Dear diary.
Another dream over. Another waster exposed for what they are.
I had such high hopes too.
Ticked almost every box. I don’t pretend to have a lot of boxes, but two out of three isn’t enough.
I wanted the dream this time, the cheap version, I grant you.
But even that wasn’t to be.
When will this end for me?
When will I have the life that I really deserve?
Yes, I’ve not been a terribly good person at times.
I chased away other people; I think it’s that music I play, that flute band stuff. It used to drive the neighbours mental; that’s why I used to play it.
Now they march up and down outside the house, in open mockery, playing pretend flutes and tipping back pretend cans of lager.
Swine.
Dear diary, when did it get like this?
I remember I used to own a red sports car and have people queuing up to have their picture taken with me.
I knew, on some level, that it was about the money; I am a miserable person in the main, someone who alienates more folk than actually like me, but I thought the way I spread it around would at least buy me some respect.
But when the adulation ended, when the cash ran out, when the bank wouldn’t let me have another quid, and when they repossessed the car and made me go everywhere on a number 7 bus, well that’s when it all started to go wrong.
There are times when I can still fool people.
I have the good clothes, the look of someone successful, but they are frayed and falling apart and I can no longer get away with passing them off “as new.” I could downgrade, “go schemie” as my friends would say, but if I do isn’t it admitting to myself that things can never go back to how they were?
Someone told me the other day that I should try to remember that none of it was ever real in the first place, that it was all borrowed money, but what do they know?
They run a tight household; that’s just code for “they are cheap.”
They might have a car but it’s not like mine used to be.
They might own a nice house but they don’t have a Jacuzzi out back or that extension or that third bedroom.
A modest house.
Their problem is some folk never dare to dream.
But there are issues here, of course.
The Jacuzzi is leaking. Water pishes out of it whenever I fill it up. The heater doesn’t work too well either.
The extension is subsiding.
The house is run-down, in need of repair.
The third bedroom has a leaky roof. There’s a big crack down one of the walls. The windows need resealed. They sometimes let in the wet.
I know I have problems here.
I just have to hope I get rescued soon.
The trouble is, who’s going to do it for me?
That’s the question, that’s where the difficulty always arises, you see.
Those few who do show up never stay long; they get sent on their way because not one of them can fix the ceiling, sort out the windows, mow the lawn, give me satisfaction, pay the bills and take me on the three holidays per year that will remind the neighbours of just who the creamiest cookie in the jar is.
Not one of them has lived up to all of that, and I deserve that, don’t I?
Aren’t I entitled to it?
Why should I settle for less?
I never did before.
Now I grant you, there are some reasons why the better options won’t show interest these days.
I have gained a little weight, I admit, but that’s no excuse for some of the hurtful remarks that get thrown at me.
And they call it banter. Huh!
If only the flab I’m carrying was all of it.
There are the debts.
Admittedly, they are extensive, and that’s without even going into how much it will cost to fix up this house.
Anyone would have to take those on, and live with the fact that I like to spend money and not necessarily my own. I always liked to live well. I max out credit cards almost as soon as they drop through the letterbox … I always have.
Then there’s the kids … where do I even start?
How about their general rudeness?
Their laziness?
Their all-round attitude towards anyone who doesn’t pander to their every whim?
They can be so demanding those kids, more so even than me …. and aggressive with it.
Jeezus, how am I meant to cope with that?
What can I do about it? If I give them grief they’ll just get on my case … better that someone else deals with it.
There’s my ex to consider too … out of sight but never out mind; there’s always a lingering possibility of that sod causing mayhem like when I got that letter saying the house might not actually be mine after all … and who knows? Maybe it isn’t.
I’m glad nobody’s pursuing that claim … yet.
You know, there are people who tell me I should stop depending on hand-outs. That I should stop looking for a meal ticket and go out and make my own living and start bringing the threads of my life together so I can stand on my own two feet … but where’s the fun in that?
I can’t see myself doing a 9-5 job, I’ve not had one of those since I was a kid and getting out of that was the reason I got married into money in the first place.
Why does everybody hate me, dear diary?
Why does no-one want to help me out of this misery?
What did I do to them that they should abandon me to this fate?
Don’t they know who I am?
Hey, world, let me remind you …
I AM THE PERSON!