The publication of this blog is (oddly) coupled with a deep sense of remorse. I was aware that it had been more than two months since my last entry, but if I had published every staccato thought since then, the two lucid sentences laboriously produced would be deleted after a day or two in a vicious cycle since Memorial Day.
But predominantly, fear has held my tongue. I have had so many monsters from the id threatening to bleed onto the page that I have waited until I have captured and caged them all; perhaps even slain a few. The corruptive influence of a decaying relationship, huh? I feared that, in a fit of pique, I may say something to regret, and given that the target of my vitriolic rebuke would have been a fellow member ... you can imagine.
Anyway, Cos Cheum Gabh Nach Tilleadh. I hope today’s effort goes some way to sating your appetites.
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The soft hand that rose to my cheek was warm, familiar and seductive. Aristocratic, perfectly manicured, fingers stretched over my clean-shaven jowl. I felt my knees weaken ever so slightly. I blinked deliberately, half hoping not to cry; half wishing that when I opened my eyes she would be gone. No such luck on the second count. With a firm yet tender grip of her wrist, I removed her hand. That should have been the end of it. I should have been able in that moment to just walk away, but alas. The echo of my lonely footsteps preyed. You forget just how cavernous these hallowed stone halls can be.
As I walked away, the realisation came to me that the last time I had felt her touch: six months ago on that hotel balcony, I had wished for that of another.
-------------------------
The remainder of the afternoon is something of a blur. I have no idea of how I got through, but my paperwork is complete. As I think I have observed previously, I like to keep a pile of the non-urgent stuff for “emergencies”. Its monotony tranquilises my mood.
I made the briefest of appearances at the small gathering downstairs in honour of the sixtieth birthday of one of our admin staff. I just could not be there. And I had to be somewhere else besides.
I arrived home about twenty minutes later and immediately loosened my tie. A dull ache pulsed through me. I am always tired come six on a Friday evening, but this week I felt it especially. I poured myself a generous measure of scotch and swallowed it neat. The bottle stood uncorked for a while as I contemplated another. I never poured it.
The rap at the door came soon after. The sound of familiar voices coming through lightened my mood.
I barely had the opportunity to speak with Kate before she rushed off, already late for her shift. All I heard was “I’ll pick her up in the morning.”
I crouched to my goddaughter’s level. She kissed my cheek before taking my hand. “Hey Sprout!”
She must have accidentally tasted the remnants of scotch, because the face she pulled, something between sourness and disgust, was priceless.
“Are you drunk?”
“No, darlin’.” I checked the dining table just to make sure I had secreted the bottle. “It’s been a long day so I had one, one, just a minute ago.”
“I’m teasing!” She tried to pout, but an attack of the giggles overpowered her. Hearing that unadulterated explosion of laughter catches me out every time: completely joyous and unapologetically infectious laughter. For the first time in weeks my lips cracked into an authentic smile. I read the question in her face before she asked it.
“Spag bol, some bread and ice cream.”
Her face lit up. “And we’re cooking?”
“Yup: I chop, you stir.”
-------------------------
I quickly regretted making that executive decision. The trepid and shuddering whimpers of the small girl broke my vacant daydream. She informed me that I was bleeding. I had not felt the knife slice against my thumb, but my crimson-stained left hand and the puddle rapidly accumulating around the carrot were incontrovertible evidence. She scurried off to fetch me a band aid.
Small fingers delicately applied the band aid. I shed a tear. She admonished me for being a wimp. I shook my head, telling her it wasn’t that. Lifting her onto the bench, I could see she had taken on my anguish.
“Oh, no, <insert her name> it’s nothing you’ve done.”
Her tone was almost demanding. “Then what?”
I gleaned over my emotions. She does not need to see the writhing nest of serpents that torment her favoured “uncle”.
“Well, if somebody made you feel bad, that’s OK. You’re allowed to cry.”
