Is Love That Blind?
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You always hurt the one you love?
I knew something was wrong soon after the children climbed into the car.
They were on best behaviour, overly polite and almost completely silent.
They didn’t even complain when I put my ‘funny music’ on the CD.
“Everything OK?”
“Fine,” was the almost inevitable and entirely uninformative response.
But gradually I noticed that on the few occasions when they spoke directly to me, they used my Christian name instead of the more familiar ‘Daddy’.
OK I thought, Rachael is blossoming into a stunning young woman. Perhaps she finds it babyish to use daddy. Becky still won’t speak to me, because of my objections over the crack dealer. So she doesn’t call me anything – not to my face anyway.
But when Sam forgot and called me ‘dad’, he received a sharp reminder from Rachael.
"Why?” I asked her.
“Mummy thinks it more fitting if we call you by your name.”
Ah yes! ‘More fitting’ - authentic Sara-speak. I can just imagine her delivering the stern lecture to the children before we set off.
I was furious and as usual I handled the situation like a total prat.
Anyone can call me by my Christian name, but only three people on the planet can legitimately (no pun intended!) call me ‘Daddy’.
It is the cement that secures my unique place in the children’s lives – which is precisely why Sara is so keen to chisel it away.
I realised – alas too late – that I had raised my voice and uttered the words ‘that bloody woman’ more than once.
And although I may not be a husband any longer – I was shouting now, white knuckles gripping the steering wheel – I was and would always remain a father.
And what's more - face puce, viens throbbing in my neck, spittle firing from my mouth - no one, not least that bloody woman and her pervert partner, would ever take that away from me.
An awful silence followed this tirade. The children were not just miserable now but genuinely frightened. They faced 12 days in an isolated cottage with this maniac.
Since when did I develop this unfortunate knack of making people unhappy even when I’m making every effort to achieve the opposite?
What are the words of that old song: “You always hurt the one you love?”
I felt wretched and guilty. I was forcing them to choose between their loyalty to their mother and me. Was that fair? Of course not. Whatever I felt about Sara’s behaviour it was not their fault.
This is what happens in marriage break-ups, believe me. You promise yourself at the outset that you won’t do anything to damage the children. But they are slap bang in the middle of the battlefield and inevitably they get caught in the crossfire.
After 100 miles of total silence I relented. “Look, I’m sorry for shouting. Call me anything you want. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything. It’s only a name.”
There was a collective sigh of relief. They know I don’t really mean it, but it lets them off the hook. There is sure to be an intensive debriefing from Sara when they got home and now they could say they obeyed orders.
So farewell Daddy, and hello Oberon.
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1.9.03 17:52
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This is a public service announcement
Thanks for the fantastic comments. I will respond properly soon. But I’ve been preoccupied with another problem over the last couple of days that brought me out in a cold sweat in the middle of the night.
The children planted the seed in my head during the holiday by mentioning there had been ‘some confusion’ at school because their surname is different from their mum’s (she is now Mrs Pervert).
I didn’t think much of it at the time, but about 3.30 on Monday morning the seed finally began to germinate (I’m famously slow on the uptake sometimes).
I woke up in a panic. I had spent time worrying about the Christian name thing when what I should have been concerned about was the surname.
Was Sara planning to change the children’s surname? Were they all to become little Perverts? Could she do this without my permission?
So I consulted my lawyer and the answer is no, she can’t. I have something called ‘parental responsibility’ and have to give my consent for such a change, and the chances of that happening are somewhere between zilch and zero. Just let her try.
But here is the scary thing. The lawyer mentioned in passing that I only have parental responsibility because we were married.
If we had simply lived together, instead of getting married (a pretty common state of affairs these days) I would have absolutely no rights over the upbringing of the children whatsoever!
You have no rights as a father – only as a husband.
Get this – an unmarried father who breaks up with the mother has no right to be consulted over which school the children attend, where they live, which religion they are brought up in, what medical treatments they undergo and – this one is simply astonishing – whether they are put up for adoption!
However, he remains liable to pay the Child Support Agency on demand and may have money deducted from his wages.
Mum could decide to take the children to live with a group of devil-worshippers in a Mongolian brothel and the father would be able to do nothing about it.
This all may be common knowledge, but it is new to me and I find it absolutely incredible.
Whatever happened to sexual equality? Why do we put up with such blatant discrimination, which is, lets not forget, enshrined in law?
Needless to say, the mother, whether married or not, has full ‘parental responsibility’.
Oberon doesn’t normally do rants so I’m now going to lie down in a darkened room.
But think on young lovers, think on.
