THE WRITER’S LIFE
A Royal python (Python regius), like my parents’ permanent house guest
Yesterday I took my parents to lunch, for their golden wedding anniversary. I must admit, it wasn’t quite what I was expecting.
This wasn’t an unprecedented gesture on my part, and no unexpectedness arose from actually being there. It’s true that I wouldn’t have been having lunch out with my parents as recently as three years ago, because I’d done my drunken best to kick everyone away from me. But I’m better now. I’m a writer, I earn modest royalties from my books, and I can treat my mum and dad. The initial surprise was in how my local had changed since I was last there.
I don’t not go to the pub because I’m an alcoholic: I’ve got that genie back in its lantern. I don’t go to the pub for the same reason I rarely go anywhere beyond my studio: Anxiety. If I were able to overcome that, I might be able to make more of this idyllic setting I’ve found myself in. Then I might be able to pick up a newspaper, pop to the pub for lunch, then finish with a coffee in the coffee shop under my studio. But those things don’t happen.
My local is the one I chose among a number of agreeable looking contenders when I first came here. It’s not my local in proximity; there are other pubs nearer home. It became my local because it looked friendly, and when I first went in there with my removal man mate, we found it to be just that. It’s an old pub; the building dating from the 16th century, with an open fire and higgledy piggledy furniture. They serve traditional Sunday roasts, at a decent price and without farting around: Just the kind of thing my parents like, being as they were, fans of the Wetherspoons roasts (RIP). My local was a place I might go, if ever I plucked up the courage to go there on my own. I never did. Yesterday’s visit was going to be fine: I’d mentally prepared, and I had pleasant company.
But like ‘spoons roasts, my old pub has gone. The pub itself is still there but the atmosphere has left, as though someone popped a balloon. Now it’s a gastro pub. My village has room for another one and if I were wealthier and less anxious, I could enjoy a fine meal at a different quality eatery every night. But the boozer had gone, along with the friendly locals. When we arrived at 12.30, we were the first. My heart sank when I looked around and saw that all the furniture was uniformly laid out and the whole place had been de-cluttered. It was that very cluttered nature of the place which made it homely, even if there were few others around. Now, everything was gone.
I’d reserved a table, which we duly occupied when we were requested to do so. Immediately, the menu caused me slight alarm by proxy, on behalf of my parents: Being of a certain age, they are used to having things a certain way. In the case of roast beef, this would include the meat being cooked way beyond my personal preference (rare) and in a Bisto gravy (other gravy brands are available). This roast beef came with a red wine gravy and I assumed the meat would be served pink. We asked if we might have an alternative gravy but the reply from “Chef” was that he’d already prepared the sauce. I was tempted to tell the pretentious cunt to climb down from his rocking horse, and that I’d boil a fucking kettle if he really couldn’t manage it, but I managed to hold my tongue.
When my parents’ lunches arrived, they looked just like the sort of roast beef dinner I’d relish: slightly pink meat, and the red wine gravy was silky and delicious. My appetite excluded me from participating in what would have been an expensive waste of money. Instead, I related some anecdotes to my parents while they ate, before writing some notes in my pad (My parents get that I carry a notepad around all the time, and they enjoy hearing what I’m thinking as I write, I think). My mum commented that there were no prices on the menu: There were but she’d not noticed. It didn’t matter, because I was paying.
In the time we were there, the place filled up considerably. It got quite lively in fact. It wasn’t the old boozer atmosphere though: Compared to what I remembered in that place, this atmosphere was a bit wanky, with pretentious types, hipsters, yummy mummies and fun dads. I began to take a dislike to some of those people, because they’d taken over my old place. Of course, it was never mine but still.
Once, I’d have grown more anxious and paranoid, feeling somehow that it was me who wasn’t welcome there. It’s irrational but that’s how my mix of mental malfunctions works. Now I live by coping mechanisms and what was taught to me by one of many psychologists: Cognition.
Although it’s never been openly discussed, my parents don’t seem uncomfortable when I’m apparently being utterly rude and disrespectful by writing notes in my journal, right in front of them. There’s no paranoia on their part, as I tell them what I’m writing about. They had their mouths full, so it was good for them to listen and not have to reply.
I was writing about the people in the room. Because what I’ve known for some time now is that however objectionable someone might be, they’re human. And given that I don’t discriminate on any grounds, it would be hypocritical of me to take a dislike to someone based purely on the way they look and seem. I’m sure these invaders of my old pub were nice people once you got talking to them, but I wasn’t, so I wrote about them.
That guy over there, with his man bun and generally infuriatingly fucking friendly face, could be a psychopath. Equally, he could be gay and mourning a break up with a partner. That annoying little kid over there: She might be wearing that hat because she has cancer and not long to live. The two girls in the corner, could be sisters or lovers; this could be their first or their break-up date. Everyone has and is a story. We don’t know until we ask. And if we don’t ask, we shouldn’t judge. What a wonderful world this would be if people thought a little differently. What a wonderful one mine has become since I did.
There are many interesting people among my friends, some with many stories of their own. And I’m probably one of very few people whose pensioner parents have a pet snake: Adopted from me when I had my breakdown, because I needed the money and the snake needed a home. My parents’ house was once going to be an interim measure but now they won’t let go of the little guy.
It would probably do me some good to get out more, but monthly trips to see the kids and the odd pre-arranged thing like yesterday is about my limit. My anxiety is only crippling in that it renders me housebound. It’s fortunate that I’m in a place where I don’t mind being.
And what are my problems anyway? First world problems is what they are. As such, they are insignificant compared to those of millions of others. Those are the important people: The silent ones. The ones with no voice, or no means to make themselves heard. At least I have that. And with that, I might make a difference. I know that I already have to some people and that’s worth more than money.
It’s becoming a trope: That I’m not a writer for the money. I’d be deluded if I thought I’d make anything from what I do. But even if I’m doing it for free, it comes back to me in other ways.
Life can throw up surprises, and that’s what makes being alive so much fun. I write stories about it, and people seem to like that.
A shameless plug
I have a new short story out soon: It’s called Reflections of Yesterday and it’s about perceptions; how we see people, and how we look at them. If you look at things a different way, the story takes on a different meaning. That story will be in my second collection of shorts. The first is available now.