some things, it seems, one can never bloody escape from

Warning: this is not a terribly amusing story. Unless you’re a complete psychopath.

Anyway, the title refers not only to my horrible, self-inflicted habit of maundering on Foolish And Unhepful Events of the Past when given a spare moment after midnight and a glass of red. Nope, sometimes the world smacks me in the fact with this shit even when I’m Being Good!

So, post-grading day. Woo! I am Officially Slightly Harder! Though as yesterday’s episode foreshadowed, this can mean precisely diddly-squat in the real world. And I would love to say today found me in fine fettle, but it did not. My shoulder’s seized up, and while I am finally free of the headaches, fourteen-hour days of Franticness are taking their toll. Which is rather alarming in itself.

Still, I was jolly impressed with myself, and that carried me all the way through work and the lift home I blagged off my Cellmate. She even drove me right to Lidl so I could get a bottle of port. Right. Sip sparingly and it will last all weekend! A night of Sums is ahead, just phone me Chestnut-haired Old Mother first…

Me Chestnut-haired Old Mother rightly pointed out that I have not yet sent a letter of thanks for the sum of money I received from her mate. There is a good reason for this – the sum of money arrived in reply to the last letter of thanks I sent in response to the last sum of money I received, and I sense a downward spiral of attrition is in the offing.

Nonetheless, I bit the bullet and spent a large part of the evening writing what I hope is a very good letter of thanks,  And then the rest of the evening catching up on all my other correspondence. Oh, it is lovely to hear from people, but how I do hate catching up with the correspondence – I mean, if they’re good correspondents, they will reply swiftly and suddenly I’m back to square one! Still, I was done around nine. Just one more refreshing of the inbox…

And I have new correspondence in. I knew it. No, wait, it is not in reply to anything I sent. It is, in fact, stirring the waters of a rather old wound I was trying to put behind me; stirring like the mixing of the metaphors being done in this sentence, in fact. Though it is not the sender’s fault. Nope, this dates right back to when I staggered off a plane, jetlagged to hell from my first ever trip to the US of A back in July, and practically the very next thing that happened was an old friend tried to attack me when I went round to have drinks with him and his girlfriend.

Mercifully, the attack was broken off – I would love to say, when I kicked the shit out of him with my new-found Badassery, but since he was holding me down by the wrists so tightly that the bones ground together and they were agony for days afterwards, that was kinda off the cards and it was broken off when I bawled like a toddler. That was so far from my proudest moment ever, but at least it was premeditated and it worked.  Unlike, say, going to the police about it, which has so far yielded sod-all in the way of results, as far as I am aware.

I hadn’t been going to go to the police about it – I had talked it over with a good mate and we reckoned that not only would the police deal with it as badly as they did the last time, but that since he aborted the attack, then it was probably a first offence. Alas, it took one whole email to discover that it wasn’t, thus the police had to be involved, despite how they treated me, on the off-chance that the rozzers at his door might make him think twice about attacking a third time. I mean, assuming they bothered showing up at his door. (I mean, you hope it would only be the third time, but who knows, eh?)

The email I got tonight was from the person he had attacked previously. Her identity is not relevant, since I don’t want to bring any additional burdens down on her too. Unfortunately, the contents of the email are super-relevant. She asked, Did I have better luck with the police than she did?

Well, obviously you better reply to something like that straight away, so I got wired in trying to write something reassuring and ah, nuts, I’ve been in the situation she’s in and I’m finding it hard finding the right words, so pity all the poor sods who haven’t ever been in Sudden, Crippling Fear of Their Lives and Personal Sanctity – or rather, don’t, I suppose. (Assuming there are actually some people out there who have never been in that fear  – you know, first world country, never been invaded in my lifetime and all, you’d hope there would be loads, but I’m starting to doubt it). Nevertheless, email sure is a terrible medium for this sort of thing.

And as I sat and sipped the sippy port, it slowly percolated through my brain (all information of Great Import takes a bloody long time to percolate through my brain, possibly due to my brain being scared of what my mind will do if the truth hits it all at once) that I had kinda assumed she hadn’t been to the police. Because, if she’d been to the police, and I’ve been to the police, why does it still appear that nothing at all has come of it?

And then I counted out the number of other close friends I have who have been attacked by someone and been to the police and nothing at all has come of it, versus the number where something has come of it (hint: the latter is a very round number), let alone comparing this number to the (much larger) number of people I know who have not been to the police about people attacking them because they didn’t think it would do any good (on balance, they were right, huh?) and dispensed with the sippy part of the sippy port and was up till three in the morning, mainly playing Tubthumper and other songs of defiance. And snarling.  Which is not the best way to deal with anything, by any means, but did at least beat going to bed, lying staring at the ceiling and spending half the night bawling my eyes out.

I will regret this tomorrow. But I’m trying out the assumption that strong emotions should be defused as quickly and tidily as possible, or they will hang around festering for years until I suddenly realise that I am bloody angry about certain events (most of which were also police-worthy and for similar reasons) and have been all this time. And I still don’t know what to do about it.

And I have had enough of that.


About beshemoth

Mainly making art, making wine, writing and gardening. Having a life only as the above allows.
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