On becoming a nuisance...

AOG, Madrid

My seventy something father called me the other day. His wife had passed away just hours before.

It had all been very sudden. He was still in shock. When I last spoke with him about 12 days ago, he was still in shock.

Before I continue, let me just say that I have not seen my father since 1988.

A few years ago, when I was still in London, he started to call.

He was then, and always, hungry for news.

However, our conversations seem to be a very repetitive affair. 



• How are you?
• How’s work?
• Your partner?
• Your mother?
• Your sister?

My sister is always a tricky conversation. She is hardly at home and, when he calls, she is never to be found. So he complains to me about her.

He lives in Florida, and my sister is still in the UK.

Time differences aside, she does lead a very busy life.

Dog walks, training, and the usual hustle and bustle of living in the social milieu that is British country life.

So when he calls, she is hardly ever there to pick up the phone. Of course, when I call, she is hardly ever there either, so it is nothing personal.

Which is what I always tell him. Again and again.

Still, he complains.

When his wife was still alive, that is to say, the last time I spoke with her, she always enquired about my sister, my mother, and me.

As with my father, the conversation was always a repeat performance of the previous phone call.

I never met my father’s wife, but she seemed very sweet on the phone. I was glad that he had her in his life and, to be honest, I never considered the idea that he would outlive her, quite the contrary.

So when he called with his news, I too was shocked. The woman my father left my mother for had departed.

I had always known about her but, thankfully, my mother was not one of those women who blamed the other woman for her husband leaving, she was intelligent enough to realise it was my father who was to blame for that. But she never really blamed him for that.

So the years passed, and when my father called the first time, he was keen, for whatever reason, to ensure his wife and my sister and I spoke to each other. It was always a strange, and mostly unilateral, conversation.

“I love you both so very much”, she often said.

To which I could only politely say “that is very sweet of you”, or something like that, but little else.


And whenever she said those words, I cringed slightly.

It always felt so odd. I did think she was a very sweet woman, and a saint for taking care of my father. But I felt strange.

Almost as strange as when my father says he loves my sister and I. To this day I have not said it back.

And the reason why is because I don’t love him.

When I talk about my father to other people I always use this stock sentence: “I don’t love him, and I don’t hate him. I just don’t have any feelings”.

Maybe it is a cliché, but I do think it sums up perfectly how I feel. I don’t know if other people understand what I mean.

He has not been in my life much. Not physically. He has been absent from it for a ridiculous percentage of it, so if I ever had feelings towards my father, they dissipated.

In a way I think I am quite lucky since, at least, I didn’t develop hatred towards him. I think I just developed a huge sentiment of indifference, and that is what is with me these days.

When he called me the other day to tell me about the passing of his wife, my first reaction was 'And you are telling me this because…?'.

Of course, I didn’t say that to him, but I didn’t say much of anything then. He was in pain and I did what I could to give him whatever support I could, which I think was very little.

I have called him a couple of times since, to see how he is, and he is well, but lonely. He has a large uphill journey which more than likely he will face alone.

His wife had children of her own, but , although they live near him, they have their own father to take care of (I assume, I have never spoken with them).

Certainly they have their own lives to live. He told me this already.

Still, my father values his independence, such as it is. He is almost blind now, due to about 20-30 years of unsupervised diabetes. He has also developed cataracts, but when we last spoke he said he was going to see his doctor about them.

He has said very clearly he does not want to go and live with his brother, nor does he want to become a nuisance to his family or anyone else.




Homophobia in London

AOG, London

I have been in London for less than 24 hours and already a story has hit the news that makes me loose my faith in humanity.

It appears that last week, right in Trafalgar Square, Ian Bayham, a 62 year old man, was assaulted outside the South African High Comission by three people.

Three teenagers, two of them girls of 17, and a boy of 19, named Joel Alexander, were arrested and will be tried in Court for the assault.

I cannot begin to understand what would make three young kids attack an older man because he was gay. According to the press, the motive of the assault is homophobia.

