How to take up space

The third in a short series of scenes about taking emotional space.

I’m in London to have my eye checked after an operation for retinal detachment, and deliberately early so that I have time to take the walk along the Thames between Embankment and Borough Market, buy coffee and cheese, then walk back along the river to Westminster.

It’s half term and there are countless parents pointing out landmarks to small children. Many are taking selfies in front of the numerous small signs across the Golden Jubilee bridge which offer prospective suicides an alternative in the shape of the telephone number for ‘The Samaritans’.

I have the feeling often experienced walking by myself in the city, a sense of isolation combined with a contentment at being alone amongst thousands of people. Unnoticed, invisible, demanding little space.

In the hospital I sit with my back to an elderly couple.

He says to her,

‘Sometimes I think you were sent to me just so that you’d be able to help me through all of this.’

I wonder if he could have phrased it better.

He goes on,

‘We’ve only seen each other four times haven’t we? I can’t remember how we ran into one another. It was on “Plenty Of Fish” wasn’t it?’ he concludes, answering his own question in a way that I wasn’t expecting.

From what I observe in the hour or so which follows, it seems likely that this is and will be the tone of their relationship.

He only talks about himself, constantly disappears without telling her where he’s going, and she spends most of her time unable to get a word in edgeways or hurrying about looking for him when he’s called by the doctors.

The man next to me turns and says, in unnecessary solidarity,

‘You’ve been waiting a long time.’

I look at the clock.

‘Not really, just over an hour.’

Later, at a small birthday gathering I am talking to an old friend I haven’t seen for some years when my son comes and says goodbye as he leaves for the weekend. He is supposed to have taken his grandmother with him to drop her home but has left without her and so I do it.

I cut short my conversation, leave my half drunk beer, and leave the house to fetch the car.

My mother-in-law has dementia and Alzheimers so we spend the twenty minute car ride having the same conversation about fireworks and how the dogs don’t like them.

She doesn’t remember what was said two minutes ago but, as we drive past a spot in a lay-by she still remembers the man who used to sell soft fruits every summer and how she used to take my children to ‘the strawberry man’ whenever she was looking after them. She also remembers her late dog, Buster.

‘Buster, didn’t like the fireworks,’ she tells me.

In the dark, with sporadic flashes in the sky, I think of my own mother who died on fireworks night and how dominant a presence she always was in my life, even after she’d gone. I glance at my mother-in-law who seems much smaller than she used to.

Later, everyone is out continuing the festivities in the bars of the town and I am home with the dog. Having finished the tidying I retreat to the sofa where Daisy is sprawled with legs outstretched fast asleep. So as not to disturb her, I perch on the end trying not to take up too much space.

Daisy, oblivious to anyone else’s seating requirements.

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That’s all for this week.

Thanks for being here, I appreciate you.