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3.9.03 11:29
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What I did on my holidays
If I were writing this as fiction, I’d give it a happy ending. You all know what a sentimental old tart I am.
I’d have us falling into each other’s arms professing undying love and promising always to be there for each other.
But real life isn’t like that. In truth the holiday started badly, got a bit worse, bumped along the bottom for a bit, before briefly improving towards the end as they saw the light at the end of the tunnel.
The best I can say is that it probably wasn’t as bad as they feared.
The worst moment was when they discovered that not only did the cottage have no TV (there isn’t much point because there is no television reception) but no mobile telephone signal either.
“I don’t fucking believe it,” was how Becky greeted the news. I had to restrain myself from chasing after her and slapping her legs.
The best day was a low-key affair. Nothing dramatic happened, but it was memorable all the same, for me at least.
At the risk of being boring I will set it down as I remember it, with no embellishment or purple passages – or not many anyway. Less is more, as the saying goes.
I got up early and made a picnic. Then we made our way to the jetty, stowed the picnic in the boats and then set off diagonally up the loch for about half a mile to the opposite shore where I knew there was a perfect little church.
No one lives here now, but before this area of Scotland was depopulated there must have been sufficient people to justify building this tiny gem. The only purpose it serves today is to look pretty and host the occasional wedding.
We beached the boats and explored the church, which took all of 15 minutes. Then we explored the graveyard, and I thought there is nowhere on earth I’d rather be buried.
Then I suggested we climb the mountain rising from the back of the church. There was general grumbling about this, but they felt obliged to comply. Earlier, to stop the bickering over how we would spend our time I’d suggested that we each took a day in turn to be ‘the boss’. Everyone would have to agree without question to the boss’s decisions.
The previous three days had been their days, and now this was mine.
I say mountain, but it is little more than a hill – no more than 400 metres high. There was no proper path and it was a slow trudge to the summit through the heather that was just coming into bloom. The final bit was a bit of a scramble on hands and knees.
At the top the grumbling suddenly stopped. The view was gorgeous. On all sides we could see the purple tinged shadows of the bigger mountains and down below was the tiny church and the loch, each wavelet edged in silver when the sun broke through the clouds.
There was perfect silence – until Becky discovered she could use her mobile phone and she spent the next hour texting all her friends with I imagine something along the lines of: “Help! Being held in Scottish hellhole against my will. Father gone mad. Call police!”
We ate our picnic and I lay down in the heather and promptly fell asleep. I don’t know whether it is age or mental exhaustion, but whenever I stop moving for longer than 30 seconds I fall asleep. I dare not go to the cinema.
I woke up to find spittle running down my chin and the children rolling about with laughter because I’d been snoring so loudly.
We walked back down the hill to the boats and set off back across the loch. I was wearing very dark sunglasses, so I could look closely at Rachael, my eldest daughter who was at the tiller, without her noticing.
She is very beautiful and looks more like her mother with each passing day; the same flawless skin, thick blonde hair, and cool (cruel?) blue eyes.
As the bigger waves starting hitting the boat in the middle of the loch, sea spray caught her in the face and she smiled slightly. She looked almost happy.
We tied up the boats and walked back to the cottage. We were wet from beaching the boats and got changed into dry clothes. I opened a bottle of wine and cooked supper. They ate well and I finished the wine, which was commented upon with much disapproval. I am sure an accurate record of my alcohol consumption was reported back to Sara.
They went to bed and I poured myself a large Glenmorangie and attempted to read, but kept falling asleep.
I went to bed – it was 9.35.
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7.9.03 01:03
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A word of thanks
Thanks for the comments. I particularly like Perioddrama's new role as blogland's resident ghost. His blog is dead, but he roams like a spectre leaving comments here and there. His comment and many others cheered me up.
There's two things I take from what has been said:
1. How important 'fatherhood' is to a good many people, even - or perhaps particularly - to those whose experiences of being a father or having a father have not been entirely sunny. We're not entirely redundant just yet then.
2. The strong feeling that when times are tough you just have to 'hang on in there' as trendy people would say about 15 years ago. Get up in the morning, go to work, live your life and try to enjoy it. Be a father as best you can. Keep in contact. Don't give up. Endure and who knows things may get better.
But enough of this introspection. Now it is time for some fun! Ella and the posse have been on top form since my return and I will move on to lighter topics in my next post.
Thanks again - your comments and advice are much appreciated.
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9.9.03 20:13
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Life cycle
Walking to the office on my first day back after the holidays I was passing the little concrete overhang at the back of the building where the smokers gather to shiver and bitch about the lack of a proper smoking room when Ella came bounding over to greet me.
