This may be an effect of the assault or of having a lover: I mentioned the wooden slats Rodger had put in the garden to protect, he said, bulbs from the fox to Olivia, our customer liaison officer, when she was here. Tina said the garden looked bad anyway.
Yesterday I was extracting the black compost from beneath the heap and complained to Rodger the garden wasn’t a building site. As well as parking his bike in the garden, he’d deposited rubbish there. I removed the slats as I’d told him I would. What was I doing? I was being confrontational as Quentin accused me of being.
Today I complained to the CLO about the rubbish. When I got back home, the slats were parked by my bit. I threw them over the balcony and put them back where they’d been, by the bins. I then moved his bike and some more rubbish and told him I’d complained. “Who are you, you cunt, to cause trouble for me?” he asked. He’s right and I’ve taken back my complaint.
I’m being emotional, feeling alone, vulnerable, in need of protection and John’s not here, only coming Saturdays but not this next one, yet I’m being bellicose. I don’t like my neighbours much. I’m obviously not happy. I don’t want to be there. I think I might move in with John once he’s got a place for me to move into for him to protect me from myself.
When I apologised to Rodger by saying I’d withdrawn my complaint, he didn’t know what I was talking about: what complaint! he should know about it! I waved all this aside; I did not want to go into it. Nor did Tina know what I was talking about when I met up with her. It made me wonder how much Terry would remember of what he did. And ‘the book’, all these – for want of a better word – real people who’re characters in it, the only one gave any indication she was being possessed in order to speak and act as required artistically was Mum.
That’s as may be. This morning all the rubbish was cleared from the garden and stacked by the gate. Coincidentally I’m reading Seneca’s stoic take on anger.