Home and Hell
May. 19th, 2019 06:29 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootMaybe the timing of it all was a bit strange; somehow we ended up with two weeks of holiday, one booked prior for NYC, the other... Well because of the way things have happened, the other ended up being dedicated to retarting the house for estate agent photographers. Then the painter decorator let us down, and we lost over a day, then we had to shoot down to the wilds of Salisbury to celebrate family birthdays. Then I went to see my friend in Woolwich for his birthday and for Eurovision. I couldn't watch this for long... He showed me earlier performances of Madonna's Medellin, and the way she yips 'Ai Ai Ai!'just comes across as pastiche latino. Turns out her Europerformance bombed somewhat as well. I admire her as a commercial artist and shape-changer; got no time for her trying to prove her fabulous yoga moves can compare with real dancing. And she needs to re-train her voice if she's going to keep singing.
I had told my friend that I would be dropping by rather than staying, in case my brother turned up. While I wasn't up for a scene, I had no reason to believe the Bro would be anywhere near as moderate.
'Forget it,' said Friend, 'He won't turn up. He hasn't been down to Woolwich in a year.' I dutifully arrived to be hastily pulled into a quiet corner by said friend whispering 'He's here!' Of course he is, I thought. As it was, the Bro mainly kept himself on the balcony, sitting nearby occasionally and then taking himself off again. It wasn't particularly awkward, but it wasn't a comfortable situation, because the party was small. I felt as though I had to be permanently braced for potential drama, and even three pink gins couldn't relax my sense of necessary sobriety.
He was pleasant enough and doubtless will be until the next time he blows a head gasket and approaches the point of lockupability. The last time was all about his imagined wounds of 30 years ago. Doubtless in 30 years time he will look back on last night and blame me for not being more friendly. I refuse to keep up with his ledger of bonkers grudges and felt a sense of real freedom when I made for home, though there's a lot of work to be done today.
Ugh. Second cup of tea time.
I had told my friend that I would be dropping by rather than staying, in case my brother turned up. While I wasn't up for a scene, I had no reason to believe the Bro would be anywhere near as moderate.
'Forget it,' said Friend, 'He won't turn up. He hasn't been down to Woolwich in a year.' I dutifully arrived to be hastily pulled into a quiet corner by said friend whispering 'He's here!' Of course he is, I thought. As it was, the Bro mainly kept himself on the balcony, sitting nearby occasionally and then taking himself off again. It wasn't particularly awkward, but it wasn't a comfortable situation, because the party was small. I felt as though I had to be permanently braced for potential drama, and even three pink gins couldn't relax my sense of necessary sobriety.
He was pleasant enough and doubtless will be until the next time he blows a head gasket and approaches the point of lockupability. The last time was all about his imagined wounds of 30 years ago. Doubtless in 30 years time he will look back on last night and blame me for not being more friendly. I refuse to keep up with his ledger of bonkers grudges and felt a sense of real freedom when I made for home, though there's a lot of work to be done today.
Ugh. Second cup of tea time.
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