Sad

I have not been very nice today.

I have been cross and unkind, and I am feeling sad with my world.

I have had the busiest of busy days. When I woke up this morning I told Mark that I had got a very lot to do, and that some help would be kind. 

I explained that I had got to finish Oliver’s packing, and that we had an appointment at the optician, and that the sheets needed washing, but that the big thing that I really, really wanted to do was to write to the prison.

They have sent me a letter wondering if I have any last words before they finally pass judgement.

Of course I have got lots. I am never short of words, even when it might be better if I was. 

I told Mark that we were almost at the deadline for this. I have not been able to do it up until now, because of the computer difficulties and because of having a million other things that needed doing. 

Today, I said, I would like to take several hours during which I could stare at the computer, and read through the long, long list of things the prison is cross about, and then write a thoughtful, carefully judged response.

I know perfectly well that this will not make any difference, because they are probably going to sack me anyway, but I felt that I would have liked to do it. 

Mark said that he had got some things to do in the garden, but that probably it would all be fine. 

When we got up he took the dogs out, and then went off to mix cement in the garden. 

I put the washing on and fed Oliver and washed up the coffee cups. Then I went to the bank, and I went to Sainsbury’s, and when I came back I put the dry washing away and went to see where I had got to with Oliver’s luggage.

I wrote to school to see if they had found his other shirt. Then the post arrived including a letter from a finance company with a terrifying threat.

I rang them up and waited in their queueing system and told them my date of birth and my postcode, and when they finally agreed that I was really me they were terribly apologetic. They humbly agreed that they had made a stupid mistake, and that we had done nothing whatsoever to sully our perfect credit rating and that they would rectify their error forthwith. This was loftily gratifying but took ages.

The alarm went on my cyber-calendar then, much to my satisfaction, and we dashed up the road to the optician, which is only about two minutes’ walk away, and we were hardly late at all.

We both need new glasses really, but a quick glance down the price list made us think that perhaps our existing ones would be just fine for a bit longer. 

Then we went home, and Mark carried on with his cement, and I carried on adding names to rugby boots and gloves.

I fed Oliver some sausages and tidied his bedroom up a bit. We hunted through drawers and unearthed things from the loft and hauled Spider-man out from down the side of his bed. 

We packed books and uniform and pyjamas and home-clothes for weekends. 

We packed his new gloves and his dressing gown and his recently-arrived football boots.

We packed towels and slippers and enormous new underpants.

In the end the packing was finished, apart from the things that I have forgotten, and apart from the things that I retrieved from his bedroom floor which necessitated putting the washing machine on again. 

I sighed with relief, because I was starting to panic a bit by then,  and started to turn my attention to my letter-writing.

Oliver came down the stairs just as I was starting back up them.

He was having difficulties with his maths homework, he explained, and perhaps I could help.

I wondered if Daddy could help, but he was nowhere to be seen.

I abandoned the letter and concentrated on the value of x.

It was starting to get dark.

I was beginning to panic a bit more.

After a little while I explained to Oliver that I had got a lot to do, and needed to leave him to do his homework by himself.

He was a bit worried about this, but I was determined.

I went upstairs to the computer, where I discovered that unless I acted quickly to book us on to some new courses run by the council, we would lose our taxi licences and our livelihood, our income and our self-respect, at which point finance companies would no longer be grovelling and apologising, but bashing on the door and bellowing through the letter box.

I booked us on the courses and carefully added them to the cyber-diary.

It was properly dark outside by then, almost time for work.

I was becoming very panicky indeed. It was almost too late to write anything at all.

I tore open the letters sent by HMP Slade and started to read them, carefully.

Oliver appeared on the stairs and wondered when his dinner would be ready. 

I threw the letters on the desk and and went downstairs to check in the fridge, which was empty.

I went to Sainsbury’s again, and bought a pizza.

I shouted something cross at Mark, who was still tiddling about in the garden, even though it was completely pitch dark.

I cooked the pizza and hung up the next lot of washing, because it has urgently got to be dry and packed by tomorrow.

It was time to get ready for work.

It was far too late to spend hours thoughtfully weighing words and composing barbed but brilliant prose.

I am ashamed to say that I completely lost my temper. I shouted at Mark and I shouted at Oliver.

They were both surprised and very upset indeed.

They suggested that they would be helpful right away, or at any rate once they had finished their own important activities. It looked as though I had mostly finished looking after them, and so it would probably be fine if I went off upstairs and started writing now.

I said that I was not in the mood any more. 

This was true. I was not at all in a calm and deliberate frame of mind. I was frustrated and unhappy and very cross.

They tried hard to be conciliatory and helpful.

I did not want to be helped any more. I wanted to rage at the unfairness of the world.

I started getting our picnic ready for work. Mark said that he would do that if I wanted to go and get on with my letter. 

Unhappiness was bubbling up inside me like a hot jacuzzi spa bath full of rugby players after a beer and curry night out. My thoughts felt angry and muddled. I did not want to write a letter. I had become the sort of person who has not got anything sensible and articulate to say.

I went upstairs and ticked the box on the prison service form which said: Guilty As Charged, No Defence.

It wasn’t a box really, you had to write the words, but you get the idea.

I have put it in the envelope to post in the morning.

There did not seem any point in upsetting myself any more.

I came downstairs and Mark had forgotten about the picnic and gone back outside again, so I finished it off. 

I packed it in our bags and came to sit on the taxi rank. By then I was so late that I had even missed The Archers. I was cross again about this, although I don’t really care, because it is rubbish at the moment anyway.

I am still here now, on my own in the darkness and quiet, and feeling sad. 

I am going to go away and read my book.