Ages and Sages

13.08.14 (Day 234)

08.42

A bit of a ramble…

Just wondering:

At what age does one cease to fall over and have a fall instead? At what age or IQ level difference is it considered unfair to trip someone up? 

In a rare reversal, I have been accused of being a victim – not a perpetrator – of crime; the recipient and not the donor; the taker, not the giver. I’ve been accused of being assaulted, not the assailant. I have apparently made a statement to the police alleging assault upon my person. There was no statement because there was no assault. If there had been, I’d have sorted things out the old fashioned way. I do not grass and only involve the law when I have to; when I need their resources, usually to help with something or to help someone. Someone has used me as a scapegoat; a diversion.

The drums of this jungle beat loudly, so word is on the street that I’ve been assaulted and that I’ve grassed: I wasn’t and I haven’t. Those who know me, know this. But I won’t let it lie.

So in a further reversal, although I’ve often been on the wrong side of the law in the past, they and yours truly have worked together. The police have come to me because they’ve known that kids who they’ve needed to speak to would be with me, in a place where they felt safe and secure and the police were happy for them to be: the defunct squat. Now myself, the gavers and my solicitor in London are working together to find out who’s effectively libeled me. It’s slander at least and I’ve moved on from sorting things out myself, so this is one which someone will be hearing about from one of my contacts. Someone didn’t know what they were taking on. Someone didn’t reckon on my connections, intellect, experience and age.

Take a good look at these crows feet. Take a look into my eyes, looking up and ahead to life and plenty of 16th of Julys.

Eight days in the temporary haven now and lots of progress: I’m venturing out, re-engaged with CRI and have irons in a few fires for the next stage. As before, I’ve done my part, made all of the calls and am waiting for people to call me back. Thus far they haven’t but I shan’t give up this time. Nice as it is, this is somewhere I don’t wish to stay any longer than necessary. My hosts may miss me but I have to move on. 

The kids continue to visit in limited numbers: the ones who count; the ones who have been there for me, supporting me and giving me advice. Well beyond their young years, I respect them and heed their advice, eventually. My Clingy Thingy continues to keep a smile on my face and I’m sad every day when she has to leave but we have plenty of tomorrows together.

At the other end of the age scale is my owner (of the property I occupied before coming here). Bill visited me today to drop off the belongings of mine which he’d held in storage. The guy has been one of my guardian angels because he understands and cares. Like the kids: age does not preclude being a sage. 

I’m making myself useful here. I’m doing some of the cooking. Last night we had Spanish omelette, employing my old trick of using whatever needs using up. I’ve been made to feel part of the family here but I must go and when I do, perhaps the same question will be asked that has been by other hosts of homes I’ve had to leave: no you can’t have the recipes as there are none; I just make it up as I go along. Usually it turns out okay. Last night’s offering went down throats and not the toilet, so that was a good sign.

As well as the cooking, I’ve charmed my 16-year-old friend’s nan, to the extent that I made her wet yesterday: I cut her hair, needed water and got some on her. I’ve also washed the family dog’s arse, as you do. Apparently I’m quite fun to have around too but I will have to move on soon to start the new life I have planned.

The lady of the house – one of my best friends – has cooked dinner tonight and I’m eating with the family. This is another hurdle for me, with my shyness about eating in front of others and merely picking at food, rather than actually eating a meal. Trivial perhaps but a big step for me, made with helping hands. 

I’m drinking less too. Not that some of those on the outside would bother to acknowledge by actually taking the time to ask me, rather than spilling bile all over the place. One in particular would be that which I refer to as Rotunda, for she is a fat cunt. Just today, she warned my hosts about me: “Watch him. He has a serious alcohol problem.” Yes, I DID. I also used to do crime but I don’t anymore. Everyone has baggage and I let them leave it at the door. People change and if you bother to stay in touch with them, you might see that change take place; just like the ones who’ve stuck by me have seen the changes recently because they helped; they understand. I’m still drinking, Rotunda but less. You’re still a fat cunt. 

Money and material goods no longer hold the appeal which they once did. In this new life, it’s all about living the life, helping people and making them happy. I’ll start again from scratch, probably working with food or people. I have options and that’s exciting. I’m good with food and with people. I don’t know why. I’m just me. Second dad, brother, uncle; friend. So much to so many people, as they are to me, including my young friends – wise beyond their years – whom I’ve helped and who have helped me. I know I’m repetitive but I can’t praise these kids enough. I adopted them and some of them and their families reciprocated. Those who continue to doubt, judge and persecute can just go fucking trot: they’ll never understand.

There’s light at the end of the tunnel: a small, bright white thing, like a Milky Bar.

And I will get my biological kids back, as well as never losing my adopted ones. And I’ll have more, once a few other things are in place. I have incentives now. My family – both biological and adopted – are my world, a few forgotten and forgetful ones aside. One day both parties will meet – with my new wife by my side, in my new home, wherever that may be (I have a place in mind beside a racecourse). My parents will be there too.

Dear mummy and daddy,

Please forgive my writing. I’m no longer cold and alone but I miss you. Please look me up. You may actually be proud of your wayward son. I’m back on the rails and I want to see you. I don’t want to get a phone call from one of you to say that the other has passed. Live every day like it’s your last. 

When I go from here, there are a few more stepping stones to traverse, hoops to jump through and hurdles to jump over; possibly a few bridges to be re-built – and others which will have to be burned – but the next, new and last life is all planned out: my little secret for now though. All will be revealed, when we all get together again.

Keep in touch x

I know I’m rambling but I needed to commit this all to writing. And I’ll carry on.

Just wandering.

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