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’.
(Ultimately I overcame my anxiety later in the day after getting myself together in the car for 10 minutes first. At Lidl social distancing was observed impeccably outside the store at least)
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.