DATING

“Hi my name’s Tom and I’ll be eating dinner with you tonight.”

It’s just something we do.

“Hi Tom, I’m Boswell. So what brings you to my kitchen?”

I don’t know why, but I really enjoy this.

“Well, see that waitress over there,” he gestures to the fridge. “It’s not her. And see that woman over there.” He gestures to the kitchen sink. “It’s not her either.”

Somehow our kitchen/dining room has turned into a bustling restaurant or at least it feels as though it has. Tom and I are on a blind date and this is our chance to get to know a little about each other.

“Well?” I play coy.

Tom swallows his mouthful of food. “I’m here for you.”

I smile. This really is a lot of fun and I’m enjoying the flattery.

“Well, just so we’re clear if I don’t approve of your table manners I’ll be telling you to leave and I don’t put out on the first date.”

Tom grimaces. “That’s not what I hear.”

I play at being disgusted. “What have you heard.”

“Tom says you’re pretty easy.” Tom, not his real name, has adapted to his tOOleS persona so much so that we’ve given the pseudonyms a life of their own.

“Oh, Tom’s confusing me with Boswell. We look pretty similar. The only difference is that Boswell can be a bit of a slut.”

That’s one thing about fictitious characters, they can be whatever you need them to be in any given situation.

And Tom keeps the game moving by telling me about “Tom’s” behaviour. Apparently “Tom” stalks “Boswell” and “Boswell’s” only using “Tom” for sex. It’s a sordid story of two people who are completely of our own creation.

We talk a little about ourselves. Tom tells me how he’s looking for a solid relationship, he’s looking for someone who’s smart and independent. I tell him that I’m looking for someone who respects me and won’t try to change who I am.

Somehow an hour slips by and dinner comes to an end. Tom stands from the table and walks over to me. He kisses me on the forehead and smiles.

“Well thank you for a lovely dinner Boswell. If you don’t mind I’d like to see you again.”

I agree and Tom moves over to the sink and lets the water rise in the stainless steel tub. He pushes in the dishes and begins to wash.

This isn’t one of those dating disasters that I’ve heard so much about. It’s pretty much the perfect date and right in my own kitchen.

KILL THE MICE
Who Needs Sleep - Barenaked Ladies

There’s an exhaustion creeping up my spine.

Days are bleeding into each other and I’m worried that if I don’t stop – if I don’t stop emotionally beating myself up, trying to juggle work and life, constantly running around in circles setting up this house – then I’m going to collapse into a useless heap.

If I don’t stop then I’m going to do something I’ll regret.

It’s cryptic, I know, but I’m not trying to hide what I’m capable of. That’s just the thing, I don’t know what I’ll do to lighten my load. In the past it’s been some radical move that’s essentially shifted my life.

So, what’s the load I’m carrying around?

I’ve started a new assignment and it’s fairly complicated. I’ve had extensive training and I’m happy with the knowledge I’ve accrued in the past two weeks but I’m worried that it’s not enough. I’m worried that I’ll never find a job that completely satisfies me.

I’m torturing myself of late over Tom’s ex and his kids. I’m isolating myself and refusing to go with the flow on this issue. I’m irrational and these irrational inclinations are leading to a complete withdrawl. I hate myself when I do this and I’m fighting to keep my hand in but some days I’m drowning.

Money’s tight. I’m leaking money left, right and centre and all of my dreams and desires hinge on having a certain amount of saved cash. Without that money I just can’t move forward so I can’t seem to get ahead. Now that I’ve got a confirmed two months of work there’s a chance but when ever I seem to get ahead something happens and I end up where I started.

And the exhaustion creeps into my skull, like mice the million things I have to do are scratching around and making themselves heard.

My sleep is riddled with vivid and complicated dreams that I just can't unravel. Bee hives, ghosts, fire, trees and flowers all coming to life, seemingly crossing over from the realm of dream to reality. As I sleep I can't rest. I'm running across cities searching for something, running from something or I'm fighting off something.

Nothing makes sense.

What I wouldn’t give for a little peace.

