It was as feared, 'A' had ulterior motives for inviting me out for a coffee and as flattering as it is to an old bird (with a kid) to be pursued so sincerely by a mere boy, I really can't entertain the notion of defecting to the flat next door. One has to question the mental state of this unassuming young man. At least he got the chance to get it off his chest and I got a free lunch. I don't think rejection gets any more diplomatic than this and I get to keep custody of the kitchen.
If I were to allow myself the indulgence of a totally unrealistic fantasy, I could very well argue that I've become a sort of Patti Boyd in a George Harrison - Eric Clapton love sandwich. Except instead of being driven to write beautiful rock ballads to make me stay, The Silverback (George in this scenario) would most likely put together an incentive plan to ensure a quick and problem-free handover before disappearing to The Tundra without so much as a forwarding address.
It's been a week for odd encounters. Take last night for example: I was on my way to meet friends in Islington when out of nowhere a woman sobbing uncontrollably approached me as I stepped out of my building. My immediate reaction was to go into Jodie Foster mode (as Clarisse in Silence of the Lambs). I quickly surveille the area for signs of a set up and go all FBI on the poor woman. More real than the tears was the raw agony etched on her face. She was so upset, I couldn't make out what she was trying to tell me. With my back against the wall (and in my mind a .22 calibre in my hand) I get her to calm down.
Finally she was able to explain that she'd just been told she had breast cancer and on telling her long-time partner and father of her son, he had responded by confessing a 2 year affair which meant he would not be sticking around for the hard part. This made me mad. It doesn't take much when it comes to stories about men being shits and I stood in disbelief as she then went on to explain how she'd sacrificed many years of her life to help this man navigate through a drug and bi-polar problem.
I gave the names of two cancer charities. I really wish her well. They say breast cancer is a martyr's disease - well in the case of this lady, tis true.
As I hurried along, now woefully late to meet my friends, I started to think about the whole 'martyr' thing especially with regards going back to work. I could let myself feel really guilty about taking the office job which essentially means someone else will be doing the school runs for me going forward or I can just accept that the (right) office job makes me happy. You can call this rationalisation but I believe that in following my heart, I'm teaching The Lish to be dependent on herself and herself alone in the pursuit of happiness and freedom because at the end of that day no-one can live your life for you.
But most of all, I'd hate my child to end up a martyr to anyone or anything. No sir.
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