“Guess what,” she said, “ I’ve quit smoking!”
This would have been a more impressive statement if she didn’t have a fag in her hand.
“Oh yeah? What’s that then?”
“What?”
“That!” I said pointing at the glowing evidence.
“Oh this?” said she looking at the cigarette with some surprise and then taking a deep lungful, “Well obviously you can’t just quit completely straight away, but I’m on the way to giving up. I’ve sort of quit already.”
“Ella that’s like being a little bit pregnant. You have either quit or you haven’t - and you haven’t.”
She ignored me. “You haven’t asked why I’ve quit.” This accompanied by a teasing, girly little smile, the effect of which was ruined by the smoke coming down her nose.
“Ella why have you sort-of-but-not-quite-yet-given-up-smoking?”
“Because I’m going on a cycling holiday in the Lake District with Blond Boy!”
I tried to keep a straight face, I really did. I was nodding agreeably and biting my tongue hard and just about succeeding but then she said:
“On a tandem.”
That was it. Full belly laugh.
Ella’s face crumpled in disappointment. I thought she might even cry.
“Why does everyone think it so bloody hilarious that I’m going on a cycling holiday?
“I was just wondering where they fit the ashtray on a tandem.”
She didn’t laugh. It turns out she has heard all the cracks:
“You’d be better off in a rickshaw.”
“What will you put in your water bottle - shiraz or chardonnay?”
“Remember to take the fag out of your mouth when going uphill.”
And many more where they came from.
The reason for the hilarity is that Ella is notoriously averse to physical activity of any sort - other than bedroom gymnastics with Blond Boy.
She’ll wait 15 minutes for our decrepit lift to turn up rather than walk up two flights of stairs.
Recently she took out a year’s subscription to the most expensive gym in town and booked into a ‘spinning’ session that, ironically in view of her holiday choice, involved cycling on a stationary bike.
Afterwards her bum was so sore she couldn’t sit down for three days and she never went again. Not once.
So the notion of her thrashing up Wry Nose Pass on a bike is priceless.
So if you are in Cumbria in October and see a nice looking blond man peddling hard with a girl behind him with her feet up on the handlebars and smoking a fag, say hello from me.
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10.9.03 21:59
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Season of Autumn Mist and bloody awfulness
The bad news when I returned from holiday was that Rosalind, the boss from hell, had decided to organise an ‘Autumn Mist’ company garden party in the grounds of Manor Park, a beautiful old house which for reasons purely of prestige the firm owns on the outskirts of town.
My heart didn’t so much sink at this news as leap out of my chest and start digging for Australia.
I hate these company ‘social occasions’ mainly because I invariably make a complete arse of myself at them.
Whenever two or three employees of my firm are gathered together conversation will inevitably turn to hilarious reminiscences of ‘Oberon and the Christmas karaoke party’.
On this infamous occasion I was persuaded - after hours of cajoling and a couple of bottles of red wine - to take to the floor to sing a selection of Van Morrison hits.
I enjoyed myself so much they couldn’t get me to stop.
It was 25 excruciating minutes later before I was virtually wrestled to the floor and the microphone prized from my hand.
Never again! – but of course there is always another time.
The combination of boredom, nervousness and lots of alcohol at these events proves fatal to both my self-esteem and career prospects.
Sure enough, when I reached my desk, there was an envelope marked ‘top priority’ containing a personal invitation from Rosalind.
“Although this is purely a social occasion,” it read, “I do hope that you, as a senior executive (ha!), will make every effort to attend.”
In other words turn up or I’ll make you suffer you bastard.
“Please feel free to invite along your spouse, companion or friend as a guest.”
Invitations such as this place babe magnets such as myself in a dilemma. Who to choose from the teeming crowd of gorgeous women eager to be at my side for the evening?
Cameron is a little too tall, whereas Kylie, bless the little poppet, is a little too small, and I know J-Lo, although at a bit of a loose end at the moment, is washing her hair that night.
Instead, I’ll buy a little black dress for my blow-up sex doll and take her along. She isn’t much of a conversationalist, but she never drinks too much and doesn’t embarrass me by touching up the waiters.
Barring an outbreak of Lassa fever, I fear I won’t be able to get out of this garden party.
What Rosalind wants, Rosalind usually gets.
So I have devised a cunning strategy to survive the evening and still have a job to go to come Monday morning.
It can be summed up in three words: “Do Not Drink.”
I pick up a glass of wine on arrival, so as to not draw attention to myself, but I don’t touch a drop. I mingle with as many people as possible, saying something mildly memorable to each and ensuring that Rosalind clocks me on as many occasions as possible.
