ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (2)

ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (no.2)

DEBT CRISIS

Sunday morning chez Pwëngl. I am luxuriating in the folding camping chair while reading the papers. A mug of black tea nestles in the chair’s cup holder. The absence of milk is not an attempt to mimic Californian health fads but rather an unwelcome result of finding that the pint of semi-skimmed in the fridge door is having an identity crisis and thinks it is cottage cheese. As I scan the news it appears that for once I am in tune with the wider world. I do not have two pennies to rub together and live in constant fear of the postman’s arrival. The same appears to be true of much of Europe.

Greece, Ireland, Spain, and Portugal all have to hide behind the sofa when the milkman calls for his money. Their reaction to the crisis is illuminating of national character. Greece behaves like the occupant of a crumbling stately home, possessed of all the hauteur generations of aristocratic inbreeding bestow and all the debts that accrue from centuries of upkeep and death duties. Now, with the day of reckoning at hand and payment due, Greece dismisses talk of money as vulgar and insists it simply must be allowed to carry on spending in the manner to which it has become accustomed.

Ireland’s response is the polar opposite, like a dog who finds the Sunday roast cooling and unattended in the kitchen and does what comes naturally. Ireland knew deep in its heart that it should never have had the money it spent on building homes nobody wanted to live in and now, when it has been caught with its muzzle deep in the chicken’s breast cavity, it slinks off, tail between its legs.

Spain’s response will be familiar to those who have seen the film “The Hangover.” The nation woke up after one hell of a party to find a tiger in the bathroom and with collective amnesia about what happened. The only significant difference is that in the film they found someone to hold the baby.

Many of the papers forget to mention Portugal; enough said.

It is tempting to view the default candidates on Europe’s fringe as feckless idiots who given the keys to the sweetshop gorged themselves on borrowing oblivious to the consequences. But that would be to ignore some fairly unpalatable truths. We in the UK did not watch this happen and canvass caution or warn of the perils ahead. No, quite the opposite; our government and economic commentators lauded an economic miracle. Now reality must be checked, belts tightened and financial reason restored to its throne, all under the stern eye of the German governess.

And most recently Italy…..

Italy is like the fat girl who is constantly announcing she is about to embark upon a diet while she takes another doughnut from the Krispy Kreme box. Most nations balk at the prospect of ceding their national sovereignty but Italy has in the past shown its admiration for the firm smack of Teutonic authority. It is pleasing to imagine Italy, pink faced and flabby, being put through its paces by the chiselled, buzz cut, German personal trainer. Whether financial austerity has the same attraction as high shine jack boots and well tailored field grey we must wait and see.

And so as the world faces another economic crisis, the European ship is on the rocks and in danger of sinking. With hindsight it is easy to see how we got to this point. The lack of unified economic and fiscal policy making within a single currency area was always likely to be fatal especially when the norms of financial probity were routinely ignored. But more importantly it is clear that not all the lookouts were at their post. The Head of the IMF was not necessarily on the bridge looking out for icebergs, instead he was below decks brushing up on figures. There appears little doubt that DSK will not face trial in New York but from here in the UK we can only marvel at a political system that will welcome him back as a presidential candidate with genuine prospects of success after his acquittal on grounds that the chamber maid with whom he had sex did so not because of the threat of physical violence but as a result of a financial arrangement.

What will it all mean for me?  Apparently the break up of the Euro Zone will result in untold misery. That things could get considerably worse is difficult to imagine. Perhaps, as the old joke runs, we have to date been up to our knees in the brown stuff and shortly the bell will ring to announce the end of the tea break. Then we will have to revert to standing on our heads. To my untutored eye the prospect of Greece, Spain, Portugal and Italy going back to their national currencies holds out nothing worse than the hope that I may one day be able to afford a foreign holiday again.

All this consideration of global economic woes has left me hungry.  I am checking out the vast expanse of emptiness that is the inside of my fridge when the phone rings. Would I like to go out for a pub lunch asks the voice at the other end. I think about my empty wallet, my extended overdraft, the pile of red bills lying unopened on the worktop and then I think about how ravenous I am, how nice it would be to eat thick slices of roast beef and I think “Oh what the hell.” Maybe the IMF will bail me out.

No. 1

RMOAMLC

No. 1

Midweek and I’m meeting Julian in town for a drink. He approaches with two pints and slides mine across the table towards me. He examines his own drink against the light before we touch glasses and take the first sip.

“How are things?” I ask.

Julian statres at the head on his beer before replying, “Good, yes very good.” His eyes flick from side to side as if he is struggling to decide exactly where to start telling me about just how good things are. In the end he settles for a “Yeah….” which emerges as a sigh as his gaze drifts off to the middle distance.

Julian and I go way back, he is my closest friend. Something is very plainly not going well.

“How’s work?” I ask.

“Good,” says Julian nodding in exaggerated fashion to emphasise the point. He takes a slug of his beer and then asks, “How about you?”

I stare at the head on my beer. Julian knows that I have moved out of home. I consider telling him about the arguments, the problems over seeing the children and the misery of living in a one bedroom flat with no television and an inflatable mattress with a slow puncture for a bed. “Good. Not bad at all,” I say.

“The kids?”

“Yeah good,” I say and my gaze drifts off to the middle distance. A silence descends on our table. In an attempt to lift it I mention, in what I hope is a casual tone, that I’m thinking about writing something.

Julian raises his eyebrows, ”Mm, what sort of thing?”

“Oh just some personal reflections,” I study his face, “on the theme of mid-life crisis.”

Julian splutters on his beer. “Mid-life crisis? What do you have to say on the subject of mid-life crisis?” His voice is high pitched, challenging.

I shrug, ”I’m not claiming to be an expert,” I say defensively.

“But you’re not having a mid-life crisis. Good grief, you’ve got a job in the City and you’re free to have relationships with whoever you want.” There is bitterness in his voice and in that moment I catch a fleeting sight of the demons that torment him as if stealing a glimpse into a locked room.

But I want Julian to understand, I want his approval. I want to tell him that a mid-life crisis is not about wearing novelty socks or buying a sports car. It’s the overwhelming disappointment you feel when you accept that you have run out of time to change the course of your life. It is like perpetually living in that moment at the end of teenage discos when the lights go up and you realise that you have missed the opportunity to ask someone to dance.  And as if this were not hard enough to bear, the truly crushing fact is that there is nobody to blame but yourself. You did this to yourself. I think all of this but what I actually say is, “Got time for another?”

Over the second pint we relax and discuss safe topics. We make each other laugh and when new have finished we go our separate ways and promise to meet up soon. An hour later I’m off the train and in my car arguing with my ex over the phone when I notice the blue flashing light in the mirror. The policeman and I play the “do you know why we stopped you” game and I breath a huge sigh of relief when I learn that it was for not having my lights on. Unfortunately the sigh is gently perfumed with beer and moments later I am standing on the pavement blowing into a small black box. In the time it takes for the machine to register the amount of alcohol in my breath I have carried out a fairly thorough audit of the consequences of a positive test and my legs are like jelly when the officer tells me I am fine and to be more careful in future. He gives me the clear plastic mouthpiece as a keepsake and I thank him and get back in my car.

The next morning I wake up with only the deflated mattress between me and the hardwood floor. I roll over and pick up my phone. There is a text from Julian,

Good to see u last night. Love to read that stuff you mentioned. Let’s meet up again soon.

I spot the clear plastic mouthpiece lying on the floor as I text a response. I think of telling Julian about my encounter on the way home. Then I think better of   it because as I lay there stiff and still tired I realise that in addition to the loss of hope and the self loathing, part of having a mid-life crisis is that you face it on your own.