I’d given him £6.50 towards his return fare to walking on the N Downs and was settling down to The Observer when he returned. He was one £ short. I gave him it. He decided not to go.
He asked after my lip. After John had left day before and Terry’d come back and I’d done some late night shopping to ensure food for us, I was changing behind him, telling him not to look, to avoid offending his sensitive heterosexual sensibilities. Of course he bent his neck back over the chair to look. It was such an invitation, I impulsively kissed him. “Oh, that was disgusting – and you have a small cock,” or todger, or something such he said. “You were inviting it.”
Later we fought who was opening the sparkling English wine and he won, aiming the exploding cork at my face I’d only partially protected by the kitchen door jamb, hitting me on – guess – yes, the lips. I lost my temper. He said he was aiming for the ceiling and had prematurely ej-ected. A likely story. We have our spats. He called it a champagne cork which it decidedly was not.
Sunday again: he’d drank two beers, three ciders and two bottles of wine. I’d agreed to a third during the programme I wanted to see after the uninteresting programmes he watched like football and Top Gear. But he pushed it. I lost my temper. He went out for a cigarette. I realised if the row escalated I’d be asking him to leave and I couldn’t melodramatically do that to him when he’d nowhere to go till Wednesday and dithered about looking for a way back short of opening the door and anxiously finding out what he was doing. He came in, himself back-pedalling, having realised I might ask him to leave, and I progressively calmed as we went through it, he accusing me of carrying emotional baggage from the row as if it were already consigned to the distant past and we should look and go forward. He was, however, looking…. “Are you still angry with me?” “Yes, I’m angry but not at you.” He was angry with his abusive step-father and mother twenty years after the abuse and being asked to leave home and being recently told the anger was his problem and to manage it. He also admitted he’d lied to me. “You can lie to me.” He hadn’t been in N Carolina but in prison for seven weeks. He was pretty angry about that too. He’d twisted a woman’s arm, marking it red, but she’d subsequently contacted him six times and he‘d been sent to prison for his breaking parole. “You know,” I said, ” I don’t care about prison. John’s in prison.” “You only fuck people who have been,” he said. We laughed. He was later apologising for causing the row. “No,” I said, “it was good. It made you tell me,” what he’d only told his best friend, “I’m up there with Tom. I’ll change the N Carolina in the blog.”
He conked out and got a phone call this morning about a job interview. My friend Michele called just as I was going out and we shopped, passing Matt, looking undesirable, “Matt!” before going for a coffee. I briefed her on my relationships and unwellness. She’s lost confidence since being convicted of fraud. Because she’s a carer, she avoided prison. I said “if it settles your mind, tell Income Tax and Pensions of the estimates from Costain and the Prudential.” “Then I can phone them when I know the amounts,” she agreed.