Monday Night

I got a payrise today. I’m grateful, of course, but it’s a bit ridiculous when one’s mother has to “have a little chat” with one’s boss to get a payrise.

I was talking to mum about work, asking for feedback. When you work with family, the onus is on you to be thoughtful of your bosses feelings, as well as your own. When you work with family, you have to take care of two relationships in one.

So life has been pretty horrible for the last month or so, for me, and also for my brother. So he’s been a horrible shit to me – but now I feel like it’s my responsibility not to cause a fuss. I don’t want to make life worse for my poor brother…

So life gets worse and worse for me, and I tie myself in knots not to make it worse for the brother. And him… Does he give a shit that his behaviour is making me feel worse ? I don’t know. So I talk to mum.

Then mum tells me she thinks he is being unfair, and she wants to talk to him about it.

Then I get a raise.



Georges funeral was on thursday. This is what I tried to say. A lucky few people understood what I was saying through the tears.

Until I went to school, I had no idea what a “grandfather” was. There was Nana, and there was George. He was my friend.

A friend who loved and supported me throughout my life. He was never a “grandfather” in the common mold. He was more likely to play classical music than play games, would rather watch Wimbledon than throw a ball, hand me a novel rather than read me a bedtime story.

He was never overly free with praise. Yet a backhanded compliment from George was more treasured than the highest praise from another.

He was taciturn, grave and grumpy, but he was also the best dinner companion, the best trivial pursuit player, a brilliant photographer, accomplished painter, even a very competent forger. Anyone who knew him knows he cannot be explained, understood, labelled. He will also never be replaced, and never forgotten.

George was the smartest, wittiest, most educated (though he would have laughed at that), most creative person I have known. He could taste any dish once, name the ingredients, and replicate it perfectly. He once created a wonderful meal from baked beans and TVP.

He lived a wonderful, bohemian, exotic life, knew glamorous people, and introduced me to them as his “friend”. Adam says he’s never known a seventy year old with so many ladyfriends.

His only regret about dying was that it would upset those around him. I was upset that he would even consider dying. How could a man with so much life, so many passions, not continue to do those things forever. I couldn’t, wouldn’t give up on him.

So I have an apology to make. George, I am sorry I couldn’t let you go. I’ll look back and celebrate the wonderful love you gave, but I’ll never stop missing you.


So I kep thinking things are going to get better – maybe they will, but not yet. Mum and Dad’s car was totalled on their way home from a family meeting on friday night, they are ok, but Noddy, their faithful Mazada 121 will never ride again.

And my brother seems so stressed about what is going on in his life that he isn’t noticing how horrible he is being to me. Today we got asked to quote for 52 machines, because of my hard work. And I wasn’t asked to do the quote. This on top of being completely ignored on the big tender that “we” did last week. I’m asked to do free weekend work, but I get abused for asking for a few hours off to take my bunny to the vet. Rhubarb needs to have some more tests to see if he has any other signs of cancer. The sooner the better. If we find cancer, we have some hope of fighting it, at least putting it into remission for a few years. Without a diagnosis, we’re back to what happened to Fuzz Bucket. Dead before her second birthday, within one month of learning she had cancer.

And I am left feeling like a whinger. Like I should be tougher. I should be more considerate, more thoughtful. When all I can think about is crawling into bed, face first, and screaming into my pillow.