Sickened of Glenfield

I’ve started this blog post three times already.  I was hoping I might have something more positive and funny to say today.  Instead I find myself sitting here feeling shocked, nauseous and really, bloody angry.

 

The good news is that it isn’t to do with the children.  Turns out two are marginally easier to look after than three.  Although Oscar has been testing his terrible two’s to the limit and taking an active interest in smacking today.  He has spent much time shining up the naughty step.  Tallulah is traumatised because she’s ripped her little toe nail off. How, we don’t know.  But I am currently soaking her in tea tree and lavender to get the fourteen top layers of muck off and then plasters will be applied.

 

No.  The absolute downer of the day award goes to the ongoing saga of Jason’s mother’s partner or MP as he his known in these chronicles.

 

You may recall that last time Jason took time off work to go down to Norfolk to fill a van with stuff for MP there was a lot of hoo hah where MP had a complete strop because we could not get the entire contents of the house in the back of a Ford Transit van and he refused to see why.  He also got furious because the freezers’ had de-frosted and he had wanted the food. Etc, etc.  It was all jolly good fun and done with the maximum of bad grace, tantrums and utter, downright rudeness on the part of MP.

 

We weathered the storm and continued on our merry way.  Over the last few days Jason has been a little worried about him.  Last week MP had a stomach bug and the home was shut to visitors.  Since then MP’s phone has been off, and the couple of times Jason has tried to ring MP’s daughter and son in law they have not been answering either.

 

Today Jason is home from work.  He did a twelve hour shift last night and spent the morning in bed.  Half an hour after he got up at lunch time his phone rang.  It was MP.

 

It was MP with an hour long litany of abuse.  And yes. I think abuse is not too strong a term.  Here is the gist of it:

 

You have turned me out of my home and you had no right to do so.

You stole my home from me.

You forced me to come down to Cornwall to live down here and I hate it, so it’s your fault.

You have stolen all the things from the house and not given me any of them.

I want the drawing back that I gave Katy because I didn’t give it to her, she stole it.

I want the painting equipment I gave the children, because I didn’t give it to them, you stole it.

I’m going to the house in three weeks and I’m moving back in and there’s nothing you can do about it.

I’m going to contact a solicitor.

I want the details of the Estate Agents so I can talk to them (and I presume stop any sale, should we be so lucky)

There is nothing wrong with me and you’re persecuting me.

You have no right to treat me like this because I’m grieving

You had no right to take all my broken and mouldy things to the tip. I want them back. I am not willing to have new things, even though you have offered to buy them. I want the old things back.

You are a despicable person and you’re robbing me of my dead ‘wife’s things.

I want all her clothes. You aren’t allowed to have anything.

It is all mine. Mine. Mine.

I hate you.

You are a shit.

In the two weeks after her death you basically kept me locked in my bedroom while you did everything behind my back.

The social worker was lying when she said I wasn’t fit to live in the house alone because she doesn’t know me and you fed her a pack of lies.

I never fell over three times in that fortnight and was completely helpless. You’re lying.

You’re lying.

You’re lying.

 

Which is nice isn’t it?

 

It does not take into account the fact that were it not for Jason he would be penniless and have nothing, because the only thing left to him in the will was a car he cannot drive.

 

It does not take into account the hours and days of hard work, effort, heartache and toil that have gone into trying to make what everyone agrees is a terrible situation into a bearable situation, which has the possibility of becoming much more bearable with time.

 

Nor does it take into account the fact that during this time MP sat on his arse and provided no help, guidance or emotional support whatsoever except to continually reiterate that he wanted to go to Cornwall.

 

Or the fact that Jason and his sister, out of the goodness of their hearts have agreed to help financially support him and to give him a share of the estate when they didn’t have to give him one red cent.

 

If he does decide to fight, it will tie everything up for at least eighteen months and mean that countless thousands of pounds which could be going to make his life easier will be lining the pockets of legal firms and causing every single person involved even more grief and heartache.

 

It still won’t change the fact that the woman he loves is dead and isn’t coming back.  Nor the fact that his life as he knew it is over, and no matter how hard he fights and how despicably he behaves it isn’t coming back.

 

I get that anger is a part of the grieving process. I really do.

 

I don’t get that someone can be so utterly wrapped up in themselves that they don’t give a damn about the fact that someone they profess to care about is also grieving for the same person. 

 

I don’t get that a sixty five year old man can behave like a child.  He’s hurt, so he lashes out to hurt others.  I expect Oscar to do that. But he’s two.

 

I expect I shouldn’t publish this.  And I’ve said most of it before. But I was so angry when all this was unfolding over the phone I shouted a lot. Not to MP, just to the air and the garden.  But it’s not helping Jason at all.  And that’s not fair.  I need to be calm, give him space and let him deal with it.  Not go on the warpath.  Which is why this is here.

 

It might not be for long.

 

Sense may prevail, but for now I just need to dump it. Again.

 

Bastard.