The Times writes that:

"Ian Baynham, 62, was walking through Trafalgar Square in Central London with a 30-year-old friend when a woman began shouting homophobic abuse at him.

He went to talk to her but she attacked him and a man with her is said to have punched him to the floor and then kicked him. A second young woman was also involved in the incident.

Mr Baynham, from Beckenham, southeast London, was taken to hospital after the attack two weeks ago suffering from severe brain damage."

Mr. Bayham died of a severe brain damage, according to the police, when doctors switched off his life support machine.

A vigil will take place this Friday in Trafalgar Square from 8 to 10 PM.

I have spent the afternoon with a good friend, and we were handed an invitation to the candle vigil.

Although I wish I could go, I won't be in London then, but I will be thinking about the incident.

Why?

Because with any luck, I might be 62 years old one day.

I would hate to be attacked by three teenagers so badly that I too would die from severe brain damage. And all because I was gay, like Ian Bayham.

I am sure that the kid's families are in shock as to the events and about what might happen to them. They have been charged, I think, with manslaughter.

There never is a reason as to why these things happen. How could there be? This is a hate crime, and like all hate crimes, it makes no sense. Ignorance is the motive. Also probably anger, and frustration. Alienation. It saddens me to read that these things still happen. It saddens me even more when I think that they will probably continue to happen when I turn 62.

For all our beauty, what a horrible species we really are.

Homo homini lupus .... indeed

Slow dancing to Madonna

AOG, Madrid

The last time I was in Barcelona I was invited out to a new club near Montjuic. It was the usual people, music and drinking one would expect in any Euro club, except for one thing: demographics.

As I entered, and even more so, as we all left for home, a growing number of elderly gentlemen kept pouring in.

Madonna was playing and they danced with each other hand in hand.

I could not believe how beautiful it was. And odd too.

I just never associated the Pasodoble with the pop queen’s music, and yet, to them, it was the only way. It was one of those things which you think should happen all over the place, and yet, you only find here and there in this modern world.

I made a comment to a couple of friends and they explained.

As in London, Barcelona has, or rather, had, a bar which catered to older gentlemen. We went there once. I have to admit that I loved it. It was like a 1970s Art Deco disco with all sorts of people inside.

Not the usual fare found in London’s “City of Quebec” but rather, that, and then some.

Old, young, hustlers and disco bunnies seemed to relax in the company of elderly gay gentlemen. I remember saying to my friends that having seen that place gave me some hope for my, shall we say, Golden Years.

Well, not anymore. That club has been shut and what I saw slow dancing to Kylie, Madders and co was the overspill.

As far as I could tell, nobody was upset that they were there. They were keeping mostly to themselves, and, as far as I could tell, looked quite friendly.

Will their club reopen? I hope so.

For their sake and mine.

Young at heart (old at flesh)

AOG, London

It would appear that every time I go to London I have an ok time.  Just.

Unfortunately, given the pressures of modern life, I have not long ago realised, that a weekend in London, though very glamorous sounding, is actually 2 evenings, and one and a half (or a third), days in the British capital.

I normally fly out on Friday night after work, arrive in Gatwick at some ungodly hour, then rush to Victoria Station on the next-to-last Gatwick Express (almost ₤15.00 these days!).

 

Once there, I normally enjoy all day Saturday, which I spend visiting galleries, museums, and try to catch a show on the evening. 

Not always, but normally I achieve some sort of cultural hiatus during the visit.

 

Amongst all of this cultural froth, I have to pencil in meeting with Madame Mère at some point, as well as the odd friend here and there for coffee in Soho somewhere (somewhere means Costa Café on Compton street).

 

This last time I was there, something I had not seen in ages reared its ugly head. 

As I waited for a couple of friends, next to me I noticed a very handsome guy in his 40s who was dressed -at first sight- youthfully. As I waited for my tardy friends, some of his friends showed up.

