(Second verse, same as the first…)
So the journey becomes more lonely with confirmation from the ex-parents and ex-fiance that there is unlikely to be any opportunity to return or of reconciliation: a one-way street. Why bother then? Why not just drink to drown it all out? Three reasons: the kids and me.
I’m lucky to still have some supportive friends but those who I thought closest to me are gone: clearly I was wrong. I’m a bit co-dependent – especially with partners – but now I have no co-dependant.
Things rarely come to you; instead you have to find them. This was the case today when a street friend told me of a food parcel scheme. I’ve already registered with Gateway in Tunbridge Wells, which is how I got a place on the Winter Shelter Scheme (alas, no spaces last night). If I also register in Tonbridge, I can apparently get a food package from the church opposite to where I’m currently staying.
My friend went through the process and assumed that he’d be given tinned goods: not a lot of use without the facility to cook or heat. So instead he was given £10 to spend in Lidl. He was chaperoned by a church official, so that the money was spent wisely and not on booze. And this facility is available weekly: £40 for food; major reduction to the weekly budget.
My friend – having not availed of the food package service before – was unsure of which entrance of the church he’d been sent to to collect it to use. He used the obvious one – the front one – and walked in on a funeral.
My friend (Blue) has a dog: Jazz. Jazz is a Victorian bulldog / Staffordshire bull terrier cross. She’s beautiful; she’s docile. Unless she feels that Blue is threatened: then she’s positively scary in her aggression. Luckily she’s taken to me and I’m now Uncle Steve. Blue will leave Jazz with me; entrust his love to me. That is true trust.
Obviously a dog is a responsibility and they carry costs but like me, Blue has no co-dependant; no-one who’s always there. And that’s what I miss most of all from my many failed relationships. Jazz is Blue’s constant companion, unwavering and unconditional in her love for him. I want one (Victor has Daniel in the novel) but I’ve been advised that a dog may be a poisoned chalice. Perhaps I’ll get a rat.
(This is Victor’s diary – a work of part fiction – which his son will find in the story. The fact that the journal is part fiction has given me poetic licence and continues to do so. It makes the narrative for the book more complex (and difficult to write) but renders things more interesting. Double meanings and intentions all over the place; stories within stories: recursion almost (place one mirror in front of another)).
I know that sometimes my writing is such that it plants ideas and thoughts; that it is suggestive; can be taken more than one way. I paint pictures between the lines which are open to interpretation. Sometimes (often) I’m misunderstood though, or mis-read. Just today, simple English seems to have been overlooked and I was accused of something I never intended. People sometimes read things too quickly, without absorbing the words and the resultant reaction to my words today was made with similar haste. My mouth, my heart; my sleeve.
Think before you speak: I rarely do but I ask that you do as I ask and not as I do.
Lots to do tomorrow: things I’ve been putting off; I do that. The only thing I do with any sense of immediacy is procrastinate.
(Don’t put off till tomorrow that which you can do today, because if you do it today and you like it, you can do it again tomorrow).
This procrastinator can wait.