Her arms quickly encircled my neck. I thought of Francis de Groot. No, not even he could have done it better. The panoply of sins that were not hers to forgive, were obliterated and with it went the sadness that had been at my shoulder since Memorial Day.
But predominantly, fear has held my tongue. I have had so many monsters from the id threatening to bleed onto the page that I have waited until I have captured and caged them all; perhaps even slain a few. The corruptive influence of a decaying relationship, huh? I feared that, in a fit of pique, I may say something to regret, and given that the target of my vitriolic rebuke would have been a fellow member ... you can imagine.
Anyway, Cos Cheum Gabh Nach Tilleadh. I hope today’s effort goes some way to sating your appetites.
-------------------------
The soft hand that rose to my cheek was warm, familiar and seductive. Aristocratic, perfectly manicured, fingers stretched over my clean-shaven jowl. I felt my knees weaken ever so slightly. I blinked deliberately, half hoping not to cry; half wishing that when I opened my eyes she would be gone. No such luck on the second count. With a firm yet tender grip of her wrist, I removed her hand. That should have been the end of it. I should have been able in that moment to just walk away, but alas. The echo of my lonely footsteps preyed. You forget just how cavernous these hallowed stone halls can be.
As I walked away, the realisation came to me that the last time I had felt her touch: six months ago on that hotel balcony, I had wished for that of another.
-------------------------
The remainder of the afternoon is something of a blur. I have no idea of how I got through, but my paperwork is complete. As I think I have observed previously, I like to keep a pile of the non-urgent stuff for “emergencies”. Its monotony tranquilises my mood.
I made the briefest of appearances at the small gathering downstairs in honour of the sixtieth birthday of one of our admin staff. I just could not be there. And I had to be somewhere else besides.
I arrived home about twenty minutes later and immediately loosened my tie. A dull ache pulsed through me. I am always tired come six on a Friday evening, but this week I felt it especially. I poured myself a generous measure of scotch and swallowed it neat. The bottle stood uncorked for a while as I contemplated another. I never poured it.
The rap at the door came soon after. The sound of familiar voices coming through lightened my mood.
I barely had the opportunity to speak with Kate before she rushed off, already late for her shift. All I heard was “I’ll pick her up in the morning.”
I crouched to my goddaughter’s level. She kissed my cheek before taking my hand. “Hey Sprout!”
She must have accidentally tasted the remnants of scotch, because the face she pulled, something between sourness and disgust, was priceless.
“Are you drunk?”
“No, darlin’.” I checked the dining table just to make sure I had secreted the bottle. “It’s been a long day so I had one, one, just a minute ago.”
“I’m teasing!” She tried to pout, but an attack of the giggles overpowered her. Hearing that unadulterated explosion of laughter catches me out every time: completely joyous and unapologetically infectious laughter. For the first time in weeks my lips cracked into an authentic smile. I read the question in her face before she asked it.
“Spag bol, some bread and ice cream.”
Her face lit up. “And we’re cooking?”
“Yup: I chop, you stir.”
-------------------------
I quickly regretted making that executive decision. The trepid and shuddering whimpers of the small girl broke my vacant daydream. She informed me that I was bleeding. I had not felt the knife slice against my thumb, but my crimson-stained left hand and the puddle rapidly accumulating around the carrot were incontrovertible evidence. She scurried off to fetch me a band aid.
Small fingers delicately applied the band aid. I shed a tear. She admonished me for being a wimp. I shook my head, telling her it wasn’t that. Lifting her onto the bench, I could see she had taken on my anguish.
“Oh, no, <insert her name> it’s nothing you’ve done.”
Her tone was almost demanding. “Then what?”
I gleaned over my emotions. She does not need to see the writhing nest of serpents that torment her favoured “uncle”.
“Well, if somebody made you feel bad, that’s OK. You’re allowed to cry.”
Her arms quickly encircled my neck. I thought of Francis de Groot. No, not even he could have done it better. The panoply of sins that were not hers to forgive, were obliterated and with it went the sadness that had been at my shoulder since Memorial Day.
