Coming up for air around 4:10 a.m., just had a quick look at the ‘news’ such as it is – it’s rubbish, but just before clicking out, I saw this women’s talk thing at the Telegraph:
It took me over two decades to realise that Eve was toxic. Because it’s not always as obvious as a friend sleeping with the man you fancy. (Indeed, another friend actually did sleep with the man I fancied – way back in our selfish twenties – and a quarter of a century on she remains as dear to me as ever.)
But Eve administered her slow poison with such a light and delicate touch that it wasn’t until middle age that I realised she didn’t wish me well. After that, it took a day to decide I didn’t want to speak to (her ever again).
.. and I’d have ignored it except for something which happened here over the weekend.
First thought was why people do these things, they must be really sad inside. Second thought was how far did the character of the writer herself affect it? It’s not just wimmin either … but some people, and I’m one, are a bit what I might call ‘precious’ and oversensitive.
Translated, that means that the observer thinking so (let’s call her Eve) finds the ‘precious one’ (the author) not giving her sufficient attention nor adulation. In any conversation, Eve ‘puts up with’ the author’s stories for a minute or two due to social mores, but is actually not remotely interested in the author and only wants her own (Eve’s) doings to be the centrepiece.
It’s a sort of, “I’ll stay silent under duress for now but finish your tale quickly, would you for crying out loud, coz I have my own to tell.”
That’s a strange ‘friendship’ in my eyes where one of them is not remotely interested in the other. In fact, the author irrationally annoys Eve to the point that Eve is in no way a friend and would act against the author in so many small ways.
And so to my tale. On Friday, I came down with the dreaded lurgy and took to bed, by and large surfacing now. If you have a heart issue, you don’t muck about, you deal with it there and then.
In the interim, there was a delivery to the yard which I run and it was a comedy of errors. My phone does not take incoming calls but does take texts. A text will buzz me, a call is redirected to the ether but it does register the number calling and how many times.
So I assume it was to warn me or ask me to open up for the delivery. Late Monday I went down because a different set of workers needed access (through the right channels) and the gate had been forced, swinging on the hinge, the solid padlock lying on the ground.
Nothing was knocked off in the yard, no other damage but still.
Ok, my neighbour says the delivery was Saturday and he helped them unload. Fine but someone’s lying in all this. That lock is broken (since replaced), yet he says the one who warned me must have given the delivery men the key. No one thought to text me? They do on other issues.
I checked with the boss man and he says he gave no one the key. So some bstd has crowbarred that lock from the inside.
How did they get inside? They were let through, weren’t they? By someone.
Either the delivery men or the neighbour did that lock forcing and good padlocks aren’t cheap these days. Now, I obviously need to stay on good terms with the neighbour but you do see the dilemma?
What do you do if someone you work with or live near does seem to have done the dirty on you? You see the dilemma?
I’m inclined to let him think I naively haven’t put two and two together, that I’m thick. But it then becomes a simmering thing. Trouble with fronting him is he’ll deny and there is a potentially threatening issue for later.
I’m thinking there was something like that with the author at the Telegraph and Eve sometime in the past.
Many years ago, a former lady of mine ‘admitted’, long after we parted, that she‘d slept with my ’best mate’ of the time. I did say to him what she’d said, he flatly denied it of course. But what does one think, eh?
It’s not good. Why, these days, do I keep myself to myself afap? To avoid such things. But that then creates someone who seems ‘precious’ to others, into himself, which is not so. Perhaps it’s having been burnt once too often, it’s all about trust and betrayal, just as in the public world right now.
A few nights back, a different lady, too young for me, explored the possibilities and contrary to nature, I had to extract myself, not my normal way but I could see only disaster looming here, too many strikes, bells were going off. I was upfront too about what a geriatric curmudgeon I am, a crock. And anyway, what was the interest about? I never said that last bit.
There are people I trust you know, but not many.
Solution to the author’s issue with the Eves of the world? I’ve not a clue, wish I knew the solution.
Dear reader, I can’t see there being a post before lunchtime, things are starting here about 8 a.m. Catch you later.