Like the tolling of the heavy bell the thickly penned letters set out my clearing duties and remind me why venturing to this part of the country now brings its own set of hazards, disturbances, and miseries.
Put simply, the knot in the Suffolk family dislikes me, my home educating choice, my uncivilised children, my forthright being and my odd way of living. There is nothing I can do to redeem the relationship. My uncontrolled hair, my inappropriate choice of everything, and the way I wear that bling belt suitable for a 14-year old, these all disturb more than can be said. Essentially, I am not in order, full stop. I should behave better.
Strangely, I completely agree with all her observations about the messy hair, messy life, and foolish bling. After then, we part. These half-complete frayed bits of me, these spontaneous wanderings and my noisy announcements might upset her, but I have to make them delight me. I must enjoy my uncontrollable hair! Fuck it, I like my dramatic reenactments! Yes, I thrill to my bling! In truth, I would like nothing better than to find the opportunities for dressing and behaving inappropriately in my way more often. Joy in life would come from these wayward motes.
We will never see eye-to-eye. She has already departed the house ahead of my arrival, ensuring she never has to clap eyes on me nor see my foul brood ever again. On the kitchen calender, a black border confirms the dates of my arrival and departure, like a heavy box over the days I am here.
Maybe I should admire the way she puts her principles into action. By packing her bag in preparation at our visit, she's not putting up and shutting up, like I thought we all had to do from time to time with extended family members.
But the chill of it means she turns my family visit into a problem and makes me feel awkward in knowing what household disruption I prompt; the circumstance she creates works against me seeing people I love, prevents me staying over more than a night, stops me enjoying my fields, and puts a halt on me gratifying my flung-off desires to trek about a wintered Anglia. All of it makes me feel the full frontal gloom of not being liked. What she doesn't get, not at all, is that my inappropriate life and non-normal choice doesn't necessarily result in a foolhardy irresponsibility.
What do you other home-educating rejected types do, when you are faced with such undisguised disapproval of your choices and your lives? Can you ever reach their heads or hearts?
I don't know. I can't make it any better.
Hmph. May as well make it worse.
Here's her stuffed pussy, Grimalkin. Its fur is peeling off, I'm sure from over-stroking.
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