Here’s a thought: How about giving greater freedom to seniors? It kills two birds with one stone: stops everyone from listening to us all banging on about (a) how Brexit has ruined our lives (b) how we can’t afford to heat our houses (c) we can’t afford a house to heat at all – just me? (d) the exorbitant cost of living and (e) how much better life is elsewhere.
My changes in circumstances have been brought about by necessity, not choice, and wandering around Eastern Europe, desperate for an affordable place to lay your head for a couple of nights, is no fun. Why should anyone begrudge me the occasional pleasure?
The day, for me, had been like any other, but when I arrived home for lunch, my mother and all her clients were in tears. I don’t remember whether anyone explained to me about the tips engulfing Aberfan’s Pantglas Junior School and the inevitability of death, but I do remember Mum hugging me very hard as the tears fell.
There is no time like Christmas to reinforce your vastly diminished coffers. Where once, I used to love the late-night shopping under twinkling fairy lights, wondering what to buy for my relatives and friends, now I cut a rather sad and lonely figure with no one to buy for, no one to buy for me, and leaving town on Christmas Eve with a chicken leg and three sprouts for my festive dinner.
Who knew that just the simple act of sitting on the loo was a death trap? Yep, ‘you can just pass out and die on the toilet from straining too hard while pooping.’
I sat, in a crowded room, in complete silence, watching, with disbelief, the sight that has now become one of the most devastating in our lifetime.
I kept it all in a box, and no amount of therapy, counselling or writing about it over decades helped alleviate the pain. Abuse infantilises you: you are forever trapped in its fearful grasp.
The hardest part in all this is the realisation how truly alone I am. I’m used to fending for myself in everyday life as I’ve never known anything else, but when things go wrong, I am consumed by the fear of what the end of my life will look like.
It’s the language interaction I miss. Language is my partner in crime, the thing that is always there for me when all else fails, my one great love. Without that tool of communication, I shrink into the shadows. My voice dies.
The thousands of gravestones that stand out like pillars of salt amid the greenery are painful reminders of the brutality of The War – that everyone still talks about, their eyes sad, their mouths continuing to vent fury.