08.12.14 (Day 351)
Literally translated: It annoys me at the foot. (Less literally, “my foot itches”. Refers to a trivial situation or person that is being a bother, possibly in the sense of wishing to kick that thing away or, such as the commonly used expressions, a “pebble in one’s shoe” or “nipping at one’s heels”).
I have much trivia (situations and people) which I’d like to kick away with my itchy feet. I’m legally prevented from naming most of the people and the situations are the usual, perpetual ones. I do have itchy feet though. I want to move on; to get out from under the feet of the people who’ve been putting me up / putting up with me. In an ideal world, I’d like to be on my way by Christmas. But that’s the ideal world in which by day I’m a writer, by night I’m a chef and it’s the world in which I have the fantasy wife. I like to think that the life to which I aspire isn’t all fantasy though, rather a realistic thing to aim for, seeing my kids being the main aim.
Unless something goes seriously tits up, this Christmas will at least not be spent as the last one was: in hospital. But it also won’t be spent with my kids. I need to be better to see them apparently. The situation is an irritant / pebble in my shoe / sand in my vagina but I’m not going to waste time on a fruitless pursuit. Instead I’m going to concentrate on realising my dream, so that next Christmas can be spent with my kids. By then I’ll have my own place and at least one source of income. As well as the fledgling business, as I’m getting better, I’m looking to return to work but not in the bullshit bingo environments I used to suffer; rather in a kitchen.
Until then I have my other daughter, or at least the nearest thing I have to a daughter other than my biological one. My surrogate daughter is the one I also refer to as The Wife: we’re good friends (with benefits, as in I’m on benefits), we argue sometimes but get on well most of the time and we need each other. She sees me as a father figure (among other things) in the absence of another and I need her as someone to look after in the absence of my own daughter to whom I’m denied access. And in case the instigator of the denial of access is reading, all references to “The Wife” are to the one who is also my girl friend (she’s a friend who’s a girl, so don’t read too much into it) and adopted daughter. I recognise no-one else has holding that title. This wife / friend / daughter knows more about me than most and she carries a big piece of my heart with her, as well as some secrets. We are very close and I love her more than most.
Talking of family, it was my dear mother ship who helped me decide that my energy is better focussed on sorting myself out than fighting for something just out of reach until I do sort myself out. And that’s still very much a work in progress but definite progress is being made. I’ve given up the fight but I fight on still. In another year from now – at most – I will be able to prove one particular doubter wrong and will have done my kids proud. I don’t want them to be inspired, nor aspire to what I’ve done but I want them to learn what it’s like to live; to live the rough life and gain experience through life, without having to do it themselves. I don’t want sympathy but I want the kids to practice respect for all, even those who got lost in life. But I digress.
With the help of CAB, I’m finally on the local authority housing list and able to bid on properties as they become available. It only took nine months. The bidding cycle is once per fortnight and on the current list there are no properties for which I’m eligible because of the demographic I fall into. I’m not needy enough. I’m not vulnerable enough. I’m not bad enough. In other words, I’m tough enough to survive. If that weren’t the case I wouldn’t have survived the last year.
There are other routes which I’ve explored before and which I’m revisiting. Unlike previous attempts to move my itchy feet on though, I’m much more open to the idea of moving entirely out of the area. There are a few people around here who could hold me back if the circumstances were different and there are several who I’d miss dearly were I to move away. Vice versa in most cases but I have to be selfish this time. It’s all a bit Déjà vu, déjà visite, déjà vecu (Obtenu le T-shirt).
So after exhausting all routes of enquiry today concerning moving on, I’ve returned to this: a bit of writing therapy; getting it all out so that I don’t have to repeat ad infinitum what I’ve been doing to those who care to enquire #RTFB. There’s also another short story in the pipeline as the last one (The Paradox of Shadows) was so well received.
I’m still writing on the borrowed netbook while Little Blue sits in a body (Jiffy) bag in front of me. We are sans the proof of purchase and serial number required by the manufacturer to carry out a repair of the tablet but as it stands (or rather, lays), Little Blue is fit for nothing other than perhaps propping a door open. So throw it in the bin or take a gamble, shell out some cash for postage and hope that someone nice sees fit to take a look at the little thing. Ever the gambler, I’m taking the latter route. The alternative is to buy a new tablet but with all of the money I’m owed being sat on by officialdom, this could involve quite a long wait.
Although I have the means to do most of what I need to, I am somewhat limited and Little Blue allowed me to have everything in the same place at once. As well as the practical stuff like email and building a business, I miss being able to watch what I want on TV and playing poker, among many things. Poker was going quite well too. I can’t say the same of the business as there’s been a fuck up (mine, I think) on the hosting of the website, so now it’s a bit 404 (not available). That said, I do have a fairly big gig coming up in less than two weeks when I’m running the show as head chef at a community lunch with around 40 covers. I’m in charge of the lot: kitchen, pass and dining room. I’ll be in my element.
Returning finally to the kids – as I intend to do – the eldest hits double figures in four days time: he’ll be ten years old. I probably won’t see him now until he’s in secondary school (hopefully a grammar) but I’ll maintain whatever level of contact is permitted by the self-appointed powers that be, including sending a birthday card via a circuitous route dictated by the same powers. It remains to be seen whether it reaches the intended recipient. I admit that I’ve failed my kids and this is only something I’ve been able to admit as I’ve got better and less self-deluded. I’ve served a one year sentence in hell and only wish that others would allow me to move on. I shall do so myself in any case. Meanwhile I have my adopted daughter / wife to shower affection upon.
Right now I have some pebbles to remove from my shoe and a vagina to soothe.