This time last year, I was preparing for the end of my time
in New Zealand and getting ready for the journey back to the UK. This year minus twenty days back in the UK
has changed me both physically and psychologically.
I caught my reflection about a week ago. Cheekbones bulged, and below the skin hung
concave; gaunt. A few weeks further back
than that, I had chance to see my reflection and found my father looking back
at me. I never wanted to look like my
father; especially my father in his later years. That’s who I could see. This morning I had a face scan at the
opticians, and when it came time to map glasses on to my face – to see which
style made me look less oil rig – the face sag in the image they had captured
gave the appearance of a man having a stroke.
It was quite a shock.
As I have withered away physically, so I have withered
psychologically, too. I had opportunity
to go to a pretend German Xmas market, last week. There were simply too many people there. It was impossible to feel comfortable. I know that many feel hatred of the crowd so:
today I was at a drama performance, sat in the audience, and could feel myself
physically shrinking into my seat; tears welling up at the simplest emotive
heartstring pluck of the sentimental songs.
That is not normal. I’ve walked
home on a Friday on a few occasions now feeling crestfallen at the fact that
the shit week I’ve had won’t have someone it can be related to when I get
home…and then brain kicks in and flashes reruns of all the reasons why there
will be no one at home to hear me moan and I completely understand and remember
why there will be no one there.
It feels appropriate, somehow, that I have come back to the
UK to wither, when the country – this tired, worn out, old country – has chosen
the same time to wither too. This is not
going to segue into a Brexit piece – I’m far too self-centre for this to shift
away from being about me, don’tchaknow – but this political decision has highlighted
just how tired, worn out and old this country actually is. Sorry, excuse me, not country: collection of
countries. The complex nature of the
make up of the United (ha!) Kingdom continually appears to slip the mind –
especially of those who are supposed to be leading it.
The fractious nature of the manner in which we are
approaching the end of membership with the European Union is appalling to see,
and far too appalling to be this close to and actually have affecting my life
and the life of those who I hold dear.
That the country voted across party, geographic, class and gender lines
should have meant that the political system put aside their petulant
differences and childish goal-scoring to work together to form a united front
to our European partners and negotiate as strong an exit deal as they possibly
could have done so. How does Olivier’s
Doctor put it in A Bridge Too Far as he tries to negotiate a halt to the
fighting to bring assistance to the wounded and dying? “Winning and losing is
not our concern. Living or dying
is. Cease fire… one hour… two… just to
evacuate our wounded. Afterwards you can
kill us as much as you want to.” Once we
get out of Europe, they could go back to being dicks to each other, just like
normal. For now, they should be stood
shoulder to shoulder to ensure they are representing and working on behalf of
every UK citizen. But, like me, they’re
too worried about their reflection in the mirror. Too worried about judgement and taking the
risk to put other people first.
I bit the bullet, the other week. I bought Marmite again – seems Vegemite has
gone to stay. It is still the oxtail
crisp, honey textured, HP sauce mess it was just under a year ago. It does not taste like it should do. It is a marker for how bad a year this had
been.
