This is a both a crie de coeur and I guess, a call for help, though what sort of help, I'm buggered if I know.
Today's "Today" programme, as usual, when it gets a cancer story, bangs on about it relentlessly. Not only was it cancer, it was about NICE and its newly announced advice on smoking in hospital grounds, which of course implicitly screams "lung cancer" to anybody with an ounce of intelligence. Of course, when Laing and I visited King George for the chemo, the blood tests, the oncologist appointments, we were shocked by the smoking, especially in less clement weather, right by the front door.
That was the trigger for my misery this morning.
Let us rewind. Saturday I had a "date" of sorts. Internet site, not used just for dating but for casual encounters, or NSA as the common parlance has it nowadays. Good grief, do I feel old!
Saturday was an innocuous event. Pleasant enough, but nothing much, though as the poor devil is seemingly somewhat in an isolated position (getting to the truth was not easy even when achieved). I feel like I should maintain contact, mainly because I am a bit of a soft touch.
Sunday was more promising, not least since my date, and this felt more like a date, was interested in going to the Paul Klee at Tate Modern. Even before we met I felt comfortable, possibly too comfortable. We went round the Klee, and I felt intellectually safe. We had a late lunch, then went to look at the standard everyday stuff on show, Braque, Mondrian, Flavin, Emin (dreadful, pointless and truly dreadful). In one room there was a Dutch video about the first woman on the moon - don't ask - and we found ourselves in the gloom holding hands. Well, one thing leads to another, we had a longer time together and arranged to meet Monday. All I will say is I went home Monday before the night was young to change into what I normally wear on Tuesday to go to work and that Monday leads into Tuesday.
If you need more information, I'm sorry, you're beyond belief.
I have no regrets, none whatsoever, not even if (who am I kidding, if?) I made a fool of myself. I was reckless and slept the sleep of the righteous for the first time in a while.
This morning, the "Today" programme, in cahoots no doubt with that evil twisted Goddess woman, thought happiness is not suitable for me. I wept, I railed at Laing, I don't care about life as life the way it is. Why should I care about building up a better pension when I do not want to retire but do things I want or like, so long as somebody pays me? Maybe even look for a new way of earning a living as a self employed individual?
OK! A lot of this is part first-birthday-on-my-own-blues, part post-first-birthday-on-my-own-blues, part bad timing of the Today programme, part natural bereavement mood swing, part fed up of being a happy chappy and probably part a lot of other things. I also guess sharing a bed for the first time overnight (there, I said it) made a difference too.
It is at times like this I miss Laing most. I need his counsel, his advice, his suggestions, his kindliness to such a "foolish, fond old man" as I, but that is the irony of it all. None of this would have happened had cancer not intervened to create the situation, and had it happened, I could not have sought his help.
This morning on impulse, following an e-mail exchange over the past few days, I asked probably my best straight friend what she was doing this weekend. The upshot is I am off to Zürich. I need to, as I need Platinum status with Hyatt and Senator status with Miles and More, both of which only require one more night away from home and two full price business class fares. It’s only money. You can't take it with you, and just to know I've done it once in my life is reason enough.
Stop tutting, Laing. I know I'm still no more than a big kid and irresponsible and may regret this year if I live to find I am old and penniless, but this year has been the best of times, it has been the worst of times, it has been the age of wisdom, it has been the age of foolishness, it has been the epoch of belief, it has been the epoch of credulity, it has been the season of Light, it has been the season of darkness, it has been the Spring of Hope, it has been the Winter of despair, we had everything before us, only I remain and fear I have nothing before me ...
It seems that even Dickens, not our favourite author by a long chalk, comes to my rescue at a time like this!
