My life has been populated by many of divergent vocations. The “artistes” – musicians, painters, writers, an actor or two. Journalists, politicians. Indeed, as recently mentioned, a spy. Spies and journalists are exciting. Artistes – on the whole – are exhausting. It’s not their fault. They don’t mean to. They just are.
Enter one of the most scary people into the canvas of my life – and John of Going Gently may relate to this: THE SOCIAL WORKER. To understand: Once upon a time, and to this day, I was/am one of those people who feel compelled to look after others. My father who, at the best of times, has a truly astonishing disdain for mankind poo pooed my idea from the word go. You wouldn’t last a minute, he said. Why? Because apparently I take everything not only too seriously (whatever that means) but to my HEART. So, naturally, and at the time my father’s word gospel, I didn’t become a social worker. Fast forward, say, two decades. The mother of one of the Angel’s friends was a social worker. At the time I met her she was not so much at the forefront of dealing with day to day misery of the unfortunate, but in a managerial position. Sweethearts, this woman was one of the most hard nosed, cold and unforgiving people I have had the fortune to meet in my life. Breathtaking. Awful.
Where am I going with this? Mainly, you may have ideals. Only for them to be blown out of water into the cold ice and wind.