 

It was the usual “hey”, “kiss”, and recap on the weekend’s events. I began to notice, slowly, that this man, in his 40s, was verbally cavorting with guys in their 20s. 

Nothing wrong there, half of my improv class in Madrid is in their 20s and I feel like their father sometimes. 

But it was not as innocent as all that.

 

It soon occurred to me that, upon closer inspection, this man was not dressed “youthfully”, he was dressed like a male Britney Spears. I noticed this when he got up to air kiss one of his friends. There it was, a mid 40s bare navel. 

He also acted very like la Spears: Bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch; non stop.

 

Nothing wrong there, except that not only was he trying to look like a teenager, he was trying to talk like one too. But I was ok with that too (I from the “let and let live” school of life).

 

The thing that most ruffled my feathers was that the content of his whole conversation was drugs; and partying; and going to this club or that club and being off his face. 

I thought to myself that this is the kind of conversation best reserved to real guys in their 20s, not 40 year olds attempting to hold on to their youth, ça n’importe quoie! (no matter what).

 

He was handsome enough to pull off looking like a teenager, albeit only just and then only because Halloween is nigh, but he was not young enough to pull off teenage speak. 

That is where he blew it. He sounded ridiculous. And this made him, in turn, look ridiculous.

 

And, invariably, I began to think about myself and my friends (all in our mid to late 30s). 

About how we speak, what we say, how we dress, how we sound and look.

 

When my friends arrived, I inspected their clothes. 

Youthful, but more like trendy (Yes, A&F but subdued). I listened to their (our) speech, (no talk about drugs, but the occasional fashion rebuff and odd bit of trivia). 

And I figured that we were about average within our age group and generation.

 

So, of course, I wasted no time in pointing out our "young" neighbour but before I could explain what was his ‘biscuit’, one of my friends looked at me and said in a low tone “Does he think he’s 15?”

I was vindicated. 

I was not alone in being slightly, and gayly, outraged.

Given that the trip was so short, I had no time to introspectively discover, or excuse, why that guy was so out of touch with himself.

Peculiarities of the Spanish streets

AOG, Madrid

One of the things that strike me most about livig in Spain, is the amount of old people on the streets. Used as I was to seeing a few OAPs (Old Age Pensioners for those of you not British) in London here and there, mostly in Post Offices, or at the corner shop, in Spain, you come accross hundreds of older people at all times and in all places. many of them work. Yes, some old people in the UK also work, but here, some of them run shops, or drive taxis, or work as waiters, well into their old age.

When you walk the streets, there they are, hand in hand the women, side by side the men. When you take the underground (subway), the bus, when you take a stroll. They are everywhere I go. Their lives don't just end in Spain. They don't hide and wait for the end. Like little ants they scurry forth, at their pace, probaly as they always did. I guess in Spain you are always you well into old age. Perhaps they don't realise they are old? And by this I mean that compared to other countries, the elderly strolling the streets appear to be very energetic.

They also appear to have a devil-may-care attitude. I am not saying they are aggressive, but most (certainly not all) do appear to be quite able to tell you off should you cross them. Perhaps it is defensive.

The kind old lady stereotype is a little bit harder to find in Spain. Of course, there are kind old ladies in Spain. I would venture that most are kind. But their number is certainly challenged by very straightforward ladies who will -sometimes- tell you to get off your seat on the bus and let them use it. Some will just look at you hoping you'll get up.

Others, and remember that animals work best in packs, will, if with a friend, start to tell their friend in a loud voice that some people today have no manners; that it is incredible how some people are rude enough to occupy a seat; etcetera. Sometimes it works. Sometimes the person they are alluding to wil get up and apologise, then the old ladies will apologise too and one of two things may happen, they will sit down (if there are two of them they will have a small argument over who should take the seat) or they will remain standing because they are either getting off at the next stop, or for some other reason. Perhaps pride. I think this is what keeps the running. Pride.

