Syd returns day

8.52am

I haven’t heard from Syd for many days perhaps five. FIVE days of no communication. He will be fine and anyhow he is back today so why does this non-communication make me feel so anxious ? I am fretting about how he is going to be when he comes home. Its strange to see pictures of his other life on Facebook. We are so separated from the other life. This containing of one and another, father and mother. Child. He is in the middle. It must be hard. We muddle along with this strained organisation of contact time. Syd grows and he is lovely so maybe not too much harm is done.

Parents fuck you up.

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

Philip Larkin

The sun is shining the sun glistens in the late summer green of the trees. No breeze. Clear and clam. Patrick has managed to get out for a bike ride. I am still home. I had thought about slipping out for a walk, but I am left tending the nest as usual. I am tired. I am tired. I woke up far too early, just before seven. I read the newspaper. I read the latest articles about our hero Jeremy Corbyn. I think all will be fine, the future has hope. He brings hope with passion.

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I scour the local council jobs I see nothing. Nothing jumps out and says you can do this, I look further a field but there is nothing. All I see is obstacles in the way. Barriers. I have given up on hoping for anything art related. Art is in a dire situation. I have tried it as a profession and either I have failed it or it has failed me. I can stick at the fail or find something else. I cannot continue to scrabble around just surviving. I owe it to my children to try and find a job so at least our lives can move forward. So at least I can make some decisions, fix the hole in the plaster, buy some new knickers, provide.

I have not provided. I have sustained and nurtured and stayed the same. Six years the same. Time to move on. Can I. Can I. EIGHTEEN days left of the summer holidays. How long. How long. The sunflowers look happy in the green vase. We are running short of teabags. I hear my friend in the upstairs bedroom, I cannot get up, get to my clothes until he comes downstairs. I will wait. If he comes down stairs though this writing will stop. Its not just children that stop, that interrupt its partners and friends and situations.

The sun shines on the dinning chair. My mouth is full of marmite taste from the toast I ate at breakfast. Cars pass. How could I lie in bed on such a beautiful day.

Later, when Syd is home, maybe we will all walk up to the local pub and have a drink. I will feel much calmer when my eldest son is home. I have contained the anxiety. I wonder if all the panic attacks about the plastic stuck in my throat were more about the anxiety of him being away from home.

Stop analysing the past. The buzzer on the oven clock sounds the present. SOUNDS the now. SUNDAY. SUNDAY. SUNDAY=FUNDAY.

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