Hello again my Lieblings! Shock horror! No posties for days n days. Actually, that's not strictly true. I did cobble together a little something for you, but I was in such an furious mood at the time, that when I'd finally calmed down and my sense had seen reason, it was duly deleted. Who wants to read about a mad woman ranting and raving? Oh you guys do? Back to business then. It is after all, the bread and butter of this blog. What's making me seethe and burn at the moment? Many things my darlings. Miss Grumpy has been stomping and shouting the whole week long. The spark that has lit the fire, is the demented behaviour of my dear old Dad. Put it one way, if he was a husband, I'd be filing for divorce.
He's a drunk. There. It's a fact. Lately he's been a provocative antagonist and belligerent drunk, and I'm at the end of my tether with him. Tonight, when I returned home to the usual scene of destruction and mayhem, in the door way appeared the figure of my father. When he has something on his mind, it takes an age for him to open his mouth and say it. He stood with his fist on his hip, the other hand was used to steady himself against the worktop, and he was glaring at me for so long I thought he might burn a hole in my head. I ignored him, waiting, and continued to lift up jars, sweep the dishcloth under them, then carefully place them back down. Then it came. 'What now?' I wondered. Hoping that he'd just shuffle back to his beer and leave me be. To my surprize, I was being confronted for cleaning the kitchen. His grievance was that he'd wiped the cooker hob earlier in the day and he was incensed by my dish cloth going anywhere near it. I expect that he was waiting for his medal for domestic achievements. Some humble gratitude directed in way of thanks, but really, all I noticed were the pile of dirty dishes and black hand prints, and layers of spillage on the surfaces, the fact that you can't walk across the floor downstairs in socks or bare feet without picking up a tonne of grit and filth. No matter that the rest of the room was a disgrace, nor, that since his earlier efforts he'd spilled cooking oil all over the place. There is no reasoning with beer for brains. A man who covers his sausages and mash with fresh raspberries. Pours mixed nuts into the beef stew you've slaved over, and then pops in a block of Cheshire cheese in the hope it will form a crispy topping. A genius who can repair a broken power tool but cannot work out how to turn the knob on the cooker or ever boil a pan of potatoes without them catching fire. He is beyond eccentric. It's just not funny anymore. I'm ashamed and I'm losing all respect for the man I used to be so eager to please. As much as I love him because he's my Dad, he frustrates me to the point where my body starts to shake and I simply have to scream. There are no cuddles or affectionate words in this house. Perhaps my Mum has a point. He'll burn the place to the ground one of these days, and slipping a little arsenic into his lager might hasten his inevitable demise from liver failure or dementia.
Of course I don't mean it, don't be silly. This is the irony. I do love him deeply. Though what can you do when you see someone you love deteriorating into a shocking state, careless of his own hygiene and the environment he inhabits? The house has no decoration, no warmth, no comfort, no clean place to sit and chat, just bare surfaces, and a mountain of beer cans. Believe me, I did once try to tidy up. A skip was ordered to remove the accumulation of broken furniture and crap that filled the rooms from floor to ceiling. He was living, eating, sleeping and inviting visitors into a single room, which happened to be the smallest. His office. In there was a bed that looked like it belonged in a prison, and in many ways it was. The agoraphobic who doesn't leave the boundary of the house, had managed to squeeze himself into a space the size of a shoe box. His groceries would be delivered by the supermarket. The same list every week, and there it would sit on the floor of the hallway where the delivery man had left it, the frozen food defrosted, the fresh items rotting in the bags. Things certainly have changed around here.
So yes this week I have been angry. Angry at my Dad, angry at my ex for leaving me without love and affection in this miserable place and pissing off without a care. Never to be the victim, I'm also very angry at myself for not being fit enough for work and to simply help myself to escape. I have been a very unhappy angry girl. However, the good news is that I'm not defeated. Tomorrow is another day, and though the same patterns will be inevitably repeated one thing will change. I am going to quit smoking. What's this got to do with anything you may well ask. Because it's positive. It is a kind of freedom from slavery, something I can do to make me feel in control. So next time my dear old Dad accuses me of being a hypocrite for nagging him to stop the booze, I will score myself another point on my mission to lead by example. How's that for smug self righteousness eh? Wish me luck my lovelies, this time it's serious.
