occasion was the first. I'd been inspired by the Gulf War and the associated calls for blood as stocks were getting low. But then so it seemed had everyone else as the donation centre queues matched those for the cinema queues for the release of The Phantom Menace (and subsequent queues under signs saying "Those disappointed by 'The Phantom Menace' please queue here). Took me two hours to get to the front, and the first thing I was asked was 'Have you had breakfast today' to which I replied 'Nope, I don't eat breakfast' (as I didn't at the time).
BUZZ! WRONG ANSWER!! Please exit through the door marked exit.
So I returned the next day, breakfasted, and went through the whole process again.
I can remember leaving the centre after that initial donation in a bit of a daze. So much in fact that I came within six inches of walking straight out in front of a car. The headlines should I have been mashed by the motor would have been notable: BLOOD DONOR GETS BLOOD BACK IN RECORD TIME.
So yesterday, I waltzed down to the Community Centre in my lunch hour, wondering what would be different about today's experience. Each time they change something about the process - you'd think as people have been giving blood since them black-and-white days (A PINT?!) they'd have perfectly the technique by now. But every time I go there's some little change - some little difference from last time. First the Blood-Iron test was taken from the pad of your thumb, but that then migrated to the pad of your longest finger. And now it's moved again - to the side of your longest finger. Keep this up and in one hundred years it'll be your little toe. No idea why it keeps moving.
Then there's the post-blood-let rest - you used to get twenty full minutes on a nice comfy recliner after being man-handled there by a nurse and three burly male assistants. Matrons used to patrol these areas, admonishing anyone who fluttered as much as an eyebrow. These days you're just allowed about six minutes on the trolley you've just been punctured upon, before you're left to your own devices and have to wander all lighted-headed to the tea and biscuits arena.
Ah yes - the tea and biscuits (although I always have hot chocolate). The perk to having a pint of vital fluid sucked from your left arm. The lengths I go to for even a sniff of a freebie.
Yesterday's donation was probably the easiest I've ever endured. My finger-prick globule of blood sank like a stone down the test-tube filled with unidentified green liquid and I was swiftly on the trolley and needle-ised and even that was relatively painless (and I have a few horrors at that - the odd trainee who's treated the inner crook of my arm like a pin-cushion in the search for that illusive vein).
Whilst I was waiting for my heart to do the necessary and pump the red juice from my ruptured vein, I had ample opportunity to think. And think is what I did, and of course about miriad subjects. And I came to a few conclusions and decisions.
Walked back to work after my hot chocolate and ginger cake and spent the afternoon feeling positively rotten. Another sign of my age I think - I used to be able to pass off a donation without any affect; indeed once less than an hour after one donation in my later twenties I was on a football pitch being crap in defence (as was the norm). These days I just feel desperately under the weather for the remainder of the day. So I just spent the evening with Ripley on my lap, watching whatever non-rubbish stuff I could lay my eyes upon, and ignoring everyone else.
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