Worried Wednesday :: Child Abuse, AIDS, Cancer and Virtual Isolation

A big thank you to those of you who wished me well for the weekend. It went well. Very well in fact. Right up till the moment I almost made the news for abusing a baby.

How I wish I was joking.

Oh God, I can barely bring myself to tell this. Every time I think of it, I cringe and shout out. I don’t know why I shout out. But I do. It’s an automatic reaction when I think of something which really embarrasses me. I did it just now. For reasons I’ll come to in a moment, I’m sitting in an internet café in Peckham – more of an internet toilet if I’m honest – and, thinking about what I’m about to tell you, I shouted out. Nothing in particular, just a loud, strange-sounding grunt. The kind of noise mad people make. The guy who runs this place and the two other people on nearby computers all turned to look at me. They think I’m crazy. Am I crazy? I think I might be.

So. On Monday evening I was with some friends of Morag. One of them, the one whose house it was – let’s call her Beth – has a four-year-old son called Jamie. Jamie took rather a shine to me, and frankly I to him, so he was crawling all over me, and I was being a bit silly, making him laugh, tickling him and so on. All good innocent fun, and obviously a great little brownie point-earner as far as Morag and her friends were concerned.

But then it all went wrong.

Basically I made the mistake (I see in retrospect) of tossing Jamie up in the air. Just a little. I had hold of him under the arms and I pretended to throw him up in the air and catch him. I barely let go of him at all. Maybe for a second, but I made a big show of throwing him away, pretending to try and frighten him. You know how it is. Kids love that shit. And Jamie proved no exception. ‘More!’ he said, chortling and gurgling.

‘Careful, Stan,’ said Morag.

‘I know,’ I said, slightly fractious. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I don’t work for Haringey Council.’ And I faux-tossed Jamie in the air again, walking slowly around Beth’s large living room as I went, tossing and catching. ‘More!’ he cried, amidst wild giggles. His mother didn’t seem to mind at all and I was perfectly in control so I continued. ‘I’m going to throw you away!’ I said, and I tossed him up in the air again.

‘More!’ he cried.

And then it happened. In the blink of an eye, Jamie’s giggles turned to the most ear-piercing screams I think I’ve ever heard as his head cracked loudly against the concrete ceiling.

Basically, the wall between Beth’s living room and dining room was at some stage removed to make one large room… except for one column in the centre of where the wall used to be, and maybe a metre of wall hanging down from the ceiling all the way across. I’m sure there’s an architectural term for what I’m making a pig’s arse of describing here, but obviously I don’t know what it is. Basically there’s a bit of the wall left and I didn’t see it, didn’t even know it was there until I smashed a baby’s head against it.

Oh, God. I just shouted out again.

When I realised what had happened, I instinctively squeezed Jamie closer to me and started rubbing the top of his head. With his face bright red, soaking wet and contorted in agony, he pulled away from me and reached out to his mum, who was there in seconds. I tried to explain what had happened as she took her son away from me.

It really was one of the worst moments of my life. I felt hideous. I felt like a monster.

In retrospect, I guess the fact that he was still conscious probably meant that no lasting harm had been done, but at the time that didn’t occur to me. At the time, I was just terrified that I’d damaged a little boy’s brain.

In the end, he was fine, and Beth was really nice about it, much nicer I fear than I would have been if some stupid fucker had bashed my son’s head against the ceiling. And Morag forgave me before the night was out. So in the end, no harm done. But still, what an incredible doofus I am.

I still can’t believe it.

What if he’d just died? I... it doesn't bear thinking about.

God. I can’t get over it. I’ll be cringing for the rest of my life because of this. And rightly so.

So yes, apart from that, the weekend went well, and Morag’s friends seemed to like me. God knows what they’re saying about me now though.

Let the paranoia commence.

In other news, as soon as I've posted this, I’m going back to the doctor to get my stomach checked out again. I’m terrified I’ve got stomach cancer. Morag tells me that if I don’t stop stressing about it, I’m going to worry myself a tumour. This has made me even more scared. Can you actually worry yourself a tumour? Oh God, I bet you can. Right, no more worrying.

Easy.

Then, tomorrow I’m going for my first ever in-relationship AIDS test. Woo hoo! To be honest, there is very, very, very little chance I have AIDS, but I suppose you never know. Mostly I’m going in order to give moral support to Morag. I’m still slightly nervous though.

On reflection, this seems quite personal.

Hmmm. Actually, forget I mentioned any of that. But wish me luck.

Oh, and when I got back from Brighton yesterday, I found that my internet had been cut off. I’m trying not to go crazy and kill everyone in a 12-mile radius because frankly, that wouldn’t be fair. Basically, the sub-human to whom I spoke last week misunderstood what I said by two weeks and now wants to charge me lots of extra money for their mistake.

