I was going to start writing this in my Asda Reporter’s Notebook. I decided, just fuck it, I’m going to type it up. I was bringing my PC down anyway, and at least that way, no-one can start trying to read what I’m doing. It’s harder when it’s just a screen, instead of a page, on view from pretty much all sides.
I’m losing my calm somewhat as we wait for some woman to arrive who apparently received us in her house in India (in Fatehpur, my recollection of events is very hazy as I was quite violently ill at the time). As usual, my mum is going into fussing overdrive, telling me to get the best glasses and shit, in case they want some juice. ‘You can’t just expect people to sit down and eat just like that,’ is along the lines of what my dad said. No – of course you can’t, that would be crazy, seeing as how you invited them to dinner and all.
******** THEY’VE ARRIVED ********
My mum kept asking me to do stuff in an urgent voice, and then when I had served the drinks, she had a go at me for forgetting the crisps (I didn’t forget them – there wasn’t space on the tray), and said I was ‘so slow.’ I came very close to socking her in the face and / or swearing at her at the very least. When she goes into her Hospitality Mode, I often feel as if I could comfortably kill her. I generally fucking hate Indian hospitality, and I’m not even the one cooking. I don’t plan on ever being the one cooking. It reminds me of Timon of Athens, and this fucking big-deal bond of ‘obligation’ that gets created whenever anyone does any little thing for anyone else.
That kind of thing messes me up. My parents installed in me a desire to not depend on anyone (both intentionally and unintentionally). Obviously, that isn’t realistic – you have to do so at some point in your life. This kind of thing really turns me off it though. It makes me like the service industry – all you have to do is pay, and you get what you asked for. None of this fulfilling-obligations-with-gritted-teeth-and-fake-smiles. My parents actually like very few people, and their friend-circle is tiny. It’s mostly my dad’s old friends, all two of them to be precise. That means about 95% of the hospitality we offer is forced. You don’t have time to feel resentment, because you’re too busy getting everything done. Well, that’s how it should work. I feel a LOT of resentment. Right now, we’re having our dinner delayed because Flora Auntie’s fucking son Laaddi is on his way. Last time I saw him, he stared at me a lot. Or so it felt. He’s like, in his forties or something.
I want to eat, and I do not want to hear stories about how I was constantly throwing up in Fatehpur (I was there – I lived it, and I missed seeing the peacocks every damn morning). I think that going to bed at half-midnight has not helped matters any in the emotional department. But will I stop doing it? Tune in next week for the final instalment (not). Called S--- to get a bit of relief earlier, because N---- was round here, doing her thing of ranting endlessly about every conceivable aspect of her marriage. She’s so fucking blind, it only makes me more angry. She did her routine thing of berating me when I dared show a bit of insolence towards my mum. I didn’t even swear or anything, but the stupid cow jumped on me like she always does. She instantly reprimanded me for saying ‘Oh bugger’ when I realised I’d spilt some tea – instantly, a second after it left my mouth. That should give you some idea. Pedantic bitch.
I’m currently trying to ignore and reject the usual ‘major players’ in my life. S-----, I’m holding at arms’ length with all I’ve got, because I’m sick of her noncommittal ways. She’s worse than A---, and that’s more than I can take.
Ah yes. Fucking A--- -----. I started to get the feeling that I was spending too much time with him, and that I was going off him a bit before he and S--- buggered off to Bremen, Germania for almost a week last Thursday. S---’s flying back today, at about 10 p.m., and he said he will ‘call me when he gets back.’ Ha! I think not, punk. When I called him earlier, I don’t know what I was looking for to be honest. To feel a bit less shifting? It didn’t work. He got all soggy on me when I said I didn’t want to hear about his friend V-- having a love-in about A---. I feel like I might kill A--- if I come across him. All the good work of some months has come undone – but I don’t care. I shall do my level best to slowly erase him from my memory and existence. S---’s feelings were hurt, apparently, when I abruptly declined to hear about the three-way love-fest (V-- thinks A---’s cool, but not as cool as her, and ofc Father S--- loves them both). Well, to use the words of Royce Da 5’9’’: ‘Fuck your feelings.’ I’ve had enough of his issues, he can have some of MINE. In fact, fuck the lot of them.
Oh sorry, do I sound bitter? Maybe I am, because SHE gets to go and swan off with my boyfriend in Germany while I am stuck here in a grey, wet Britain. The last two days, thankfully, I went out to see Steph, and then David. It didn’t help much though. I’ve got to start going for walks / jogs on my own. I have GOT to start reading French at the very least, before I forget everything. My grammar needs revising. Some French chat and films wouldn’t go amiss either. SORT YOUR LIFE OUT, YOU WHORE! I have Balzac’s ‘Le Curé de Tours’ which does akshully look interesting though, and is topical (haha). It’s not long either.
OK, OK:
- More sleep.
- Pay dentist. Get receipt – for the clean / filling and also for my appointment on the 7th June. I lost the original, so I need a duplicate.
- Read Balzac. Go watch ‘La Vie en Rose’ with Z----. Speak French with Z----. Try watching some TV5.
- Try and make a plan of my YA project. I’ve started it already on the home desktop – perhaps I should look up books on the subject?
- Get counselling?
- Go for walks / jogs BY MYSELF. Who needs A---? He only slows me down, and takes me into the park every damn time. Plus, he is an emotional retard, and with my current fragile state, I can’t fucking hack that.
Ha, let’s see how much I’ll actually get done. I predict maybe 3 of those things at most.
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