IT'S ONLY SEPTEMBER
12 Days of Christmas

Tom's kids sat around the dining room table eating dinner. Their mouths full with Tom's special spicy rissoles.

"Is Santa real?" Mr 10 piped up.

I froze to the spot. What should my response be? I mean, I'm just their father's girlfriend. So I decided to tell them the truth. My truth.

"Of course there's a Santa."

There's never been an issue for me. Santa's real. Not as we're told as children but I love Christmas so much that I choose to accept the existance of this fictitional character.

Tom smiled.

"That's right and you'd better be good, otherwise the faries will tell him that you've been naughty."

Something tells me Tom and I are perfect for each other - we both choose to live in this world and still believe in the fiction.

BREWING

And there I stood on the eighth story of the car park overlooking a stream of people escaping the grip of work in Parramatta city.

The warm spring wind wrapping itself around me like a blanket. The sun quickly draining over the horizon. A mass of clouds reaching across the sky.

End of the world stuff.

Everyone had been predicting a storm and the smell was unmistakable. Sweet and subtle, like warm fairy floss. Now the signs were unmistakable. The warm breeze was always the marker with its unmistakable deception – as though lulling the world into calm before attacking the tiny humans with all the power the sky could muster.

Three hours later there’s nothing. The clouds are thining out and through the holes in the once thick mass of grey fluff you can see the stars poking through.

It’s disappointing.

I’ve always loved a good storm. It’s the reminder that we are crushable and that a warm and simple breeze can build itself into a force powerful enough to kill. It reminds me that there is something without us that is stronger than we could ever be.

There are some days I completely understand the nature of the storm.

These visits, whether they eventuate or not, remind me there is a force within even the most timid of creatures that can destroy.

PICTURE PERFECT
Girls on Film – Duran Duran

Tom’s taking my picture and if he doesn’t stop it soon then we’ll be breaking up. He’ll be packing his things and moving into the garage.

That’s right. I would dump him over something this trivial.

Ok, not really. But as you can imagine I’m not someone who takes a great photo. Everyone has delusions about themselves and it’s these delusions that keep us going.

For me it’s the delusion that I am vaguely attractive. I have convinced myself that while I may not be a super model I do look at least a little like I feel.

I don’t.

My appearance is something that sent me silent for so long. I wondered if anyone heard what I had to say they wouldn’t be able to get past what I looked like to actually listen.

So, in this delusion I am 20 kilos lighter and my hair is neatly cut. I know it’s not the truth. I know that no matter how hard I try I can’t make other people see my reality but at least if I convince myself I can make it through the world.

And I can avoid mirrors. I am only capturing a glimpse as I walk by or, focusing my eyes exclusively on my hair or my teeth or that persistent zit, not really see myself as others do.

But the camera never lies. The camera captures my weight with its precise eye with the flash highlighting every unsightly curve.

My delusion is so complete that I have often looked at these photos and thought, “who’s that?”

I still do.

So Tom skirts around me and snaps a few shots and I can’t bring myself to look despite his assurances that I look fantastic.

It’s a funny thing love.

In my eyes the camera is painting the picture of someone who has been quite fittingly described as a “bull-dyke”. She’s ugly and unattractive.

But Tom keeps snapping away and smiling at the shots he’s taken. He sees the same picture but isn’t the slightest bit disturbed.

“Look, this one really is nice,” he grins.

And I look, trying to see myself through his eyes. As I do I realise that he can see in me the same thing that I see in him.

For the first time I’m seeing the truth.

For the first time the delusion of my appearance is the reality.

For the first time I can see all of me and not just the shell.

Apparently he’s seen it all along.

STORIES
The Luckiest – Ben Folds

There were five of us sitting in the massive boardroom. Each paticipant swallowed by the big black leather chairs around the shiny wood 20-seater table.

Myself. Three older women and a man named Rob.

Each told their tale.

One woman had eight years experience working for a bank. She was an executive who focused on staff development. She had been retrenched and was now looking for some temping work.

The second woman was a stay-at-home mum for the past 10 years and was now looking to get back into the workforce.

