Drawing a line

One of the blogs I frequent (sorry, can’t link since momentarily forgotten which one it was) recently mentioned crystal balls and the future.

Don’t. Go there. I did more than twenty years ago. I was waiting, at some boat show cum fairground, for Fiona, a colleague. She phoned and told me to see a woman in a tent to while away the time till her arrival. Why did I listen to her? Five pounds later (1989 prices, UK) my life changed. Not that I realised it at the time. Everything went well. Time passed pleasantly, till my fortune teller set eyes on a particular line in my right hand. That was it: She dropped my hand, looked at me aghast, wished me a happy life and asked me to leave NOW. Since people often look at me either aghast or bemused I didn’t give it much thought. Till years later: When one of my many assignments’ briefs was to look into palmistry. I do not know who to curse more: The editor who assigned me. The palm reader. Or myself.

I, naturally, bloody studied the subject from the wrist up. By way of comforting you now: Don’t believe everything you find on the map: By rights I should have had as many children as I had (in truth) miscarriages. Which suits me fine – since both I and my son are “only” children by nature. Which makes us both more compassionate to other humans than a lot of those who had to fight not only for daily survival in the midst of siblings, but their fair share of affection from their parents.

Yes, so that was brilliant and has confirmed my view that, in order to ensure your anxiety has something to feed on, you may as well go and see a palmist. Tarrot readers (and, yes, you guessed it, Fiona sent me to one of those as well) are harmless by comparison. Though how the old woman knew that the most beloved woman of my life (my maternal grandmother) had died when I was eight beats me. How is that possible? And no, I did not give out any clues. And no Fiona didn’t brief the clairvoyant beforehand because she knew nothing about me other than that I like Sauvignon Blanc, a grape which will go with everything, even Thai or Chinese.

U

The one and only

Just had a thought. Which is a pity. I wish thoughts had a little control over making themselves known. But, like the Catholic Church ca 1960, they [toughts that is] have no compunction about procreating like rabbits out of control. So you lose track of them. As I just have. Doesn’t matter.

If there is one thing I have to watch big time it’s writing intros to thoughts. By the time I’ve finished intro I haven’t got the faintest idea what the thought was I am introducing.

On a side note: What is sad about the Catholic Church, pro life, anti abortion and contraception is that few people consider that you can only give so many offspring all the love and attention any of us deserve. Which is why it pays to be a FIRST child or an only. I speak with expertise. Whilst the first fruit of your loins will bear brunt of undiluted attention (not for the faint hearted) she’ll also reap all the benefits none of your siblings ever will; neither will you ever know what people mean when they call you big headed. Even my mother once asked me where I take my ‘chutzpah’ from. Come again?

Naturally, since I manage to always have the best of all worlds, I am both (as defined by the imprecise science of psychology):  An only and a first. If you were an only for more than the first four or five years in your life (which I was) you will qualify as an only (in psychological make up); the only being compounded, grandised, by becoming an eldest. Shortly after your parents (mine that is) get married, in November, and years after being an only you find yourself an ’eldest’ . With all the hardship and heartache that entails at suddenly being lumbered with sisters and brother you grow to love to your detriment. (And I will admit to being overjoyed when my first sister was born; less so with my brother since he spoilt my nineth birthday. Will tell that story another time. Great guy. Have forgiven him.) Siblings: Talk about unpaid labour. My mother was shameless exploiting me that way. Grannymar will know what I am talking about. And not only peeling sacks of potatoes.

For years and years and years people kept wondering why I didn’t have children after point of marriage. Well. As far as I was concerned I had had my family (all three of them, didn’t I?) or so my reasoning went. To this day my mother and I, when talking about my siblings, will refer to them as “the kids”.  Which is all there is to know. So I had had “my” children early on, and enough of them, till biological instinct took over. Biggest, bestest joy of my life. Felix hung on in there against odds. Strong, healthy, on the upper centile.  Head screwed on. Heart in the right place. Of the most laid back temperament. Yet, I guess, you wouldn’t want to mess with the guy; other than at your peril.

Nineteen years later I still can’t believe my luck. Neither do I fathom why I omitted teaching him how to do the washing up. Recently I told him, and I will not forgive myself for this, one of the shittiest remarks you can make as a parent, that this abode is not a five star hotel with room service thrown in for good measure. Five? Make that six.

So I am Only, and I am an Eldest. What do you expect of me. Charity?

U