Yesterday I went to the postbox and back. Obviously to post something. I haven’t completely lost it.
Well I say that, but perhaps I have, as I went in my slippers. 400 yards in my fucking slippers.
And I saw someone who knows my ex-wife, someone who now probably thinks I’m having some small, or large, mental breakdown.
Today the children and I went to a splash pool in a local town. To enjoy the fun with the kids I rolled up my trouser legs, took my shoes and socks off and got stuck in. It was a beautiful sunny day, the place was busy and we all had a great time. Mini milk treats for the kids afterwards and I put my socks and shoes back on and we walked to the train station, via a big supermarket, and then go on the train to go to their home.
It was when boarding the train I realised I still had my trousers rolled up to my knees, and I’d been walking around like that for about 50 minutes. And the supermarket was well busy.
F. M. L. Sideways.
I have, frequently, showered and dressed in the morning, around 7am, and only at about 5 or 6pm realised that my t-shirt or my shirt is on inside-out. WHO WEARS A SHIRT INSIDE OUT?
I only have me to look after right now and I haven’t been doing it very well recently. I’m getting better now because I’ve had a bit of a word with myself. But over the past 8 months or so? No. Not brilliantly.
This is probably because now I don’t have someone in my life to tell me things. The children certainly don’t, which is kinda cool because I could probably wear a chicken costume and they’d think it was ace. But I don’t have anyone who, on a day-to-day basis, can tell me I look a tool. ‘Spencer, your t-shirt is on inside out.’ ‘Spencer, your trouser legs are still rolled up.’ ‘Spencer, slippers? Really?’
In the past I’ve brushed my teeth and the other person in the room hasn’t said anything, but merely pointed to my mouth in a discreet way indicating I still have toothpaste around my chops.
I’ve realised how much I miss having another person in my life and I know that I work better, function better, in a team. That being said I’m divorced now so maybe I don’t. But I miss someone to talk to. To chat silly stuff with. To take me away from Twitter and my own thoughts. To make me smile, laugh. To cook for, to love. To cuddle. To kiss, make love to or just fuck in a hot sweaty afternoon session. Someone who’ll offer to make me a cup of tea. And I’ll rub their feet and tell them they’re beautiful when they feel like crap. Someone who won’t mind me being me, but will smooth down the rougher edges. Someone who gets me. Someone to point out that I’ve put my t-shirt on inside out, to tell me that shirt doesn’t go with those trousers, and that actually Spencer you’re looking okay today. I MISS THE PERSON WHO DISCRETELY TOLD ME THAT I HAD TOOTHPASTE AROUND MY MOUTH!
I’ve missed being part of something. Part of a team. I’m lonely I guess and I tend not to rate myself as being terribly important. I see my children and I know I’m important to them, and they fill my heart, but when I leave them? I’m left longing. A heavy weight bearing down on me as I think to myself ‘Christ Spencer, this is how it’s going to be for the rest of your life.’
Perhaps I’ll try online dating. My profile will read “Spencer, 40, divorced. Has accidentally, in the past, gone to the postbox in his slippers. Yeah. I’m becoming THAT guy.”
What a catch eh?
But then, based on the evidence above. The slippers, the rolled up trousers, the inside out t-shirt and the toothpaste round my mouth perhaps what I’m looking for isn’t a lover and a partner, but a trained carer.
Or maybe just someone who cares.
Thanks for reading.