The third woman had been a teacher for 12 years. She had decided, with all the new pressures on teaching, that she’d had enough. After 12 years of putting up with children and dealing with the education system that it was time to work in an environment that wasn’t so stressful.

Rob had been working as a labourer and went back to school last year to get a more white collar job because he was tired of getting up as 3 in the morning. He had lost part of his right pointer finger and seriously hurt his back. He said at this time in his life he wanted a new career so that he wasn’t cripple by the age of 50.

And there was me. Ex-journalist after five years.

I hadn’t considered the stories of others who have done this, who have gone through the anguish and insecurity of losing a career after a number of years. And here they were, telling their life tales at a group interview for a call-centre assignment.

For me leaving a career was like losing a limb. At times I can still feel the phantom appendange and I ache to scratch it, I ache to use it.

I still play with the idea of returning.

But there are people out there who have taken a more treacherous leap when their entire lives hung in the balance. There are people the world over who are putting years or work behind them because they’re had enough of being defined by their jobs.

If we knew, when we first started our careers, what we know now would we have walked the paths we did?

I think that answer is self-evident.

And these are the people I will be working with for the next two months. It should be an interesting experience to say the least.

It seems as though temping is what I'm meant to be doing, if only to understand why I’m not doing something else.

A POET’S PAIN
The Reason - Hooberstank

Misery has a million words.

Happiness is silent.

It’s the writing that suffers for love.

For the past three months I haven’t had a clear and focused thought. The words seep into the words of happiness and complacency. Dull and lifeless in themselves.

Let’s face it, love is boring without a touch of conflict or angst.

Each blank page is too much of an effort when I could be spending more time with Tom. The two of us curled comfortably on the bed watching some pointless TV program or rather simply talking over the top of it.

Has the artistic vision dissolved? Can a writer only be happy when they’re miserable?

AT PLAY
Sail Away – David Gray

I’m watching the neighbours children play on the front porch. My computer room has the desk positioned intentionally next to the window for moments like these.

Seated at this desk I try not to lose myself in some fictional world but rather make this fictional world as real as possible.

These children are part of my world, although they don’t know it.

There’s a small fight over the ownership of a toy but the antagonism dissolves and they’re back to playing.

Two girls, one is about five the other between seven and eight and still wearing her school uniform. With the little one, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, jumping around her as she withdraws from their game, pulls out pen and paper and begins to write.

“Leave me alone, I’m doing my homework.” She hisses at the little girl who’s dancing around her and trying to get her to play along with the game she’s created with her small trinkets.

That world. Being a child. Is so far removed from my life and I wonder if I can draw on that vision and that joy.

I wonder if “homework” isn’t to blame. We’re taught to stop thinking and do what has to be done. We become regimented and stilted by the reality that is heaped upon our shoulders at such an early age.

The girls go their separate ways.

The seven-year-old wanders off to do her homework as a solid grounding for her future as a responsible member of the real world.

The five-year-old is still sitting on the step making her inanimate toys talk and creating her own real world.

I don’t think I’m ready to grow up just yet. My fictional world seems to be constantly encroaching on the “real world” and I’m in no hurry to keep the two in their respective boxes.

I want to defy the wrinkles I discovered last night and the collection of birthday cards that proudly declare that I am 30-years-old.

Watching the girls moving away from each other I imagine my life is their game. If I stare long enough I search for a way to relate but after a time I realise I can’t.

I still haven’t made my choice.

TEN YEARS HEAD START
History Never Repeats – Split Enz

When I first met Tom’s ex-wife it was 8.30am on a Saturday.

The woman, who I had only heard described by Trevor as “your typical houseo trash”, stumbled onto the front step wearing a dressing gown over her flannelette PJs. It was more than obvious she’d only been awake for a few minutes.

Her hair, curly and red, tasselled and fell across her round face in a massive clump.

“Hey,” she said, with one of her sleep-encrusted eyes squeezed shut against the sun.

“Hi,” I responded, somewhat over enthusiastically. During the meeting I was trying to conceal the fact I was sizing her up as the enemy.

That was the extent of our conversation as the kids tumbled out the door and clung to Tom like monkeys on a tree. Still she was there in the door. Hovering like a ghost.

