So, it’s Tuesday morning. Clare and I are rushing around getting ready for the day. I’ve got to get to work for 9am and it’s already 7.15am and we haven’t even thought about unloading the loudspeakers from the cars yet.
By 7.45 we’ve managed to hump them out of the car onto the sack barrow and wheeled around the front and into the house and stashed under the stairs. Two tops and two subs, an amp and the box of leads. After reparking the cars we’re walking around the side of the house back to our house and Gary, our neighbour, shouts, “if you’re late you’ll have to get up earlier in future…ha”.
Clare goes “yeah, we might do that and get to bed earlier if we watched less TV”.
Now, she has said this before and she has it said it quite a bit; but never to my face. She’s said it to her friends and my friends; she’s said it in company and on the phone. It’s said in a derogatory, snidey way; it’s implied and spoken in a belittling voice; critical and cruel, and she knows it really annoys me because I’ve pulled her up about it and told her that I find it offensive. It’s an anti TV attitude that some people exhibit that when said the way I’ve just described demeans any person who watches TV and virtually says ‘you are less of a person because you watch TV’ or ‘god, you’re thick if you watch TV’ or ‘haven’t you anything better to do, like me, than just watching TV; you lazy, good for nothing slacker’. Plus, after a weekend of abuse from Clare, which I will outline below, this is finally the straw that broke the camels back; it’s the moment we both conspire together to effectively end our relationship, our love, our partnership, our deal, our mutual survival strategy, our friendship.
This was a friendship marred by insecurities, by necessity, by mutual abuse, by excess baggage from previous relationships, from childhood. Forged from things we’d rather forget about, never remembered, a churning caldron of despair, of fear, of desperation. It was all destined to fail very, very badly. And it did this morning.
“Fuck off, you cunt”, I say.
There I said it. Finally overloaded by the sheer breadth and depth of her constant griping and criticism about my mood, the language that I use, the way I express myself, the behaviour I choose to use to express my personality, the clothes I wear. Drip. Drip, drip. I wouldn’t mind this so much but I am not allowed to say one goddamn thing to her regarding the way she conducts herself. I am tactless; she is honest. I manipulate; she is just trying to help me. She can conduct and control her own behaviour thank you very much; I am ‘out of control’.
This comes on the back of a rather large weekend for both of us so it’s probably expected that our fuses are a little shorter than usual this very fine morning.
Its 14.30 now and I’ve just tried ringing her for the third time but she is not answering. When I got through this morning she said she has had enough, so that looks like that. Another reasonably good relationship with a half decent neurotic middle aged woman up in smoke.
And all because I called her a cunt.
I was so out of order.