ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (4)

RMOAMLC (4)

WORDS OF ADVICE

It’s Tuesday morning and I’m on the school run. Ask any parent and they will tell you, modern day education is a minefield of cliques, gangs and bullying. And then there are the kids.  Suburban schools are no longer governed by teachers instead they are run by mothers who control their domain like Chicago gang bosses. Fathers are treated as non-combatants, tolerated and allowed to drop off their offspring just so long as they make sure not to attempt to involve themselves in any aspect of school life.

After several years of regular drop offs I had earned the occasional peremptory “Hello,” or glacial smile from the other parents. That was, of course, until I committed the ultimate suburban sin of leaving home, news of which spread like herpes on a Club 18-30’s holiday. Ever since I have been treated rather worse than a pariah and so, as far as possible, I try to stay away from school.

This morning I am late picking the boys up and I’m in a rush to drop them off. There is an air of tension in the car. “If it’s alright with you I’m going to drop and scoot,” I say trying to sound upbeat. There is a non-committal grunt from the back of the car. “Only I Have a meeting to get to,” I add as if they might be remotely interested. When, finally, we near the school every possible parking space is taken. “Just drop us off here,” says Emil. I do as he suggests and pull onto the pavement where the kerb drops to allow access to the staff car park. The boys collect their bags and get out of the car. I am so busy saying goodbye and waving as they exit from the passenger side of the car that I don’t notice the figure that appears at the driver’s side window and knocks sharply.

My head snaps round to see the stern face of authority. I say “stern face” but in reality the visage gurning at me through the window looks like Mr Potato Head let himself go a bit. I say “authority” but as I wind down the window I notice that what I took to be a police uniform has the tell-tale blue flashings that denote  I’m dealing with a police community support officer. “Good morning sir,” he says in a world weary monotone that manages the neat trick of injecting the word “sir” with total disrespect.

“Morning,” I respond.

“You know what I want to speak to you about?”

“Parking?” I venture apologetically.

“Correct. We do not park on the pavement outside a busy school.”

At this moment I have 3 options:

A          Apologise and point out that I am somewhat pushed for time so could we please take it as read that I am fully contrite, won’t do it again in order that I can get on with my day.

B          Moral outrage that in these lawless times my time and taxes are being expended in this pointless charade.

C         Suck it up.

I play it safe and opt for C.

“I’m not going to issue you with a penalty notice,” says Potato Head and my heart lifts momentarily until he continues, “instead I will be offering you words of advice which I will record on this ticket.” With this he produces a carbonated form about 1 foot long which he proceeds to write upon with all the urgency of a dyslexic with writer’s block. From time to time he asks me to provide some vital information such as my name but for the most part he paces around the car examining it from all angles with an air of grave suspicion while at the same time he talks into his radio.

By now I am acutely aware that this particular piece of theatre is playing out in front of all the parents dropping off their charges to school and that they must think I am involved in a jihadist terror plot or at best am peddling drugs to their children at the school gates. While I’m writhing with embarrassment Potato Head appears once more at the driver’s door. He continues his meticulous written record of our encounter and as he writes I notice a pattern of criss-cross scars on the inside of his left forearm running from his wrist to his elbow at which point his arm disappears into the sleeve of his shirt.

Finally he finishes writing and leans down until his face is level with mine. “Just one more question sir; Are you happy with the way this stop has been conducted?”

I ponder the question. Am I happy to have been publicly humiliated by a charmless cretin who self harms in front of a group of people who need little encouragement to think badly of me for the trifling offence of parking for 30 seconds on the pavement and the now I have to do a customer satisfaction survey? “Yes,” I respond.

Potato Head records my response mechanically before tearing off one of the copies of the ticket which he hands to me. “Have a good day,” he says with no hint of irony.

“Thank you,” I reply in a tone dripping with it but I’m pretty certain it’s wasted effort. 

I HAVE A DREAM

My new found home is reminiscent of the flats that that people who have spent a lot of time in institutional care find themselves in after release. The walls are a uniform magnolia and the carpet, which is fitted everywhere save the kitchen and bathroom, is a suspicious blue that could be hiding any number of grubby secrets. The curtains, which hang limply at the windows, are the colour of old ladies’ support hose and in the bedroom the central lightshade appears to have been fashioned from human skin. It is a dirty yellow colour and at night, when the light is on, it bathes the room in a deathly hue. Perhaps the landlord picked it up from a garage sale at Hannibal Lecter’s place.

 To date I have not done a great deal to make my surroundings more comfortable. I have an inflatable mattress for a bed and a blue, nylon camping chair in the front room. This tends to be where I do most of my deep thinking. Given the Spartan surroundings I am unlikely to be coming up with a new General Theory of Relativity any time soon.

It is unsurprising that I try my hardest not to be at home. Nevertheless, and much to my irritation, the place still gets dirty; especially the bathroom. I strongly suspect that when I lock the door on my way out a hairy tramp climbs in through the window and spends the time I am away sleeping naked in the bath, rousing himself only to scratch furiously. When I return home the bathroom is ankle deep in hair. Things have got so bad that I have given serious thought to buying a vacuum cleaner. Speaking as a man who doesn’t have a TV I am worried that my priorities may be seriously out of whack.

All of this is a long winded explanation of why it is I find myself on a Sunday afternoon in Homebase looking at bathroom accessories.

I am weighing up the competing aesthetic claims of various toothbrush holders. There is a smart if somewhat dull, white, china cup, a shiny black receptacle which I imagine appeals to the type of person who has silk sheets and an unhealthy penchant for leopard print, and then there is a very stylish brushed steel tube. This is without doubt the toothbrush holder for me. It speaks of a certain understated style. It is masculine without being macho, functional and yet it communicates something positive that I can’t quite put my finger on about its owner. It is the Audi of toothbrush holders. I reach it down from the shelf and look at the base to check the price.

And that is when I see it! My toothbrush holder has a name. On the sticky white label alongside the bar code and the seemingly random jumble of numbers is the word “aspirational”.  “Aspirational!” I feel insulted; belittled. Do the people at Homebase really believe that my life is so small, that my horizons are so narrow and my ambitions so limited that I lie in bed at night dreaming of owning a toothbrush holder? When Martin Luther King proclaimed that he had a dream was it that his toothbrush should be contained in a stylish metal cup? No it was not, and while I don’t claim to have such lofty ambitions as MLK I flatter myself that my sights are set slightly higher than the bathroom shelf.

I imagine the chino wearing designers grasping espressos as they clap each other on the back at Homebase HQ. “Oh I think we’ve cracked it this time guys!” they say to each other. “Absolutely smashed it! This is most definitely the toothbrush holder for anybody with the faintest desire for self improvement,” they assure each other. “What shall we call it?” they ask. Then almost simultaneously the same word occurs to each of them and rises from the group as one utterance, “ASPIRATIONAL”. They applaud themselves and decide to nip off to Nandos for a celebratory lunch.

I look at the toothbrush holder. I suppose it is rather neat and if I scrape of the label no-one need ever know that my horizons are defined by my toothbrush holder.

Back home I enter the bathroom. Small balls of hair are rolling across the floor like tumbleweed.  I curse the hairy tramp and put my new toothbrush holder on the sink. I put my toothbrush and toothpaste in the holder and stand back. There is no denying that it looks good. It is a small step on my upward trajectory.