History is an undeniable fact of who we are. I have often lamented how I wouldn’t be the person I am if not for the history that shaped me.

My history, however, is just that. It lingers behind me. There is nothing of my history that I carry with me other than the quirks of my personality. My history doesn’t take a physical manifestation other than emotional baggage.

I am still bound to my history but no one can sense these ties except for me. It's my history that makes me cringe at The Dave Matthews Band; The Screaming Jets; the smell of paint and; clouds gathering around tall mountains.

Tom’s history visits this house every two weeks. His history calls twice a week and one portion of his history is constantly asking him to do things.

These are the things that in the past I would have hesitated to say. They would have eaten away at me. I would have been suspicious and looking for any indication that Tom was clinging to his past. Every action Tom took in relation to his kids I would have eyed with concern and his contact with his ex would have been examined thoroughly.

All the while pretending as though it didn’t bother me.

This time, I tried a different tack. I sat sulking on the front step after the kids had disobeyed something I’d told them and Tom (unaware of my instruction) had supported them.

“Look, you know I love the kids but…” and I hesitated, terrified of his reaction “…but every time they’re here it’s like she’s come to visit. Every time they’re here it’s a reminder that you have a family and I just don’t feel like I belong. We’ve got 10 years of your history here. I mean, how would you feel if my ex came over to stay for the weekend?”

Tom looked serious and I was afraid my comment, well intended as it was, would annoy or anger him. In the past opening my mouth had led to never ending battles through misunderstanding and conflicting opinions. As a result I generally kept quiet.

“No, I understand that. It’ll take time to adjust. Until then we’re going to have to work this out bit by bit and if there’s anything that’s bugging you, you need to tell me.”

I wanted to lunge at him and give him a hug but instead simply smiled. Pushed my luck.

“Well, you could stand by me when I give them an instruction.”

“Yeah, I’m really sorry about that I didn’t realise you’d said no. I’m used to doing this on my own so I didn’t think before I gave them the go ahead.”

“Ok. We’ll work this out.”

Tom nodded. “It’ll just take time.”

He’s 10 years up on me and I wonder if I’ll ever catch up.

ANCIENT TEMPTATIONS

When I was in university we lived with two drug dealers and I dabbled. After all, I’m only human. Besides, being neighbours you got fantastic deals and I was never one to walk away from a bargain.

Today, pulling clothing from one of my old backpacks, I found a small tin. Inside a small bag of pot, nearly five years old now, and a small white pill.

I considered them. Not as options, I don’t know what the pill is and let’s face it the pot is pretty much dead. Instead, I considered them as the remnants of my past, my mementos.

The pill, a small white circle, sat in my open palm. The hard little ball a temptation.

I remember this, the moment before taking something that would wash the world away for a temporary period. At that time is was an antidote to all my ills and a way in which I could find the courage to be sociable.

I was always a coward. People on a whole intimidated me. Not that the drugs on hand made that any easier – I was either up to the point of oblivion where I didn’t relate to anyone or so down that I couldn’t relate - it really wasn’t a solution but rather my excuse for not handling any given situation.

During this time I was blessed with amazing friends who managed to see what I was up to. At regular intervals it was Boswell intervention time and they would verbally kick my ass, take my supplies and straighten me out. As a result it didn’t become a big problem.

Still, accessing the courage necessary to “mingle” always has.

After university I simply didn’t have the access to drugs and I didn’t go looking for it. Alcohol and cigarettes were always on hand and it was there that I found my refuge. Temporarily silencing my self-doubts and, on the nights when my insomnia became unbearable, medicating myself until sleep was inevitable.

I am pretty good at making excuses. Just as I can act a certain way for a certain person I can also fool myself into thinking I have legitimate “reasons” for the things I do.

On a whole I don’t. I don’t have legitimate reasons. I’m a coward nothing more.

When I walk into a nightclub or party I don’t see a chance to meet new people and have a good time I see the dangers that room presents. I monitor the exits, I watch my friends to make sure they’re not in trouble, I watch strangers and look for suspicious behaviour. Essentially I shut myself off and wish I could blend into the walls. And it’s worked, people forget that I’m there.

