I hate you all

Last year was pretty busy for us, and we’re only just getting back to ‘normal’.  Consider that my apology for not posting as often as I would like.

We’ll start with celebrations: My partner and I had our 25th wedding anniversary; my parents had their 60th anniversary;  both my parents had their 80th birthday; I saw my son after a long seperation; and I met my daughter-in-law and grandkids for the first time.  All but one of these involved a long drive; the exception was our 25th party, which involved a lot of work.  For the 60th, it involved a week away.

When you consider that the year before that, my attending a christening was a BIG event, the first time in years I’d spent so much as a whole day away from home – you can see that every one of those celebrations, while being wonderful, represented a mammoth upheaval for us.

On top of that, we’ve had some work done on our home.  Some of it has already been blogged about, but not all of it.

Remember, we live in sheltered housing: a tiny bungalow rented from the local authourity.  Of all the work done, the only bit we paid for was a little decorating – and I did the work on that myself.

Also bear in mind that it wasn’t much more than a year ago that our Council was telling us they had no money for repairs.

OK.  Last year, the Council repainted the outside of all the homes on the street - they fitted new kitchens in all the homes, too.  We had solar panels fitted to our roof, so we benefit from ‘free’ electricity when the sun is shining.  And we finally got our bathroom done, after six years of waiting.

I think that was everything…

Looking back at last year, I find myself wondering how I fit it all in!

We are now in the position of very nearly been straight again.  I’ve tidied up the mess left in the bathroom. (They nailed four by two wood through the existing tiles, then fixed panels to it that look like tiles.  Only they left one and an eighth tiles sticking out the side.  It looked awful, but there was no way to remove the tiles, so I had to fix new tiles next to it, finishing the wall off.)

Then I papered the other walls, painted the ceiling, walls, and woodwork, and fitted towel rails, toilet roll holders, etc.  While I had the paint and tools out, I did the small hallway, too.

Only job left is to fit a new carpet in the hallway.  I was lucky to get an offcut for a pittance, so not too much money has been spent.  I started that job this morning, but stopped after only a short time: I made one cut, to make the offcut just a little longer than the space it was to fit in.  Ten minutes, at most, with the scissors – and in that time I worked up and burst a blister on my finger.  No way am I going to cut the carpet like that again!

I need to get a knive for the job, so it’ll be a day or two before I get round to it, now.

Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to go fishing this year.

I sat on the bench, looking at the sardine-like crowd that occupied the station platform, and felt a deep gratitude that I had no need to get on that train myself.

I was early, and the train my parents were on was not due for another half hour.

The crowd ebbed and flowed, with just one more passenger getting on the train when everybody on board took a deep breath – a breath none of them would be able to let out until somebody left.

As I watched the crowd – for want of something better to do – I noticed an inoffensive little man trying his best to push to the front. His every effort met with resistance, and he suddenly popped out of the crowd like a cork from a bottle of fizz, landing inelegantly on the bench beside me.

“That’s it!” He shouted, and mopped blood from his nose.

I comforted him as best I could, but he was inconsolable.

“I have to get on that train.” He told me

“Relax,” I replied. “Nobody else will get on that train – you’ll just have to wait for the next one.”

“But… I’ll lose my job…”

‘Should have set off sooner, and caught the earlier train,’ I thought to myself, but was not cruel enough to say.

“I’m sure your boss will understand.” I said instead.

“He won’t.” He replied, with an angry sideways look at me.

“The next train will only be ten minutes – you won’t be that late.”

“No, I have to be on that train.” He insisted.

“The next tra…” I started to say, but he was no longer listening. Instead, he was throwing himself at the crowd again.

I waited, and sure enough, after a couple of minutes, he was sat beside me again, wiping blood from a fresh wound.

“You’ll never do it.” I said. “The crowd is too thick.” (Yes, I meant the pun – pity he didn’t get it.)

He muttered something under his breath.

“It’ll be gone any minute, anyway. There’s no chance of you getting through before it leaves.”

He laughed bitterly at that.

“Look.” I tried again. “When the next train arrives, most of this crowd will get on it, and at the very least you’ll be able to join the back of the queue.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?” He said, slowly. “I have to get on that train. No other train will do. If I wait for the next train to arrive, it will be a disaster.”

“It can’t be that bad.” I told him. “What is this job that is so important?”

“I’m a train driver,” He said, “and that is the train I’m supposed to be driving!”

This morning, my partner and I had a little chat that made me realise exactly why conversation is indeed an art. 

My partner has a lot of study material to read, and it is a regular occurrence for me to move magazines from one stack to another for them.  (Three stacks: those to read; those being read; and those read already.  Only one of those stacks is easily reachable for my partner.)

I was handed a magazine to place on one of the stacks, and we had a little conversation about how much reading there was.  When my partner said ‘Nice low reading this morning: 5.9′ I was totally lost.  As I’m sure you are, too.

You see, my partner was referring to the blood sugar reading that had been taken an hour earlier.  No relation in any way shape or form to what we talking about – apart from the word ‘reading.’

My partner is always doing this.  We will be talking about what to have for dinner, I will suggest a casserole, and my partner will reply that the council phoned yesterday.  Or that we need a new bottle of shampoo.  Or that the cat is on fire.

It’s not just my partner, of course – it’s just that I spend 99% of my life with them, and I’m lucky if I speak to anybody else all week.

So.  A few lessons on conversation could be useful to everybody, I think.

First and foremost: when somebody is talking, you shouldn’t be.  Simple as that.  Yes, there are people who never stop talking, even when you are – I find that simply walking away works wonders, though.

Listen to what others are saying, and respond to that.  Don’t just wait for them to shut up so you can talk about something different.

If you must change the subject, let people know – don’t just start talking about the new subject while everybody else tries to keep up.

If you manage to be the one talking, and want to change the subject, you must first complete the conversation on the previous subject, and then pause before addressing the new subject.

Most of all, you must immediately stop talking and listen to me whenever I open my mouth.  In fact, don’t talk at all, just listen to me.

I realise that this will be hard for some of you to accept, so I’ve dug up a quotation to help you in this difficult time:

It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.

Some believe this to be a quote from Lincoln, some say Mark Twain, others say Johnson – whatever you believe, it is undoubtably based on Proverbs 17:28, which says:

“Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise: and he that shutteth his lips is esteemed a man of understanding.”

Whatever.  The point is, when people open their mouths, they reveal their ignorance - they show the world how little they know about anything.

So keep quiet and let me talk instead…