What constitutes necessity - In the name of Thiago - Day 84
I think I’ve got the
fear. I don’t definitely 100% need to go shopping – we could get by for another
couple of days eating like dogs. But now it’s a psychological push pull between
the genuine anxiety of going to the shops and being judged and the actual
‘need’ for doing so.
This is weird as fuck
frankly and not something I’ve ever experienced before. I mean not unlike a lot
of chaps I’ve always had a slight fear of shopping. My learned friend and
linguist Andrew Tanner informed me on Faceslap earlier that this is known as ‘officinaphobia’.
This anxiety has
manifested itself in recent years specifically in clothes shopping. As I’ve got
bigger and bigger over the years, the realisation hit me that finding stuff
that fits has got that bit more difficult. And to be fair, although Elisa
kindly refers to me as being the size of an elephant, I’m a long way off being proper
massive!
It does seem that each
day throws up a new conundrum. But I still think that providing that you’re not
behaving like an absolute knob, then you should be ok avoiding falling foul of
the new police powers. Can the large bulk of British people avoid behaving like
absolute knobs though? I’m veering towards answering no to that one for the
time being at least. So I guess we should try to enjoy the limited freedoms
that we have now while they’re still here.
Time to turn back to
those questions about necessity. I want to see Thiago. My little man is buried
at Keele Cemetery and I want to check on him to make sure he’s ok. I bet that
seems like a weird thing to read, well I tell you it’s not remotely weird for
me to write. I don’t stop worrying about him, even though he died four months
ago today.
And on this anniversary
I received the most beautiful gift from my amazing mum or Hilary to you – a wonderful
hardback book of Thiago memories. It’s far too good to do justice right here
and now so I plan to devote a whole blog to it tomorrow. My little man: what a
hero.
I don’t stop worrying,
I don’t stop crying. He’s there with me and yet there’s nothing I can really
do. That feeling of hopelessness and despair hangs around me like the slate
grey of a Victorian Manchester skyline. There you have it, that’s about as
poetic as I’ll ever be and besides I stole that off Morrissey. I think he’ll
forgive me though as I’ve used it in a manner he probably intended.
But can I actually go
to the cemetery? Ultimately an emotional pull one way or t’other will make my
mind up for me I guess.
In the meantime, for
my one a day, I can go to the green with Elisa while Angelica is on the front line
at the hospital. It’s not far at all but it was a really nice thing to do and
as you can see we took the football with us too and ended up inventing a game
where you had to get the ball in a hole with a certain number of kicks to make
par. It proved surprisingly entertaining for about 15 minutes.
Then Elisa decided to
have a kip in a tree while I spoke to my old mucker Jamie Hickey. And that was
pretty much it really.
Take care all you
wonderful folk and hey, if you can help me get nearer to that £10,000 target
for the two wonderful hospitals that looked after my little man, then please
do. I for one will be very grateful to you.
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