On a whole I’ve succeeded in the past at cutting myself off from the world, I’ve succeeded at being invisible.

These remnants of the powers that made it possible to be social remind me how easy it is to disappear and I’m in no hurry to relive that.

OUR PRIDE
You Don’t Know Me – Lisa Loeb

There are cats under the house. Their number is indeterminable.

An orange tomcat, proud despite the age that stoops his frail back, appears. The birds in the trees surrounding this house are screeching and crying out a warning. They’re fearful that their children are at risk.

This cat is a threat to no one.

His slow gate carrying him across our driveway to a cool patch of grass in full sun where he collapses in a crescent of orange and dozes. His eyes closed against the glare but his tail is twitching indicating he’s very much alert.

Two kittens have made the trees around this old house their playground. The rustling and mewing makes it impossible to ignore their presence. One of the kittens climbs onto a neighbours shed and calls mournfully for its companion. The pair finally unites on the fence line and scamper down a tree so they can wrestle on the back lawn for a while. Finally shooting off in a blur. Their destination unknown.

There’s a white cat that proudly emerges from the crawlspace under the house. It preens itself in the sunlight, carefully licking each paw and drawing it back over its head in a slow sweeping motion. In the bright sunlight it’s a glare to my eyes. Looking as though it’s wearing a halo or could be a ghost.

We’re unclear as to whether these cats are our responsibility or if they belong to a neighbour and have simply made this house their extended home. So we watch them come and go and do nothing to frighten them off. They’re not harming us. In fact, we attribute the lack of mice and other annoyances to their presence.

But I wonder about their world under our feet.

When they see us coming they run off into the dark recesses under this house and I wonder what we must seem through their eyes. Invaders. Trespassers. Beasts.

Through their eyes we are not to be trusted and they refuse to let us encroach on their lives. Although our goal would only be to get to know them better they seem to know enough of us that they don’t want to know any more. Their past experiences casting us in a dim light.

So we have cats we don’t feed or pat. Cats we have no relationship with at all. They simply come and go as they please. Our house is a split-level apartment block.

Us dwelling above and below our feet a world we know nothing of.

BARGAIN
Material Girl - Madonna

The second-hand store was filled with people hustling for a bargain. For years it has been the go-to place to find any item of furniture, clothing or collectible because of it’s diverse range.

“So how much is that set of draws?”

The draws were chipped and the paint falling away from it’s sides. All in all it wasn’t that attractive but it had what all bargain hunters look for. Potential.

“$5.”

I hesitated, not wanting to look to eager and concerned I was jumping at the price and not my need for that particular item. But Tom and I had been looking for a set of draws for the kids and rather than spending $80 to $100, $5 seemed a pretty good saving.

It would also give me a chance to work on something with my hands. To do something.

So the chest of four drawers was pushed into the back of my little Excel and I rushed them home with the newly purchased paint stripper and scrappers.

The job began at 2pm with the paint bubbling and peeling away like the spittle soaked skin of a popped balloon. I carefully followed the contour of the wood, not wanting to lose the nice bevelled edges on each draw or leave massive gouges from the metal scrapers. My eyes scanning the wood for any sign of imperfection as I went.

By 5pm Tom pulled into the driveway and most of the paint had been removed and I hadn’t stopped once.

“Hey, they’re pretty nice.” He smiled.

“You’ll never guess how much they cost.” I couldn’t help it. I was beaming and Tom could see that I was pretty proud of my new acquisition.

I’d spent three hours stripping the drawers back to bare wood and apart from the 2-ply casing they were a nice grain of wood.

“I’m impressed.” He half laughed. “From the look of you, you’ve been having fun.”

The job was done and I ached from head to toe. My right shoulder feeling as though I were being stabbed and my hand cramped and spasming. I had put on my work clothes – a pair of green cargo pants and a t-shirt – and by the time he had arrived home they were stained and covered in paint stripper. Flecks of discarded paint were hanging from my hair and a smear of white stretched from my chin to my cheek.

