Anger

It was a good idea to go up to the Heath yesterday, I had a nice time. Only I didn't bank on the Foca ringing saying he'd forgotten our son's passport and he'd come by to collect it when on route to his holiday. Ah, I'll see my son again, I thought. Only I didn't think did I? Didn't think at all. Just lay on the grass in the sunshine watching wispy clouds disappear into the sky.

Sometime later, back at home, the buzzer goes. "Mummy, will you come down with my passport?"
"Of course I will lovely boy."

Now in the past I've asked my ex not to bring his "unit" to my front door. After he got married he'd rock up with his wife in the car and I told him "nothing's changed now she's your wife" so he now usually parks around the corner where I don't have to see his life. I don't have a problem with his wife. I have a problem with his "unit". Him and her together. Him and her and their kid. Him and her and their kid and my son.

I see my son and I give him a hug and the Foca tells him "Come on, come on, we've got to go," and my son skips out excitedly. I watch him run out, see the car and do not follow. I go back up the lift hoping to reach the balcony in time to see them drive off. No danger of that not happening, it turned out.

I look over as the Foca is strapping our son into the back seat. I see his wife's dismembered arms sitting on her lap. It's only when she peers out of the window and looks up at me that fury overwhelms me. Or perhaps the thought came first: "Take a good look you fucking stupid cow." Either way, I now know I'm angry because in reality she isn't a stupid cow. She might be, I don't know, I don't know her.

I try to look if I can see my son through his window. I can't. The Foca's checking the suspension on the racks holding the bikes on the back of the car. "Oh for fucks sake leave," I find myself thinking. He checks the left side, then the right, then the left again, meanwhile I'm feeling more and more exasperated.

A van comes up the road. The Foca gets into the car and eventually clinks in his seatbelt and switches in the ignition. At last, they're off. "What NOW?" I peer over. They are stuck behind the van as a child gets out and the driver chats to her.

Eventually, after what seems like a million years, they go. I enter my flat desperately wanting a beer but instead down the cup of tea which has gone cold on the table.

I'm in a self destruct mood. I want to go out and drink myself into an oblivion. I don't want to talk to anybody. I don't want anybody to talk to me. Rage, rage, rage fills my tiny flat. All that won't be acknowledged, all that can't be articulated, all that should have gone into the pond, instead clings to every bit of paper, every dying flower, every reflection in the mirror as I decide not to wear red lipstick. Blood red. Black eyes. AAAAAAAAAAAARGH.

Instead of going up in the lift, I could've walked out to the car. I could've chatted to my son as his father arsed around. Not imagined him as I stood watching the car window from so far away.

Even after all these years, I'm not one of those mothers who are really cool with her ex and his new family. Not one of these mothers who are friends with the couple, happy making small talk, happy to hang out with them.

I can't let it go, any of it. The Foca is so inextricably bound to where I am now. Seven years ago I moved out of my bolthole to live with him because he said my studio was no place to raise a baby. I haven't forgiven myself for ignoring my instinct to stay put. Twice I've taken my son to the Homeless Person's Unit. Who knows what will happen when the lease runs out here next year.

Alcohol is a great anaesthetic but I didn't drink myself into an oblivion. I met my friends and I told them what happened. "Do you have a problem with your ex being with his wife?" asked Anne. "No I don't, he's welcome to her, she's welcome to him, I never want him back." The housing they know about. It was good to talk about other things.

I do have a problem, but it's mine. I'll see myself out of the darkness and into the light. One day.
For now I need to have a bath. I'm out with another old friend tonight. She works for the drinks industry so we'll guzzle on expenses. I'm only human, not much a dancer. Yet. (The Killers)