8.45am Didsbury Library
Feeling more grumpy/aggrieved than usual. Is it innate? Is this my nature in repose? Think of Dr Sam Thompson (5 routes to happiness) and his suggestion of counting one’s blessings. Focus on the good bits Kathleenella…
Mmmm… tricky. Crisis of being/situation. WHAT IS THE POINT?
A student joined a lecture on Monday whom I haven’t seen on campus for 12 months. What’s the point?
Late for a meeting about my research, I wait outside his office and listen as I am maligned to another about my noshow. Harumph and cough and enter. Profuse apologies, all my fault etc etc, but I’m here, and do make appearances more than annually and I contribute and participate, more than once a year… What’s the point?
Flo’s parent’s evening. What’s the point? We know what she is and what she does. Her, me, her dad present this united front, sit in a row before the beak and await the ruling. Her one male teacher astounds me. We hover, like sitting ducks and he speaks. Not once does he look at me, acknowledge me, engage me. Is he the twin brother of the John Lewis salesman who adopted self same on Groundhog Day this week?
All the spiel addressed to the man in the equation. Mr Cellophane, that’s me. But I’m the one who wants to make a purchase, not him.
Look at me.
But I’m the one who drives this child, not him.
Look at me.
What’s the point?
I only came in to print directions to the Taj. One Taj rises like phoenix from flames, (sorry, deliberate cliche), as one burns, while we all stand and watch from our padded cells, and fiddle. What’s the point?
Well St Francis of Gorton Monastery, what is the point….
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen
…. and we all go to heaven in a little row boat. Clap Clap.
Hello, I’m back, I feel less twitchy. Maybe the spiritualistic aura emanating from what remains of the Franciscans has had a calming effect. I have just looked up to see whether yesterday was National Misandry Day. I certainly don’t see myself as a misandrist, but yesterday all the signs pointed to an Amazonian, female future, before men destroy le tout, or should that be la toute, and women take control. It started when I sat in the hairdressers. Or maybe it started before then. Huge generalisation alert, but are all builders utterly patronising and butch? Do they really not notice that they make conversation to women’s breasts? If eyes are the windows to the soul, then breasts must be the windows to what? However, I digress… Moving on from the Neanderthals who construct our homes and hearths..
The hairdressers. Sale Moor, we won’t go into why, but there I was sitting quietly with half a roll of Bacofoil on my head tucking into Donna’s Daily Mail/Moan. Flick through, Chief Constable has 38 affairs. How? Thirty eight, how did he do it, I mean, I know what he was doing, but logistically, how? His life a lie. His life to uphold law and order, and what were 38 women thinking as they lay on the casting couch in his office with pictures of his wife and children on his desk? That’s not law and order, that’s anarchy.
Next article flicked to, Gordon Ramsay, burns his plums and roasts his nuts etc etc. Why? Much wants more. That’s what Mary Nagle would say, and my Grandmother was never wrong. As I am scanning the details of the amyl nitrate sex marathon a young woman enters the hairdressers with a huge double buggy. Twin boys peer out. They whinge and so do I inwardly. The hairdressers is a chance to let my brain go numb for a couple of hours. Whingeing toddlers do not a numb brain make. Donna chirps a cheery Hiyyyaaa to Lee, as Lee steers the buggy into a corner. Lee launches into an Olympic style moan about her tiredness/nails/Christmas plans/diet as she attempts to feed the little boys. A baldy man enters, he wouldn’t look out of place in the Bedrock that is my building site. Hiyyyaaa Steve, says Donna. Steve sits down and the moaning begins afresh, now in stereo. Lee asks Steve for a lift to collect Cameron, Steve adamantly refuses to take Lee anywhere. The three females simultaneously look at Steve, then the buggy, then the torrential monsoon outside. Steve leaves.
Fucking Bastard, say Donna and Lee at the same time. Lee is 24, she’s been with Steve for 5 years. She has four boys with him under the age of five. One of the twins is severely handicapped and may never walk. Steve has just walked out – couldn’t take any more.
Lee leaves, Donna helps her out with the buggy. Fucking bastard says Donna. Anarchy thinks Kathleen.
National Misandry Day, in Sale Moor anyway.
(What’s the point of today’s log? I think it is the utter futility of it.)
Of it all.
Who am I or anybody to think that bloody paintings on a wall are going to make a difference.
Today I live on Sisyphus Street.