Welcome back again. Sorry, it's been a hectic few weeks.
Some sad news to begin. Paula's mum has passed away. She was hospitalised for a week with respiratory problems, which turned out to be pleurisy. She came home and then got worse, and, according to Tel, who knows these things because I've not heard anything from Paula for ages, she died two weeks ago. Heart issues suspected although no autopsy yet. Sad news. I never really warmed to her, but nonetheless she became kinder to me as our time together went on. Her funeral is on Tuesday but I can't make it. That isn't due to cowardice at not wanting to see Paula again either. I just can't take more time off work.
I've been attending the Saturday home games but have found it harder to make midweek ones due to meetings and stuff, so wasn't there for Millwall (much to Terry's disgust) and yesterday was my first since the International break. Terry and I had a brief falling out, mainly over his belief that I've become unsociable. It's true, in part. I now have a very good and dependable bunch of friends in Birmingham. They're not all rival footie fans either. We met at work and have enjoyed several nights out in Brum with me either lodged in various Premier Inns and Travelodges around that fine city, the cheaper the better. Often, just a bed between the small hours and seven a.m when I wake, the hangover still mottling the world as viewed from bloodshot peepers, the standard faux wooden desks and chairs and the 57 inch telly staring silently back in the soup of a dark dawn.
The showers at these places soak the cheap tiled bathroom floor. I've never got the hang of draping the cold plastic curtains inside the bath as I try and maximise the furtive dribble of lukewarm, then boiling water from the shower head over my ample frame. The unguents they give you free all smell the same, that plastic mini bottle of gel and the soap and the complimentary after-shave. It's a strange twilight world, beloved of travellers and salespeople, conducted in a solitary and slightly chastening way. Sat at breakfast on my own, plundering the tubs of Rice Krispies and waiting for quarter-done toast to flop from the mechanical toasting conveyer thing. People-watching. That fat northern bloke in the cheap Burton's suit; surely he'll go for the overcooked bacon rashers and the big vat of baked beans steaming and congealing in the corner? It was fascinating, until the novelty wore off.
Tel thought I was abandoning him, my hometown, the odd fragments of friends I have locally. They are now busy with lives involving children and elderly parents and, viewed from the Facebook accounts and the odd postings they make, pride in minor achievement from competing in walks to lunching at posh London eateries and providing pictures of the food. Nothing screams "ordinary" quite like Facebook pride. I used to be jealous of such things. Now they're just what everyone else does.
So we had an argument. One Friday, during the international break, when he came over and we went to the pub and I admitted I'd rather have been at home, catching up on sleep. And he raged and asked if I was mental or words to that effect and I found myself browbeaten and accused of selfishness when I'm really not guilty. And that was it.
Of course, these things get settled and we all succumb to the mutual sorries and promise faithfully we'll do better. And for a while, it worked and I'd meet up with him and even went to Halstead for a dinner with them both, and smiled a lot and looked like I'd enjoyed it. But the truth is, I've mentally moved on. Paula's mum dying has bought home not the faux sadness or desire to help arrange the funeral as Tel is doing, but the apathy and numbness I feel. Sure, it's sad. But I don't owe her anything. I don't owe Paula anything more. She owes me, but I'll take that if it means I'm free. Her pregnancy sounds difficult and her "boyfriend" a prick, but I can only sympathise. Tel thinks I should be rallying round to help. Nah. Her life, isn't it?
So yesterday was a bit of a trial, despite the win. We drank the beer and chatted and one of us wished he'd accepted the invitation to come to Birmingham, enjoy a night out with the lads and lasses and plunge a few more quid on the old credit card. But I didn't. I am partly glad today. Great performance, brilliant Burns goal, that familiar drunken feeling and the cheers and the hoarse voices and a morning spent cleaning and washing in perdition to the Gods who have deigned in their wisdom that I should be strangely cheerless on a wet cold Sunday three weeks before Xmas.
So I decorated the house with my lights and tinsel and the stuff Paula bought from a local garden centre last year, back when we were happy. And in amongst the decorations, I found a note she'd penned, mostly about the replacements lights and where to find them, as a sort of reminder. At the bottom she'd written "Xmas 22, love u x" and suddenly the tears came. And I felt like a silly old fool, and had to go and pour myself a stiff brandy, and the sadness slowly evaporated like rain on a warm pavement.
Perhaps I'm cracking? But I can't. It's two weeks to Norwich at home after all. Surely we'll do them by at least four? Tel and I are having a liquid breakfast in readiness. Life's great FFS!
Ah well, folks. Sorry it's a dour sort this week. I'm sure I'll be back to high spirits again soon. |  |
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. Obviuosly Junior would just say "meh" or some such but luckily she is no longer here xx 
