- CSA resolution
- Mr Happy and Mr Grumpy
I went to see my little boy, George (see image below) on Monday as I promised I would.
And, of course, my Ex was there. She carried on as though nothing had happened (see blog post 13th March 2012). Mainly, she’d won: she’d got me to do what she wanted. We had this rather brief conversation:
“So, are you going to the CSA?” I said.
“No, of course not,” she said.
“Well, you’ve no need, have you: you got what you want…”
“It’s not all about you!”
“No, it isn’t: it’s about you!”
From there the level of our communication dropped below the floorboards. We didn’t hurl muck at each other; we just didn’t utter another meaningful word in the other’s direction. We left it at that: our WMDs primed and ready; hers, the Child Support Agency; and mine, leaving her to it while I found the money the CSA would demand.
There followed, that night a, a paradox: I had the best night’s sleep in weeks. I’ve been having trouble with muscle and nerve alignment since moving to my current abode. Basically, the taught tendons in my back decided they’d had enough after being under constant stress caused by persistent unemployment, growing desperately short of cash, and living with a woman I’d split up with the previous September: there came a painful rupture in my back. That was in January. Then a couple of weeks ago I woke in the middle of a dark night unable to feel or move my hand. It took a good twenty minutes of constant manipulation to get a semblance of sensation back. Something, I reasoned, had to be done; and quickly. The doctor wouldn’t be good enough: I needed treatment now! Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the effort my GP puts in. But thanks to 40 years of monetarist policies from successive government administrations I had to go to a private practice.
No, I didn’t have to go: I chose to go. I chose private, because my GP would have referred me to a physiotherapist who would have a waiting list. So, I phoned the best osteopathy practice in the world.
After a couple of body-bending and tendon crunching sessions with my chosen consultant, life became more bearable. My right hand didn’t feel like some remote, experimental device. And then came that Monday night when I slept like a log.
I woke the next day absolutely… Kerry Packered!
The alarm wrenches me from my blissful dreams around 5am every morning and mostly I comply. But that Tuesday morning (if one can still call it that)… I felt I could have done with another two or three more days. I dragged myself into work hardly ready for the day, but I had to go through with it.
I have noticed how, during my day, I generally start well as Mr Happy but descend into the grip of Mr Grumpy. He’s a swine, Mr Grumpy, because he makes me snap at other drivers and people who don’t do what Mr Grumpy wants them to do. The latter usual appears on the scene about midday and gathers momentum the longer I go without sustenance. However, Mr Grumpy got up with me and kept poking me in the ribs all day… Then, on the M20 between Folkestone and Ashford, a great urge to curl up and grab some Zeds overcame me. It was all I could do to keep with the flow until I delivered my stuff to a building site on the A2070. They’d ordered lots and I was glad of that: it got me out of the cab for a while; and the exercise enlivened me!
Somehow I made it back home. I switched on my computer and stared at the screen. My brain acknowledge the pulses of electricity and pixels looking back at me, but could do no more than that… By ten to eight I was in bed; and glad of it!