Despite my disarray Tom kissed me and walked into the house, leaving me to finish the job. At one stage he began to help me strip the final drawer but I bristled at the assistance – telling him to go inside and leave me be.

This was my achievement in an otherwise empty week. Without work I feel so completely useless and it’s these simple tasks, the tasks that make my bones ache, that make me feel as though I have done something of worth. No matter how pitifully small a contribution it is.

This week I just wanted to be proud of something.

At times like these I wonder if I’m not punishing myself for not contributing more. I wonder if I’m inflicting pain upon myself as some sort of retribution for giving up on a career and giving up on being part of the corporate world.

Swapping one type of pain and misery for another.

Either way, I wanted to savour it alone.

A SOUNDING BOARD
The One – Foo Fighters

Karen curled her feet beneath her on the lounge and held her wine glass with a white knuckled grip.

“I think he’s having an affair. I mean they say that the more suspicious someone is the more likely it is that they’re the one having the affair.” She said the words slowly and deliberately.

“God.” What could I say? “What’s been going on?”

She gave me a sketchy run-down of the last six months. We hadn’t been in communication for nearly a year because of an email stuff-up and as a result she’s been stuck on the other side of the world dealing with this on her own.

He had been flying into rages in which he would accuse her of sleeping with her co-workers. On one occasion he had started a fight with a man who had simply asked her if the chair next to her was taken. Every weekend he had been quizzing the children to see what mummy had been up to.

All the while she had simply denied the accusations.

The phone rang and she answered it and from the stilted conversation I could tell it was him. Our conversation was incomplete but I drew what I could from the one side of the phone call that I could hear.

“No. Boswell’s here.” Silence. “No, just Boswell.” Silence. “Yes I’m sure it’s just her.” Silence. “No, we’re just going to stay in.” Silence. “I’m not expecting anyone.”

Karen has three small children. Two girls and a boy. Somewhere in her week of taking two of them to school, one to child care, building her career as a teacher and attending both classes and the gym twice a week her husband suspected she was fitting in an elicit affair. From my perspective it seemed so incredibly unreasonable to assume that she would have the time, energy or inclination to have an affair.

But I wasn’t him. I wasn’t seeing things through his eyes and being such a close friend with Karen I’m certain that I never would be completely objective. .

The phone was placed on the receiver and she came back into the room.

“I love him Boswell. I really do. But I’m tiered.” Karen collapsed into the lounge and took a long swing from her glass.

“So what are you going to do?” I had no answers. I wasn’t even going to pretend that I had any answers for her.

Karen shrugged her shoulders. “All I know is that I’m finally getting myself together. I’m finally happy with my work and with the way I take care of the kids. I finally know who I am and what I want and the only thing he can think is that I’m happy because I’m with someone else.”

“It sounds like it’s more about him then about you,” I offered hoping it was some kind of help.

“Yeah, I know. But if he won’t see that then what can I do?”

I didn’t have anything to offer. Her life was foreign to me and only came on these rare occasions when she could visit. She’s one of my best friends and despite the time and distance we have always been able to get together and discuss the deeply personal.

For the first time in my life I wasn’t brimming with half-baked advice. I wish I could have been but I’m no longer the person I once was. It’s no longer my place to show people the light.

“I don’t know. Maybe you two should consider counselling. It helps to have someone who isn’t invested listen to both of your perspectives and perhaps they can see what’s going on a little clearer.”

Karen refilled her glass and topped up mine. I shifted uneasily, worried she thought I no longer cared. Worried that this attitude of not giving advice on things I don’t completely understand may come across as indifference.

“Tonight I just think I need to get drunk and complain about it.” She finally said.

I smiled, knowing this was the one thing I could help her with. “Well, that’s a healthy start. Complain away. I'm all ears.”

PHONEY

My grandfather sat on the opposite side of the table and I couldn’t look at him. I didn’t want to. How can you acknowledge someone who doesn’t exist?

“Did you say hello to Grandpa?” mum quizzed me at least three times. She would bail me up in the kitchen as I was hiding.