I am rising above it. I am gritting my teeth and rising above it. Because life could be worse. In fact, it may be. But fingers crossed, it isn’t.

The upshot of this is that there may be a lot less blogging between now and the end of the year. But as I say, it could be far, far worse.

Oh, also, I’m getting a cold.

Stupid life.

…

I suddenly feel rather down. Please, if you can, tell me something cheery in the comments. Go on, it'll do you good too.

Thanks.

Good News Sandwich

There is only one thing in the world more casually pleasing than a slightly amusing headline on a newspaper sandwich board, and that is two slightly amusing headlines on a newspaper sandwich board.

In Brighton on Saturday afternoon, I was tickled by this:



Then I noticed the headline on the other side and I was tickled afresh:



Compare that second headline to this one in London...



Aaaah, sleepy old Brighton.

Morag & I :: More Than Friendship, Less Than Love

Obviously, Morag is not her real name. In fact, I find it difficult to imagine that Morag is anyone’s real name. But apparently it is.

Scottish people can be so cruel.

This was Morag’s opener:

‘I’ve read your blog from start to finish and I think you should probably come to Brighton and bugger me.’

Wow.

That was my initial thought.

Wow.

Blogging is by far the best thing that ever happened to me.

She went on:

‘I think we have a lot on common. You’re bright and funny and can write well; I’m bright and funny (and modest) and can write well. You’ve got a very large penis, or so you claim; I’ve got a very large vagina, or so my ex who shall remain nameless claims. You have a weight problem and physical appearance issues; I – according to my ex who shall remain nameless – would also benefit from dropping a few pounds and having a couple of moles removed. You’re looking for someone to love, or at least have bumsex with; I’m looking for someone to love, or at least have bumsex with. You see? It’s almost like it’s in the stars.’

I had to agree. It was eerie. It was like Derren Brown was sharing our virtual space, squatting on our fat pipe with both of our names written on a playing card in his back pocket. But I had my reservations. It wasn’t just the fact that a complete stranger was approaching me and asking me to do her up the bum. It was also the fact that she kept mentioning her ex. Nameless or not, it sounded ominous. Like there were still feelings.

But of course I emailed back. And before long we were chatting on IM.

This was about three weeks ago now.

At the beginning of last week, we had this exchange.

Morag: So what about Wednesday? Is there a tiny window in your busy programme of self-abuse?
Scat: …
Morag: What’s that? Dot dot dot. What are you trying to say with that?
Scat: …
Morag: ……
Scat: Touché. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I’m scared.
Morag: Oh come on. Ya big Jessie. Where’s your sense of adventure?
Scat: It’s in my head, Morag. It’s in a tiny little box in the back of my head.
Morag: Then it’s time you opened the box, Scatmuncher. Because life is short.

She was right of course. We had been talking late into the night every night for over a week. We got on really well. It was time to meet up. The fact that we still hadn’t seen each other’s face was, as Morag put it, ‘all part of the adventure’. Even when I offered to swap photos, she refused. She said that if either of us was repulsed, then we could just have a drink or two and call it a night. Or we could become friends. You can never have too many friends, she said.

By the time we got round to meeting, I already knew quite a lot about Morag. I knew some basic biographical stuff, like this:

- She is Scottish, born in Glasgow.
- She is 26.
- She loves film and works for a cinema. Bad Lieutenant is her favourite movie of all time.
- Her parents are separated. Her father lives in Edinburgh with a new wife and three new sons. She gets on with them OK, but doesn’t really have much in common with them.
- She doesn’t get on with her mother however. Her mother is a writer. She lives in London and writes historical novels, apparently with a fair degree of success.
- She is allergic to cats. (Morag, that is. Not her mother.)
- She loves Gabriel Garcia Marquez and has a thing about Magic Realism. I barely know what Magic Realism is. That’s not really about Morag however. That is about me.

Also, I knew this, specialist information, reprinted with permission:

