Mad

Who am I mad at this week? Mainly, I think, three groups of people: the shoplifters that visit our lovely Oxfam shop; the vandals that visit our lovely Oxfam shop; and the fly-tippers that visit our lovely Oxfam shop. And why especially mad this week? Well, apart from the accumulation of incidents, which has now reached tipping point, I'm mainly mad because of the vandals that tore the hinges off our cage out back – the cage we had to have built to try and stop vandals breaking into our bin (if you can believe that) – which then lead to the cage door falling on one of our elderly volunteers and her having to go to hospital. Don't worry, though, she's okay. Still, it was a straw too far.
    It's hard to believe, I suppose, that people would stoop so low as to steal from a charity shop, on a repeated basis. It's even harder, I think, to understood why people go to such great lengths to break into our bins, when all we have in there is usually total garbage, broken plates and glass, used teabags, and the occasional cuddly toy. Yes, very difficult to comprehend. But it seems to be something of a fad in Cross Gates – at least, there are several groups of people who regularly come 'round the back of the charity shops on our street asking to look through the bin. God knows what they're hoping to find. And to them, fair enough – but to those who have repeatedly broken off our padlocks, and now torn the doors off our protective cages – and then thrown the bin on its side and left the carpark strewn with rubbish – to those people, all I can say is, I just don't understand.
    Now, of course, it's personal; they've hurt someone. Now, it's time for 'fightback'.
    I went in yesterday hoping to catch the fly-tippers who have left their 'donation' outside the backdoor on each of the last three Sundays, despite the sign there saying, "don't leave donations unless someone's here to collect them; the rain or thieves usually get here first." I mean, I guess they could argue that they're just trying to do good – but, really, when they're doing it in the face of that sign, they're not. What happens is this: they leave the bags and boxes, and then sometime before Monday morning when we arrive some binners and/or scroungers will come by, tear them open, take what they want and then leave what's left scattered about in the dirt, probably to get rained on; when we arrive we find that mess, feel disheartened, spend an hour or so tidying it up and then have to dump what's left straight in the bin, which costs us money to empty and quickly fills up. That's why we have a sign. And that's why the people who are leaving this stuff aren't doing us any favours. Also, given that the things I've found from them have price tickets on them reeking of 'car boot sale', I think I'm pretty safe in deducing that they're just using us as a dumping ground for the things they haven't got rid of. So yesterday I waited, ready to nab them, give them a talking to, take some pictures, maybe lock them in the carpark – but nothing arose. Oh well.
    Today, however! Today was a better day – today it was the turn of one of our lovely shoplifters, who I'd deduced was a regular Monday afternoon visitor. Now I don't normally work Mondays, but I'd kind of realised something fishy was going on and I'd narrowed it down to the afternoon shift – when, bless 'em, we have some of our less eagle-eyed old ladies on the till. And how did I know? Well, it's all about finding ripped off price tickets and empty coat-hangers hidden behind clothes, the same place, the same time, the last three or four weeks running. Anyway, here's what I did: I set up a camcorder we had donated on Saturday and hid him behind a cardboard cut-out of a donkey high up on a top shelf aimed at the men's clothing (where the discarded price tickets had been found) and waited. Every now and then I checked for evidence, and finding none I just kept filming; the morning was clear, and I rewound the tape and started over again. Nothing happened – and then, having another peak behind the men's clothes, I found two torn-off price tickets (for two ninety-nine each! Have they no shame!) and rushed in the back to check my camera; sure enough, there she was, a sneaky peak around, the empty hanger put back on the rail, ticket dropped down the back and item of clothing folded up and deposited into a bag under her arm – naughty lady! It was kind of fun watching her do it, and having captured it in such a way – I mean, I've never seen anything like it – and though she got away today, woe betide her if she comes back next Monday and tries it on again. I'll be there, camera'll be there, and now I've got more of a pinpoint on when she comes in, and know what she looks like, I'll be even more ready – and I don't envy her position when I get my hands on her.
    As for the vandals – well, they've come twice on a Tuesday, and I may just have a little something up my sleeve for them one of these days; a little overnight, a booby trap, and a whole lot of vengeance. Watch this space! But this particular O-shop manager has been pushed too far.