“Yes,” I eventually lied, not wanting to tell her that since he didn’t exist for me I had no real urge for a conversation.

For at least four hours yesterday I took part in a careful dance. I kept myself at the end of the yard at my brother’s place that was the furthest distance away from my grandfather.

He talked to me on a couple of occasions but the conversation was short and I used my nieces and nephew as an excuse to run off. On a number of occasions I would call out some unnecessary warning and cut any talk short.

“Well, I’ll see you later.” He finally said as my parents began loading the car. The old man stood opposite me and I took a little time to look at him. His eye all bloody and swollen from the recent operation; his back all stooped; and the pockmarked skin dripping from his bones.

“Yeah,” I smiled weakly and then kissed him on the cheek. He stepped forward and shook Tom’s hand. Tom, knowing of my disregard for the old man, stiffened at the gesture but kept his tone kind.

And with a great deal of effort he climbed into my parent’s car.

Driving to the Father’s Day function Tom had talked to me about the day. He asked me why I felt so uncomfortable around someone who, in my eyes, didn’t exist.

“I’m just not that good at pretending to give a damn,” I admitted. “He doesn’t exist to me but seeing him face to face makes me so angry because he doesn’t see that. To him it’s as though nothing has happened.”

Tom was quite and I knew that he couldn’t understand what I meant. “I mean, nothing has happened. He’s not a part of my life but he walks in and acts as though he is and that he’s been a great grandfather.”

“Look, I’m not going to defend him but unless you tell him that his actions have hurt you or that you don’t want him in your life then he’ll never know that. He’s not going to just suddenly realise that if you’re pretending like it doesn’t bother you.”

“I know. But what’s the point? I tell him I’m pissed off and that he doesn’t exist to me and what changes?”

“So why don’t you just ignore him all together? Why not just say nothing? I mean he doesn’t exist so act like that.”

Family antagonism is like throwing a pebble into water. It’s never about one person. Looking at my ancient grandfather who I know is not long for this world I was faced with his mortality. What’s more I was seeing this situation through someone else’s eyes.

My mother.

She had fought to find her father twice. She has dealt with his crap on a regular basis. Despite all of his bullshit he is my mother’s father and when he dies she will be heartbroken.

“Bye,” I stood on my brother’s front stepped and waved enthusiastically. I said goodbye to my parents and grandfather in turn.

Tom stood behind me and copied my action whispering, “why the sudden turn around?”

“I’m waving for my mum.”

I'm sure he didn't understand but he hugged me anyway.

PEAKING

I’m being Unipeaked.

The whole Unipeak phenomenon is a little over my head. For the past couple of weeks my Statcounter has been littered with references to this proxy service and it’s something that I’m incredibly curious about.

But my research to date has been inconclusive.

From all reports it’s a service used primarily to access sites that have been blocked or banned. Learning this little bit about the service I began to wonder – is tOOleS inaccessible in some regions?

I’ll admit it. I scan my Statcounter. I enjoy watching the diversity of readers and seeing the return of my regular readers. These little blips on my radar make me happier then they should if I'm going to maintain that writing for tOOleS is just for me and isn't at least in part about having an audience.

But I can't help it. I love the idea that my readership is diverse. My regular readership comes from England, America, New Zealand and Australia with visits from Singapore, China and the Arab Emirates. I’ve been visited by friends, people I admire and family. On a number of occasions it has lead me to some fantastic sites that are now part of my regular reading list. And the linking goes on with these sites leading me further afield.

Without the Statcounter I may have missed out on these sites. Without the tiny footprints left on tOOleS I would feel as thought I were screaming into an empty chasm.

Now Unipeak is here and I don’t think it’s threatening in any way. I don’t have advertising revenues to lose as some bloggers do so I'm not losing any money. I am, however, missing the linking trail that my readers are sometimes kind enough to leave for me to follow but I'm sure that you guys will leave your mark in one way or another.

So Unipeak away but if you get the urge could someone send me a link that explains what it’s all about. I hate it when research lets me down.

