The end of immortality

I’ve reached a new stage in life. No more for me the youthful folly of believing oneself immortal which I’ve held onto for far too long in the misguided belief that I’m holding onto my youth. No, I’m feeling my age, a mere 38, but full of responsibilities which I haven’t been taking seriously enough. The wolves are baying at the door, and they haven’t had a taste of blood yet, but one day they’ll get a taste and they’ll be all over me and my beloved family.

My family is what sustains me. My family has led me to this point, where I leave behind the old me and embrace a new sensible Firegoat.

What will this new Firegoat be like? For a start, it will open letters even when they look like frightening bills. Next it will not smoke. Smoking is a waste of money, and makes the wolves excited. Next it will organise activities for the children. We’ve been making some progress, finally we’ve joined the library and get lots of pleasure from it, but absence of money halts any ideas we have of holidays, trips out, inviting people round for tea. This must end.

At all costs, I must resist turning into my mother, even while being more sensible than I currently am. She is a model of responsibility and sensibleness, to the point where frivolity and revolution are frowned on. £1 from the tooth fairy? It would’ve been sixpence in her day. But I must find a balance between being stupid and being her, and one that works for me.

A pension is something else I have neglected to arrange. I don’t know what I was thinking. Partly it was having no money. I’ve been in debt since I was at university in the 1980s and it’s only got worse since I got tangled up with a certain man. After a while, I realised whatever I did he’d go and spend anything he could on beer and little presents for the kids. Small amounts, but adding them up is scary. Once I realised it wasn’t in my control I gave up opening letters. Anyway, a pension was unaffordable, but also it was unimaginable that one day I’d be old and unable to work and that I’d need some income.

The new me will sort this out.

Passport, driving licence, other things I’ve been avoiding. Partly because they cost money, but also because, perhaps, they give me options and choices. I feel trapped, but I make my own trap by refusing to take on these simple jobs.

I do feel trapped. I feel like I’ve made personal compromises over the last few years. I’ve compromised to keep the family together, and to keep income coming in. Most of the time I can put this to the back of my mind, but sometimes I can’t. As I age, I wonder how I’ll see the compromises I’ve made, will I think they were worth making, or will I regret not having been more independent, or arguing more with people. Maybe every relationship is a compromise, I’ve written before about people’s bubbles, and I do recognise that no-one is truly there for me. I suppose I wish they were, but perhaps this is just an echo of the romantic childish fairy tales which have been so pervasive in our culture. I feel a sense of loss that no-one in my family of birth, no-one in my own growing family and no-one in my professional circle is empathetic to my needs, no-one knows me or even truly wants to. I do get nurtured though, and that is through friendships with mainly women which have developed over many years. With them I can really talk, be myself, examine my weaknesses and gain support that is not based on their own agendas and needs. And in return I can offer the same, which is what most of us women are doing for everyone around us all the time.

The other major compromise is about school. I hate my kids going to a school where they are bullied, and there is at atmosphere of bullying amongst the staff and between the school and parents. The bullying, I know, comes from the very top (Bush, Blair and co.) and rolls all the way to the bottom of the shitheap where my children find themselves trying to get an education. My son wants to go to university and finds he learns nothing at school. It’s a compromise too far and I’m desperately trying to work out how this can change.

The new Firegoat is trying to work out how many compromises she can manage, and how to break free from those that have already been made. The new Firegoat wants to live more responsibly, but also more honestly, as the trap she’s built for herself is damaging her. The compromises have been to keep others happy, but the cost is becoming too high.

Southall Story - Eid Scream

Coming home from the station last night, Eid. I was by Sira cash and carry. In the day time fruit and vegetables pour out of the front of the shop onto the pavement and into the slip road which is separated from South Road by a thin strip of tarmac with bollards and a bustop. I think the slip road is called Hamilton Road. I saw two women in their early twenties, each dressed in an identical and beautiful Salwar and Kameeeze of turquoise with much embroidery and many sequins and beads catching the light. One of the women had her two hands clasped over her mouth, her thick hair hid her face and I could sense she was about to scream, though I didn’t know whether it was with laughter or fear or what. I followed her gaze to a battered little car in which sat two Asian men. The windows were all closed except for the triangular back window which consisted of cardboard and sellotape. The other woman stood back several metres away. I looked at the men but couldn’t discern their expressions, perhaps they were smiling slightly. The woman took a step backwards, with her hands still to her mouth, and then another step. Then a deep earthy scream rose from her, her hair blew in the wind, she stepped back again and howled again. She kept stepping back, all the time staring in to the car, and then turned, the disturbing howls all the while emitting from deep inside her. She took flight up the other side of South Road, now and then turning to look back at the car and scream and sob, her vivid Kameeze flapping and everyone on the street standing and staring after her. By this time I was half way up South Road, but she had overtaken me and my eyes followed, concerned. I wanted to know what was wrong. I wanted to help. But I was cold and I wanted to get home. She stopped momentarily and leant against a wall, then picked herself up and flung herself further down the pavement. I looked at all the people watching her, noticed they were nearly all men, in dark colours. Lots of Moslems of different cultures celebrating Eid, a few women, it was late. When I looked for the woman again she was gone, and although I searched up and down the street with my eyes I couldn’t see her. I was just reaching the top when I noticed the other woman running up the street, pausing outside the cinema and then going inside.

Paranoia List 1-3

Sometimes the whole world seems like it’s out to get me. Actually this seems to be the case rather a lot of the time.
At the moment I have a long list of paranoia. Here’s just three:

1. Kids were discovered to have nits last night. Husband ran to chemist for special shampoo while I cut longest haired child’s mop turning her into a boy, or so she desired! She decided to adopt her brother’s name with the surname ‘Cake.’ Truly her mother’s daughter. Treated all kids’ heads, ran out of shampoo. Dreadlocked husband is having nightmares and swearing he will not trim.
2. Three story flats going up outside my front window, over the road. It’s been a long time coming, but now dark red brick walls are appearing and every day the light is reduced and my heart sinks a bit more. The thought of multiple windows looking into the kids’ bedrooms is not appealing. A few years ago a note appeared on the doorstep which said ‘I like to have sex with little tiny boys. You?’ I handed it to the police but it makes paedophilia too real for comfort.
3. I took my son for a hospital appointment today. We’ve been waiting for about six weeks to get this thing sorted out. It’s not been nice. When I asked if I in the right place for General Surgery, and gave my son’s details, I was told his appointment was yesterday. Now I didn’t look at the letter recently, but I wrote the appointment in my diary and on my calendar, and I can’t quite believe that the hospital isn’t lying to me. Most of me, however, believes I’m really stupid and too stressed out to think straight.