Ninety minutes later, stone cold sober; I nip to the loo, pour the wine down the urinal, and sneak off home.
With any luck by that time they will all be so lubricated that no one will notice I’ve gone, but all will have a vague memory of me being there.
And by the time the dancing on the tables and embarrassing couplings in the bushes begins, I’ll be at home sipping whisky and listening to Miles Davies.
Brilliant or what?
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17.9.03 15:49
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More about Rosalind
Rosalind, our deputy-managing director, is eight years younger than me, earns twice my salary and drives a new Porsche Boxster.
Resentful – moi? Whatever gave you that idea?
If it is possible to type through gritted teeth I should add that she is very good at her job.
She is not a great creative thinker, but she is exceptional at ‘getting things done’.
In fact she is probably the most determined, tenacious, organised person I have ever worked with. She also has a phenomenal memory and a forensic attention to detail.
She is nice looking, in a bit of an angular sort of way, has a nice figure and dresses impeccably.
She is quite posh and, I think, half French. There is no trace of accent but her use of English idiom is a bit odd. She lived in Paris before taking up this appointment.
I find her about as sexy as toothache.
We just don’t get on. There is no connection there at all. If I try to make a joke it either goes way over her head or is so far beneath her that she ignores it with contempt. I’m not sure which. Either way it misses by miles.
We are very different. She is organised whereas I tend to do things by instinct. She asks me why I made a particular decision and I reply that ‘it seemed a good idea at the time’.
She frowns and asks what data I based my decision on. I reply there was no data and she looks at me with horrified incomprehension.
Sometimes I think that if I ripped her face off there would just be some sparking wires and a bit of printed circuit board.
She dislikes me intensely. This isn’t paranoia. Other people have noticed it to. I find this puzzling. I’m not used to being hated – apart from my ex-wife and children obviously.
I’m an inoffensive guy. I don’t bully or play office politics. I try to be fair and reasonably pleasant. I’m a bit moody I suppose. A bit lazy too – although I get the job done, and don’t let people down. I imagine that most people don’t have strong feelings about me either way. After all what is there to hate?
But almost as soon as she crossed the threshold Rosalind’s laser beam locked onto hapless Oberon.
At least a couple of times a week I will be summoned to her office. She has a plastic folder for each manager with a colour-coded spine. I’m the man in black. She takes down the black folder and returns to the other side of her desk, which is about the size of Ethiopia.
She opens the folder and lights on some obscure bit of the business that I am responsible for.
“I see that revenue from customer X has declined by 16 per cent in the last quarter. Why is that?”
“Because their customers are in the aviation business and that industry has suffered badly in the wake of 9/11. They’ve had huge cutbacks. We’re lucky to have retained the business we have.”
“Don’t you think you could have been a bit more pro-active in sorting this problem out in advance?”
Does she mean I should have personally prevented the 9/11 hijackings? Or does she think I should sort out the problems in the global aviation industry – in my lunch hour perhaps? Maybe I should get a cape and start wearing my underpants outside my trousers.
I don’t say any of this of course. Instead we lock gaze for 30 seconds of silent hostility before she moves on to another daft question.
No other ‘senior executive’ in the company gets this treatment. Even the grossly incompetent who do no work whatsoever are largely left alone.
But I do respect her in a way, and this anecdote helps explain why.
She called me up to her office and explained that she wanted me to take responsibility for a new project. She showed me a Powerpoint demonstration that included budget, staff allocation, objectives and timescales - she went to business school you know. She asked me to come back in three days with a detailed ‘implementation plan.’
I took one look at this and I knew it was impossible, but I didn’t wish to appear negative. Instead, I subtly altered the objectives to make it feasible. I won’t bore you with the details but she would still get 90 per cent of what she asked for.
When I presented this to her, she spotted it straight away:
“This is not what I asked for.”
“But it will work better this way.”
“No – do it the way I asked you.”
“But it won’t work.”
“Just do it Oberon.”
Anyone who has been in this position knows how difficult it is. Make the project work and you prove yourself wrong. But fail and you leave yourself open to the charge that you deliberately sabotaged things to prove yourself right.
I was determined not to fall into this trap and I gave it my best shot, expecting to have to tell her that it had failed.
But here is the incredible thing – it worked. Not exactly as she envisaged, but near enough. I'm not sure all the effort was worth the result but with the tiniest bit of tweaking I achieved all the objectives with a week to spare.
When I reported back I expected her to smirk – “ I told you so!”
But she didn’t. She just said ‘good’ and gave me something else to do.
I suppose that is why she drives a gorgeous Boxster and I’m in the bog standard repmobile.
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20.9.03 23:48
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