So finally after a stand up argument, throwing useless clothes into a suitcase – tears and snot running down my face, husband and I finally reconciled and set off in the car for the 3 hour journey to Oban on the coast of Scotland.
We seem to argue at everything we say, see and engage in the rules of war over the tiniest fucking subject. We trade in insults, we speak a double language loaded with sarcasm and pain, words that are so sharp they are never used to describe or verbalise only to hurt and shard each others souls.
We are both Olympians at this trick, both of us can throw daggers through sentences that describe ordinary events, like offering tea, asking for a phone to be handed over….all of these sentences are no longer forms of communication but opportunities to wound and slice.
I am better at it I suppose and he sits quietly – his silence stronger than my clever strung together words that look like a trail of evil fairy lights bursting out of my mouth as my brain quickly deduces his next move, my sharp cells snapping together forming yet another tirade of satirical adjectives, another paragraph of his failures, yet another situation where he let me down, even before he can say a word I have the answer to all is insecurities sitting there patiently beneath my tongue itching to jump up and stab his face as I smile at my cleverness and quick witted brain power. See me? I am great eh?
No I am sad, I never seem to learn to shut up or at least accept my words hurt, I even hate sitting here writing this, I hate admitting I may be wrong, you should have heard how I shot him down time after time, I was good…so fucking good a politician would have gave up his post after I razored his personality and pointed put his constant failure, his past demeanours, his never ending useless-ness to me…then I realised that I only ever do this and it hurts me, because if I am right then why am I here? Why do I love this man? Why stay and make it worse? I don’t know…
Then to make matters worse I clicked on the radio and James Blunt came on
“You’re beautiful, I saw you with another man, but I’ve got a plan’ what the fuck does that mean? James Blunt is planning Rohypnol and gaffer tape to a woman who happened to sit across from him on the subway? His name rhymes with CUNT too much I for my liking.
So we finally hit Oban, the lovely wee seaside port town is charming, but it is one of those Scottish small towns where any pub or hotel toilet has a light switch that has to be found on entry, as if they worship electricity liking it to Uranium.
You can never find the fucking switch, and have to sit and piss in a cold toilet in the dark, a window is always open and you can hear evil seagulls outside the wee open window screaming as you sit there in the eerie darkness.
Hotel receptionist was truly a full blooded cousin of Norman Bates, I shuddered as she stood there flicking fat fingers through the ‘Diary of Bookings’ that sat on her woodchip table. She had a helmet of hard silver shiny hair, dead eyes and the most horrific red lipstick on that crumpled face.
“No booking for you, would you like to just book the room now?”
After finally getting booked into a room that was supposed to be organised, we struggled into an ancient elevator, it had double sliding trellis doors that you had to manage yourself, I silently wondered if Mrs Bates was standing behind the front desk pulling on the rope to get us up, her big fat bingo wings struggling, sweating and shaking as she got us up there floor by damned heavy floor-maybe that’s why she was angry.
The gig went well; the people of Oban are fine and funny.
I am home, tired and stressed about my marriage but convinced that being victorious in every argument doesn’t actually mean and I am ‘winning anything’._