Hello again my Lieblings! Shock horror! No posties for days n days. Actually, that's not strictly true. I did cobble together a little something for you, but I was in such an furious mood at the time, that when I'd finally calmed down and my sense had seen reason, it was duly deleted. Who wants to read about a mad woman ranting and raving? Oh you guys do? Back to business then. It is after all, the bread and butter of this blog. What's making me seethe and burn at the moment? Many things my darlings. Miss Grumpy has been stomping and shouting the whole week long. The spark that has lit the fire, is the demented behaviour of my dear old Dad. Put it one way, if he was a husband, I'd be filing for divorce.
He's a drunk. There. It's a fact. Lately he's been a provocative antagonist and belligerent drunk, and I'm at the end of my tether with him. Tonight, when I returned home to the usual scene of destruction and mayhem, in the door way appeared the figure of my father. When he has something on his mind, it takes an age for him to open his mouth and say it. He stood with his fist on his hip, the other hand was used to steady himself against the worktop, and he was glaring at me for so long I thought he might burn a hole in my head. I ignored him, waiting, and continued to lift up jars, sweep the dishcloth under them, then carefully place them back down. Then it came. 'What now?' I wondered. Hoping that he'd just shuffle back to his beer and leave me be. To my surprize, I was being confronted for cleaning the kitchen. His grievance was that he'd wiped the cooker hob earlier in the day and he was incensed by my dish cloth going anywhere near it. I expect that he was waiting for his medal for domestic achievements. Some humble gratitude directed in way of thanks, but really, all I noticed were the pile of dirty dishes and black hand prints, and layers of spillage on the surfaces, the fact that you can't walk across the floor downstairs in socks or bare feet without picking up a tonne of grit and filth. No matter that the rest of the room was a disgrace, nor, that since his earlier efforts he'd spilled cooking oil all over the place. There is no reasoning with beer for brains. A man who covers his sausages and mash with fresh raspberries. Pours mixed nuts into the beef stew you've slaved over, and then pops in a block of Cheshire cheese in the hope it will form a crispy topping. A genius who can repair a broken power tool but cannot work out how to turn the knob on the cooker or ever boil a pan of potatoes without them catching fire. He is beyond eccentric. It's just not funny anymore. I'm ashamed and I'm losing all respect for the man I used to be so eager to please. As much as I love him because he's my Dad, he frustrates me to the point where my body starts to shake and I simply have to scream. There are no cuddles or affectionate words in this house. Perhaps my Mum has a point. He'll burn the place to the ground one of these days, and slipping a little arsenic into his lager might hasten his inevitable demise from liver failure or dementia.
Of course I don't mean it, don't be silly. This is the irony. I do love him deeply. Though what can you do when you see someone you love deteriorating into a shocking state, careless of his own hygiene and the environment he inhabits? The house has no decoration, no warmth, no comfort, no clean place to sit and chat, just bare surfaces, and a mountain of beer cans. Believe me, I did once try to tidy up. A skip was ordered to remove the accumulation of broken furniture and crap that filled the rooms from floor to ceiling. He was living, eating, sleeping and inviting visitors into a single room, which happened to be the smallest. His office. In there was a bed that looked like it belonged in a prison, and in many ways it was. The agoraphobic who doesn't leave the boundary of the house, had managed to squeeze himself into a space the size of a shoe box. His groceries would be delivered by the supermarket. The same list every week, and there it would sit on the floor of the hallway where the delivery man had left it, the frozen food defrosted, the fresh items rotting in the bags. Things certainly have changed around here.
So yes this week I have been angry. Angry at my Dad, angry at my ex for leaving me without love and affection in this miserable place and pissing off without a care. Never to be the victim, I'm also very angry at myself for not being fit enough for work and to simply help myself to escape. I have been a very unhappy angry girl. However, the good news is that I'm not defeated. Tomorrow is another day, and though the same patterns will be inevitably repeated one thing will change. I am going to quit smoking. What's this got to do with anything you may well ask. Because it's positive. It is a kind of freedom from slavery, something I can do to make me feel in control. So next time my dear old Dad accuses me of being a hypocrite for nagging him to stop the booze, I will score myself another point on my mission to lead by example. How's that for smug self righteousness eh? Wish me luck my lovelies, this time it's serious.