Our buggy has a toe-powered lock on its wheels. That is to say, if you pull it down or up (I never know which) it will lock each or both of the wheels (again, I never know which). So we're in Bideford this morning, and all is well. I am a little doped up, but fine, until some pavement drunk - I mean, the guy was in the bag and it was 10am) - decides to laugh at my inability to undo the bastarding pushchair's Mystical Locking System with my right toe, which is bleeding because I've already stubbed it on the Mystical Locking System four times by then. As Tam is thirty yards away carrying the baby for some reason known only to herself, she fails to hear my hissed entreaties for assistance. Said inebriate notices though and is all 'Oh, you have to get your ladyfriend to help, do you?'
All my life, I have been bullied because of physical shortcomings that Nice People overlook, and Fucking Arseholes have a go at. It's given me a bit of a thin skin. Mostly, now that I'm no longer a callow youth, I can spot these FAs a mile off, but recent mobility changes have accentuated some of my shortcomings. Apparently, then, it is now Fine for street-drinkers to have a go if I stub my toe as a direct consequence of having cancer and a toddler.
Thus exasperated we continued with our shopping until lunchtime, at which we bought some pasties and looked for a bench to sit on. The moment we sat down, of course, about 11 kids from the same shouting, heaving feral mass family descended on 'our' bench. Literally crawling over Leo and shouting 'BABY!' at a volume designed in his six year-old mind to get the attention of his thick-as-fuck mother and draw her to him. It worked, he was told to go away, and he did. The little square seemed to be full of these little pre-teen scrotes and Tam - I think - motioned to leave.
However, she must have done so almost silently because I sat down and stuffed in a bit of pasty. Next thing you know, scrotes return and are all over Leo - literally climbing to see him, really invading his space etc. So I said: 'Leave him alone, please... he's only little... be careful... leave him alone.'
Pikey Child A just started to lean on Leo in his buggy, so I told him, pretty firmly: 'Get off him. Get off him. Get your hands off my son.' I had to gently pull the kid away, but I did no harm. Sensing things could get ugly, we left, and a stony-silent hour followed. She's pissed at me because I won't be pushed around by either pavement alkies or council tenants, regardless of age. She thinks it's embarrassing that this has happened.
She blames me for not hearing her lip-syncing from 20 feet away.
She thinks I am an idiot, and a liability.
She probably sees herself as the caregiver to two babies, neither of whom can look after themselves, and she'd be right, because that's what I am sometimes. She is right. I am wrong. She is right. I am wrong. She is right. I am wrong. Repeat to fucking fade.
I've had enough of being in the way. Life would be easier for everyone without me in it. I've peaked, anyway. I've also been told what to do for the last 13 years, and lost myself along the way. I can't make decisions for myself anymore. Everything goes via committee. I have given her everything I have, and will ever have.
Sometimes I think back to, say, 2001. Lucy died the previous year, but I was ok. I had a girlfriend. I had spare money for CDs. I had no bills. I had a plan (get to Future Publishing, then move to Bath or London after a year or two). I never worked particularly late. I never had to worry about everything. I lived at home, and rode a bike to the station in New Milton every morning, and was home at 6pm on the dot. I had no worries. Life is just fucking worries now. Even good days are good* days, and the asterisk means what you need it to mean. You just exist. One day follows another. Sure, there are bright patches, but it's pretty unsatisfying. Even if I do go back to work, it'll be under the *potentially committing tax-evasion subclause. It is impossible to relax and enjoy life. This is what life really is. Eat, sleep, repeat.
I'm fucking right, though. I'm sorry, but you know it. The light went from me the day Leo was born. I have done my job. There are no more rivers to cross. Downhill and out.
