There’s a whole bunch of seagulls swooping over my life at the moment, and it’s not clear at all if they’ll just shriek noisily and fly away, or if they are going to dump shit and stale herrings on me from a great height.
I’m aware my nice and tidy life could go spectacularly tits-up (redundancy, housing crisis, personal credit crunch, etc, etc) but the odd thing is that I feel more annoyed and irritated than worried or peturbed.
It’s not that I think it won’t happen to me. It has in the past so why not again? I’m all too aware that the gap between any of us and helpless homelessness is the thickness of a rizla paper. Nine years ago I dealt with the loss of my marriage, my business and my home, and at that time I had no property and serious debts. I walked around with fear in the pit of my stomach for so many years that I’ve now no way of working out just how long it was. Five years maybe. And I lived a wild and rackety life for a while, and settling down has just been bliss. So I don’t want to have to deal with that sort of upheaval again. I’m a decade older and tireder for a start.
But I guess the fact that I’ve turned myself around in the past means that I do know that I can face that sort of shit and deal with it. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing though. Last time I dealt with it because I had no choice, and I’d no idea how hard it would be or how long it would take. Ignorance may not have been bliss, but it made it easier to be hopeful.
This time I’ve a better idea of what I could be facing if the sea-gulls spray me with shit and herrings. It’s less scary, because I know I can deal with that sort of thing, but it’s far, far drearier, because I know what’s involved. I don’t want to have to deal with that sort of upheaval, but if I must, I must. At least I have no children or dependents to worry about.
On an allied topic, I’ve been thinking about just what a cunt Christopher Foster was to kill his daughter and his wife. I can understand that he didn’t want the bailiffs to take away his lovely lifestyle. What’s not to understand about that? I can even understand but not condone the impulse that says “if I can’t have this lovely house and expensive cars then no-one can”. From there it’s a short step to killing the horses, assuming that he’d only ever seen them as another way of making his neighbours like or envy him. When it comes to killing his wife, perhaps the common nastiness of domestic murder has dulled the outrage I should feel and left a sickened distaste in its place. But to kill his daughter whom he should protect and nurture, and who had sufficient youth to move well beyond any financial crisis rattling around her in her teens: that is an act of dispicable and unforgivable betrayal. I’ve already used the worst word I have, and it really isn’t bad enough.