Thursday, 30 October 2014
I was 16 when Mum remarried. I moved in to the Fat Controller's house the day after she married him. There was meat pie for tea. He offered me a second helping, which I accepted. Later in the evening, in the presence of my mother, he attacked me verbally for being greedy, ranting that there was a tradition in his house that the dog got the last slice of the pie. I just about had the presence of mind to point out that I couldn't have known this, and that he had offered me the second slice and nobody else had wanted it. Further attempts at reasoned self-defence were short-circuited when my mother flummoxed me by backing him up, saying, 'Well, it did seem like you were doing it on purpose.' For ages afterwards I'd repeatedly return to this exchange in my head. Full of self-doubt as I was, I laboriously reasoned it through. If he didn't want me to have the pie, why offer it to me? And how could I be 'doing it on purpose'? I'd have needed to a) know that the dog usually got the last of the pie (which I didn't) and b) know that when he offered me the second slice he didn't mean it. Over the next six years of living there I learnt two things from the Fat Controller. One was that reason counted for nothing in the face of his mania for domination and control. The other was that some people will treat you as badly as they can get away with for no better reason than the fact that they can get away with it.
Sunday, 26 October 2014
In hindsight, early signs of Mum's dementia were there well ahead of her eventual diagnosis in September 2009. Late 2008 my Xmas and birthday presents never arrived, though Mum was convinced she'd sent them. Early 2008 she rang twice leaving an almost identical message within hours. Brother M reported her sending him two birthday cards that year. Around then I had an odd conversation with her about a breadmaker somebody gave her. She said that it didn't bake the bread but just mixed the ingredients. She seemed to think this was normal and was how it was supposed to work. I noted at the time that her husband the Fat Controller had done nothing to help her with this. These clues were the start of a slow-motion bereavement, where her mind gradually disappeared over the next four years.
I saw the film 'Educating Rita' in 1984, the year before I did my first 'A' level at evening classes at the age of twenty two. I remember it as inspiring, and as part of what prompted me to get an education and go to university as a mature student. Ironically, the education I later got probably led me to take a cynical view of the film when I watched it again some years later. On returning it seemed sentimental about working class life, university life and the transformative power of getting a formal education.
Saturday, 25 October 2014
About two years ago I had impingement syndrome in my shoulder, a condition where the rotator cuff round the shoulder becomes inflamed and painful. I had to go for physiotherapy for about 6 months. The physiotherapist was tiny and beautiful. Inevitably she was required to be fairly hands on. It was heartbreaking as a reminder of how rare it was for anybody to touch me at the time. Halfway through one session I thought I should have flossed and worn a better shirt. Made a bit of an effort. Tragic really. I don't come from a tactile family. I've gone through life expecting nobody to touch me with a bargepole. There's probably people out there who feel hard done by if they haven't had a thorough seeing to for a month. Me, I'm grateful if somebody occasionally looks pleased to see me. Poor me.
Thursday, 23 October 2014
I was signing, on having just finished my MA. Doing the MA made me realise that I'd been premature in deciding to give up on writing fiction. It was clear that as far as the need to write was concerned, I was stuck with it. The problem was buying the time to work on my fiction. Part of my plan was to source an income by donating sperm. A clinic at London Bridge was paying £17.50 per sample as expenses, though you could only donate at three day intervals, to maintain quality. At that rate I reckoned on making a regular £35 per week. I had a thorough interview about my medical history, then was invited to give a sample for testing. You didn't get expenses for the initial visit, presumably to deter opportunist one-off wankers. I was shown into a medical looking room by a receptionist who gave me a little plastic pot. Above the sink was a set of instructions, including the requirement no to use any kind of lubricant, including saliva, as this could contaminate the goods. The notes also pointed out the stack of porn mags neatly stacked nearby. Finally there was something to the effect that if volunteers struggling to finish then one of the nurses could help. I thought this was asking a lot of them, though I think in hindsight any help would have consisted of a finger up the bum and some manipulation of the prostate, which while not much fun for anyone was at least appropriately medical. I set to work unaided, but it was an effort. There was chatter from the office next door which was putting me off but I didn't feel I could go and complain. Eventually I got there. As I came, I lost balance momentarily and stamped on the pedal of a stainless steel pedal bin adjacent. The lid banged against the wall with a resounding clang that I fully expected to bring people running. I went in a for a follow up interview some days later. The crisp and efficient nurse said my sample was very good in terms of quality and volume, but didn't freeze well so they wouldn't be able to use my produce. So that career plan went nowhere. Things have since moved on in the sperms trade. Now it can be sold fresh and prices have shot up to about £75 per portion. Recently I saw a postcard in a Peckham newsagent's window where somebody was advertising their sperm for sale direct. I think if you were looking to buy some sperm, you wouldn't start by browsing the small ads in a corner shop. It's not like it's an impulse buy.
Wednesday, 22 October 2014
I'm guessing I began the habit of making to-do lists when I was about twenty. Before that I had no need to as I had no idea what to do. I had no aims except a vague unfounded hope I'd one day be on Top of the Pops. It felt pointless making plans because I assumed I'd soon end up killing myself as my Dad had done. At twenty, a bout of drug induced paranoia prompted me to walk out my job as a store-man in a builders' merchants. That and the ensuing botched suicide attempt jolted me out of my torpor. A sense of my own agency emerged from somewhere and the list making began. I still find it essential, though often dispiriting. It's a brave soul who revisits their old to-do lists. Mine , collected, would seem a lifetime archive of falling short. Accidentally looking at an old list can be chastening. The routine stuff of paces to go and groceries to buy is bearable. Those trivial cancellations and delays aren't the problem. But above and beyond those daily things is the meta-list, often unwritten, whose content stubbornly fails to shift, year in, year out; get on with writing, get on with music, make more friends, make an effort at finding love. Still, better the aim you fall short of than the one you don't dare have.
Sunday, 5 October 2014
In Spring last year, I went on a conservation holiday in Sussex, clearing rhododendrons on a National Trust property. The group was an odd mix age wise; there was a handful of 18 year olds and the rest of the group were just the wrong side of fifty. It seemed an oddly specific demographic, as if the holiday appealed to people going through an aimless phase in their life. The exception to the age make up was one woman of about thirty. I sensed the holiday wasn't what she'd hoped for. Over the course of the week disappointment settled on her like dandruff on a vicar. The lead volunteer had an uncanny and unfortunate facial resemblance to my stepfather – the only person I've ever wished dead. I was doing well at not holding it against him until he insisted on betraying his South African roots with a sequence of racist asides. On a couple of occasions he referred to a group of black guests at the same centre as 'kaffirs' and to the children in the same group as 'picaninnies'. In hindsight I should have bollocked him, but he showed himself to be so jaw-droppingly thick skinned over the course of the week, I'm not sure it would have registered.