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Friday, 30 December 2016

In which I hate it here ...

One is now fully informed of all the illnesses/medication various/eating/sleeping habits of each and every 'chum' of Aged P...

'Eileen sleeps on a two-seater sofa every night, you know and goes down Debenhams for one slice of toast with beans on and one with egg. What do you think of that?' she hisses with vitriol.

As with so many of her other statements, there is simply no adequate reply.

The child in the adjoining house starts running up and down, thereby diverting the flow of bile, briefly in her direction and affording One a handy get-out from Eileen bashing.

'Have you seen Boy?' she enquiries, knowing full well that I haven't.

This enquiry is an attempt at solidarity, since her son, my brother, has ceased all communication with her.

I briefly leave the scene, to be informed, on my return, by my companion, that she 'thinks this is disgusting because I used to buy him anything he wanted when he was little. It must be his Father's fault.'

And there we have the problem, Dear Reader: Everything has to be someone's fault. Though not hers.

The brother gave up with her and cut her from his life as 'she ruined his childhood.'
I do have a certain sympathy for that view, but I am too much of a coward to do likewise and simply prolong the agony with bad-tempered visits making any companion I have, uncomfortable in the extreme.

The real truth of the matter is that I am terrified of any comparison between she and me.

Sometimes when I'm particularly ill humoured I hear her bitter spite in my own voice. Or I catch a glimpse of her pinched, sour face in my own reflection and I want to put a gun to my temple.

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