Mother Fuckering Sunday

30.03.14 (Day 98)


As I may have mentioned once or twice, I fucking detest Sundays: no library, shops only open for limited hours and the wrong end of the week for money (I get paid on Mondays). But it is The Day of The Lord and I am gradually coming round and hearing the knock.

I’m at home, writing in the paper journal (or I was), as the netbook is low on battery. I may pop into town later and get it (her) charged up in the usual charging station (my friendly local newsagent) but for now I’m staying put as I’m not sure I can tolerate all the happy families out there on Mothers’ Day. Not that I begrudge them but I don’t have a happy family.

I sent my mum a text earlier, wishing her happy Mothers’ Day. I’d have phoned (as I did on her birthday and my dad’s and their wedding anniversary) but chose not to as I assumed that mum would be with my sister, from whom I remain very much estranged and who thought she was doing me a favour by driving a wedge between myself and our parents. I accept my part of the blame but she was harsh. My assumptions seemed to be well-founded when my mum phoned me back (which was nice of her and appreciated) and the background noises were those of a family gathering. They’ll be having a family roast together but without the black sheep; the rebel; the one who is chronically depressed and who suffered from Alcohol Dependency Syndrome. Just like Christmas dinner when the rebel’s lunch was a turkey sandwich in a hospital bed (the turkey was in bread; it was me in the bed).

I assume my ex-wife is having a similar affair with her partner and my kids. And my ex-fiance will probably be going out with her mum. Danielle was assumed step mum to my kids and great in that capacity. It’s just a shame that “they” fucked things up for us. Also, I got on very well with the “Mother-In-Law” until I fucked it all up.

Lunch here isn’t unpleasant today though: bacon and egg quiche (which we had), with garlic sausage (which we had): sort of an English-continental fusion. Or something.

Life here isn’t too bad either, now that I’ve reclaimed the house and done it up a bit, after it was trashed. It’s mine again now until “The Daddy” returns but hopefully he’ll see that I’ve done okay with the place, which he introduced me to and invited me into after all. He put me up and I’ve done okay with the house. I only wish the same could be said for the people I’ve taken in but it’s in my nature to do so. Human kindness is something I’ve received a lot of and what I have, I share. It isn’t a two-way street though apparently and I really should be more selfish, as others have advised.

One of the people I took in was for protection from The Daddy should he return but my protector just drunk, slept and soiled the place. I’d rather take my chances with The Daddy, even if he is somewhat unpredictable and with a reputation reaching far ahead of him.

For now at least, the house is mine; albeit a stop gap while something more stable is arranged. I’ve just made it more pleasant for what will hopefully not be much longer.

I’ve re-hung the book shelves and placed the books back thereon (library books and ones which I own); put all of the furniture which survived back in place and acquired new things from some neighbours. Last night I lay in my bed (which had been “borrowed”) and continued to read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time: I’m about two thirds of the way through. Then feeling relatively safe, I bunged my earplugs in and drifted off to the gentle strains of Radio 4.

I was content for a while. Then the clocks went forward, I lost an hour and it was Sunday.

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