Scat: So. Did you have any pets as a child?
Morag: Yes. I had four guinea pigs and a dog.
Scat: What were their names, please?
Morag: The guinea pigs were called Edmund, Baldrick, Percy and Lord Melchett. The dog was called The Dark Lord Tiberius.
Scat: Nice names.
Morag: Thanks.
Scat: When you were shouting for the dog to stop chasing squirrels or stop humping the vicar’s leg or whatever, did you say. ‘The Dark Lord Tiberius! Stop that at once!’
Morag: He didn’t chase squirrels. Squirrels were beneath him. He did hump the vicar’s leg though. But we never tried to stop him. To answer your question however, no. We called him ‘Tibs’.
Scat: Awww… Do you have any recurring dreams?
Morag: Um… apart from the usual stuff about going to school with my muff out…
Scat: Your capacious muff.
Morag: Hush now. I dream a lot about my ex-boyfriend, who shall remain nameless. He fucked me over in lots and lots of ways and sadly, horribly, he has burrowed his way into my subconscious, where he will probably forever bubble to the surface in all of my worst nightmares.
Scat: I’m sorry to hear that. What’s your favourite flavour ice cream?
Morag: Rum and raisin.
Scat: What do you think of bats?
Morag: You’ve asked me that already. Don’t you listen? They’re alright. Nothing to write home about. I like vampires though. Vampires are sexy.
Scat: What’s the most valuable thing you’ve ever stolen?
Morag: Um… honestly, probably a car. I went through a troublesome phase in my teens. I didn’t keep it though. I just drove it around for a bit then left it in a park. Actually, I stole a bus too. That’s probably more expensive than a car.
Scat: You stole a bus?
Morag: Just a single decker.
Scat: Ah, OK. What’s the most unusual object you’ve ever had inside of you?
Morag: That is a freaky, borderline scary question.
Scat: I’ve got to press you for an answer.
Morag: Um… let me think. It depends on your definition of unusual really.
Scat: I’m happy to go with your definition.
Morag: OK. Probably a bible.
Scat: What?
Morag: No, just kidding. I did once and for the briefest of periods have an action man doll pretty much all the way inside of me, so that just his boots were peeping out.
Scat: Wow.
Morag: Impressive huh?
Scat: Capacious.
Morag: Fuck off.
Scat: So. Do you believe in God?
Morag: Yes.
Scat: Oh.
Morag: God is Harvey Keitel.
Scat: Oh, OK. Thank God for that.
Morag: Thank Harvey.
Scat: Thanks, Harvey. Have you ever had a threesome?
Morag: Hmm.
Scat: Hmm is not an answer.
Morag: Alright then, no.
Scat: You see, that wasn’t so hard, was it?
Morag: But I have had a couple of foursomes.
Scat: Oh my.
Morag: Exactly.
Scat: Oh me oh my.
Morag: I know, I know.
Scat: I’m simultaneously aroused and frightened.
Morag: That seems like a reasonable response. Ya big Jessie.
Scat: Thank you. We will talk about this in more detail at a future date. In the meantime, and finally, what’s the most important thing in the world?
Morag: The most important thing in the world is Love.
Scat: Aaaaaaah. Thank you, Morag.
Morag: No, thank you. And I hope I’ve passed the audition.

Then, last Wednesday, we met.

And for a short while, it was everything.

The worst thing about… well, about life I guess, is disappointment. Actually, no. Cancer is worse. But disappointment is up there. I hate disappointment. It’s tough, and it’s hard to bear.

So when I met Morag in Brighton, at the train station, and she curtseyed and shook my hand and kissed my cheek, I was happy. I was not disappointed.

And when a couple of drinks into our evening, I asked her if I could kiss her and she said yes, and then we kissed, I was happy. I was not disappointed.

And then when we proceeded to get a little bit drunk and to fumble our way into Morag’s bed together, and then when we made love as best we could with our lack of knowledge about each other’s bodies and the things which give us pleasure, I was happy. I was not disappointed.

But then, some time around 1 am, when Morag told me that she really liked me but didn’t think that what we had on our hands was a long term relationship, I was disappointed. So disappointed in fact, that I had a little cry.

Boo hoo.

The next morning we went for a walk on the beach and we talked about things. We kept it light. I came back to London that afternoon feeling elated and deflated in equal measure. I was still disappointed, but I regretted nothing.

The next night we spoke on IM and Morag said to me, ‘What do you think of fuck buddies, as a concept?’

I had to say that as a concept, I thought it was potentially a predominantly good one. I said so.

‘Good,’ said Morag. ‘What are you doing tomorrow night?’

So now I guess that the difference between ‘being in a long term relationship’ and ‘being fuck buddies’ is the level of emotional investment, or at least the level of spoken emotional investment.

I have to say, there is something in me – something slightly old-fashioned perhaps – that balks at the idea and feels that it's a kind of failure, a kind of settling for second best. And I don't like that. I don't think it shows either of us in a particularly complimentary light. But there is something else in me – something slightly desperate perhaps - that craves consensual physical contact under any circumstances, and that part of me shrugs, says ‘Fuck it’, and dives in. Like an action man. Till just my boots are peeping out.

So there we have it.

I was looking for a love buddy. I found a fuck buddy. It’s not ideal, but my God, it’ll fucking do.

By The Sea

Sorry for the radio silence - internet silence, whatever - but I'm in Brighton. You'll never guess what I'm doing here. Go on, have a guess what I'm doing here. You'll never guess.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez would be proud of me.

Back later.