POSTURING
I Wanna be a Supermodel - Jill Sobule

My new job is front-line and a lot more fun then the paper shuffling month I just had but Last night the agency called and told me one of the executives had a problem with my dress sense.

"We've had a call about what you're wearing on reception."

"You mean my suit?"

"You were wearing a suit?"

"That's right. It's what I always wear. Black suit, Colerado shoes and shirt. Why, what was the complaint?

"Some senior executive rang and said you were wearing a big winter coat and beach shoes."

"I don't own a big black coat. Don't get me wrong, I'm no airy fairy size 8 but I know the difference between a winter coat and a suit jacket."

"I guess it's lucky he's not in the fashion industry. What about the shoes?"

"I'm wearing open toed, black leather, Coloradoes. There not my pick for businesswear of the week but my feet stink in anything else."

"Well, we really do need you to wear closed in shoes."

"I don't have a problem with that but I'm pretty sure my coworkers will when their eyes are burning from the stench."

"I'm sorry, it's what they want."

"No worries. Then they've got shoes - stink and all. You know I'm insulted."

"Don't be. There is always going to be one person who thinks they know everything about everything. Usually it's a man and usually their idea of corporate wear is women in suits and men in shorts and thongs. They've just got a higher standard for everyone other than themselves. I bet he's easy to spot. He'll be the fat, baulding slob."

Sometimes it's so much harder working for a little company with deslusions of grandure then it is working for the elite industries. Yve St Laurent weren't as paranoid as all this. I guess the arrogance and drive necessary to keep it afloat mean tension is far above what it needs to be.

There's posturing, there's sarcasm and there's a great deal of mockery. You see, without it the company would surely wither and die. Without these powerful and arrogant men the company surely couldn't thirve.

You can't have happiness and money. It's a trade off.

Is it any wonder these men die of heart attacks at a young age - it's the reward the rest of us get for tollerating them.

NATURE VS NURTURE
The Smartest Monkeys - XTC

My grandfather's sick and while everyone around me is expressing their concern I just don't care.

I first met my grandfather when I was 11. For the 13 years prior to that meeting he had been estranged from not only my mum but all of his children. There was some bad blood there that I simple couldn’t understand.

I understand it now.

When I was 13 my grandfather disappeared. It wasn’t anything sinister, he’d just moved.

I remember my parents driving up his driveway and then peering through the windows. I remember my mum crying and one of the neighbours telling them he’d moved out on the Tuesday of that week. I remember my dad cursing my grandfather for making my mother cry. My brother and I sat silently in the car for the entire 30 minute drive just trying to understand what had happened.

I'd been so excited to get my grandfather back in my life. I had told my friends with enthusiasm and quizzed him incessantly. Now he was gone. For a while I wondered why he wasn't interested in me or if I'd done something wrong.

Then I just stopped thinking about him.

About 10 years ago my mum tracked him down and the day they met he acted as though nothing had happened. He began chatting and picked up where he left off. This odd man was oblivious to the anger and frustration of the people who just wanted to love him.

I couldn’t pretend that there was any kind of bond between us and simply decided I didn’t have a grandfather. It seemed like a rational decision – he didn’t want any part of my life and I didn’t miss him so there was no antagonism. There was nothing.

Blood alone doesn’t make for family bonds.

What worries me is that I can understand him.

For years I’ve felt this urge to run the second things became stale and difficult. I would pack my things and disappear and if I couldn’t do that physically then I would emotionally withdraw from my relationships pushing away family and friends until I was in the same location but isolated none-the-less.

It’s in my blood I guess.

The occasional update about my grandfather reminds me of this. It reminds me of the hurt and anger I am capable of causing. It reminds me that I am, by design, selfish when it comes to my needs.

So now I’m in a steady relationship and looking towards the future. Tom and I are discussing marriage and children and buying a house of our own. We’ve been discussing our objectives, dreams and hopes for the future. We’re completely compatible. Everything is perfect except for me.

My blood screams with fear and insecurity and I wonder how much of that is my screaming and how much of it has been passed to me by faulty genes.

As far as I’m concerned I don’t have a grandfather and every day I pray I don’t become the same sort of non-entity in the lives of the people I love.