But not only old people roam the streets of Spain. Everyone roams here. I have seen more blind people walking the streets than anywhere else in the world I have visited. Of course in Spain there is an organisation called ONCE which provides many blind people with jobs, and they have a weekly lottery which provides them with funds. The blind are also very likely to appear on television. Participating in game shows, or very often, in the news. Not as newsreaders, but to illustrate their plight. And this is not an infrequent affair.

Not a day goes by that I don't see somebody with a deformity, or in a wheelchair, or in crutches, or with a medical condition they choose not to hide, or missing a limb (well, these are a bit rarer but they do exist), out in the open, living life to the fullest. They do not get hidden away as perhaps they do elsewhere. They seem to have an abundance of spirit in this country that permeates most everywhere and affects most everyone. And everyone is polite to each other when they take public transport. And if you are pregnant, all the seats are yours! Everyone gets up.

Of course, I am sure that many people in Spain do get hidden away. You hear stories about people being locked up for years. But you wouldn't know it by just walking up and down the streets in any Spanish city.

Shock, fear, and amazement. February 2007

AOG, Madrid

You learn a little bit about your stupid self each day, don't you? I have sat in front of my laptop since about 11pm trying to find something to write about. I have checked emails, signed up my spanish blog on a website which somehow trades with personal blogs (why? well obviously because I was bored!!) checked emails, read various newspaper websites, emails, watched tv, had dinner, spoken to my partner who is in Bucharest tonight and tells me that the 4 star hotel's guestlist is filled with the photographs of various women (prostitutes), spoken to Madame Mère on the phone to London, emails encore, read a couple of blogs, and finally, after hours of uselessness, I turn the TV volume down. Suddenly, I start writing.

What does this say about me? That I am very bad at time management. Did I learn this today? Well, I'm not sure that I've actually learnt anything. There are people in this world who operate best when things stick to a well laid-out plan. Who can work to a deadline because they have worked out what to do at any given moment. I wish I were one of these people. But I am not.

I live and operate in something approaching chaos. Not entirely chaos of course, because I do sometimes manage to amaze myself and can follow an unwritten plan from beginning to end and things turn out well. Somehow. And, I am sure, also in spite of myself.

Last year, during my Master, we had a writer give us a chat about her work and work schedule. Almudena Grandes, told us how manic she was about work outlines. How any novel she wrote had to be outlined and planned out from beginning to end. I listened in complete amazement. It was as if I had been living in a separate planet all my life.

Later on, the "Culture" tutor asked if any of us wrote. A couple of us raised our hands. A guy had actually published a couple of short stories, and this girl had also had some work published. And then there was me. Unpublished, with a dozen or so unfinished short stories. "Do you have an outline?" he asked. "No. In fact the mere thought of writing to an outline fills me with horror". Some thought it was funny. Our tutor replied "then it must all be in your head. Don't start changing it!!" More laughter. But for me, although still in a slight state of shock, a new road had been laid out. One I could choose not to travel on, but one which did show a prize of sorts at the end.

So what has happened since? A couple of weeks ago, on my way to London, I began writing again. I spent about 45 minutes looking for a pad at Barajas airport whilst waiting for my 2 and a half hours late flight to land. And I began to write. A whole page and a half. And it remains unfinished and unworked on. But I have been thinking about it a lot. Which I don't normally do. Has my writing changed? I think so. For the better? I doubt it. I am obviously at the "not finished yet" stage.

I have never welcomed distraction. Nor routine. I know I sound contradictory. I can't help it.

But not all was lost. I did find an interesting thing online when I was surfing the net a few hours ago (it is now 2:26 AM). There is a gay retirement village being built in the US.

A few years ago, having a partner had never entered my mind. Never mind spending your life with another person. Suddenly, retirement beckons. I am in my 30s and this pops up. Is it a message from the future? Whatever it is, it is nice to know that such a place exists. I did wonder what and where I would be when that time comes. Better stop now before this gets too depressing. For me that is.