Who else am I mad at this week? Jobsworths and smokers, that's who. Train guards who insist on sending me to the ticket office to say, "I want to get on this train with my bike," instead of just letting me get on the train with my bike when I'm standing right there and the train's about to leave. Security blokes that insist on making me walk all the way around something when there's no good reason that I can see, and then getting into silly arguments about it (which is also my fault). Anybody that can't do what's obviously right because they're so stuck on doing what's been written on some stupid piece of paper, whether it makes sense or not; I can't get into the heads of those people, and it makes me so mad that they just won't listen and see what I'm trying to say. And then all the people that think it's okay to spark up on Leeds train station and pollute me with their stink; fair plays, most of them put it out when I politely ask them; some require a little persuading - like the lady I threatened to unleash my toxic farts on if she insisted on persisting. Next time I think I might just let rip - and show them what stink is all about.
    Who am I not mad at, though? My area manager, that's who; seems like we had a big clear-the-air last week and I haven't felt any resentment and anger towards him or my job since then; seems like I said everything I wanted to say, got it all off my chance, held back nothing for fear of 'going too far', losing my job, etc, and it was all rather good in the end. Good to express oneself, it is. Good to stand up for what you believe in, and to do what's obviously right, forgetting rank and authority, and other such imagined designations. At the end of the day, all humans is what we are, and that, I can dig.

Now Onniss, it seems, wants to hear the end of the Story of Y; I'm not sure where exactly I was with that, or what there is left to say – although I do have a sentence in my head, enough to begin with, and if I know my head at all I wouldn't be surprised if there'll be more to follow on from that sentence, once I've got it down into fingers and black 'n' whited on this screen here. Anyway, the sentence goes…so Y's not talking to me anymore, because of X coming up for a visit in the beginning of July; she got real mad; she smashed my BrainTeaser mug – and though she didn't say much, I could tell that was kind of it.

And?

And, you're right, there is more. The thing was, just before that – just a few days before that, back when we were still lovers and eating/cuddle buddies – I'd started thinking that maybe I would get back with X, and since X was coming for a visit, for a trip to Manchester and the theatre, I ought to say something to her. Also, I'd been thinking that if I did get back with X one thing we should do, rather than trying to be all enlightened and post-New Age about it (ie, maintaining friendships with our exes, having them visit, and visiting with them) we should just be more traditional and try and wipe our exes off the map, out of existence, and throw paddies whenever their names were mentioned or even the slightest whiff of them came around; I'd started thinking that maybe that would work better – hell, it seemed to work for others – because, for sure, this sort of 'adult' approach didn't really appear to have done us much good. And with that in mind, and thinking I might get back with X, it only seemed fair that I should tell Y that, in the event of our 'getting back together', I probably wouldn't be able to see or communicate with her anymore. She took that on board – she never said too much on an emotional level (which I kind of like, for the most part) – and then X came, and went – and, sure, we had some kisses and cuddles and the like during the weekend, and talked about the prospect of getting back together – and then two days later Y came round to see me.
    "What did you do this weekend?" she said, sitting in the back garden, sipping tea from my poor, doomed, soon to be smashed into multiple, beyond-glueability pieces.
    "X came," I said, "we went to Manchester, to the theatre, had a little drive around." For some reason I had this silly smile on my face; I'm not sure why. I was fighting, though, to suppress 'the giggles'. Those dreaded giggles. I love them, but sometimes, I tells ya, they can be most inopportune!
    She was quiet for a long time. She looked like there was some deep sort of underwater volcanoes going on somewhere down there. She's kind of an ice-lady in lots of ways, keeps it all underwraps, if you know what I mean.
    The quiet continued; I thought it best to just sit there and look at her and be ready to listen, or answer questions, or just provide some kind of support; in any case, I don't suppose I really knew what to say.
    Eventually, she looked back up at me.
    "Did anything happen?" she said.
    She continued looking at me, and I said, "kissing and cuddling, you know…" I swear, again, that damn grin wanting to break out! Me, struggling to hold it in! Not the right time or place for that – and why was he here anyway? I turned away and so did she; I thought probably this was giving me something; I know that's bad.
    She was quiet again for a really long time.
    Like, I mean, a really long time.
    And then, probably five minutes later, she stands up, says, "well I guess that's it, then," and sort of stares at me for a bit as though she'd trying to figure something out, trying to wrestle with some computation – and then: arm goes up in air, hovers there for a second, cup clenched and…crash! Down it comes, bouncing on the concrete, bits flying off into various plants, destroyed. She walks out and I think, "oh, my cup – I wonder if I can get another one?"

The cup, alas, was beyond repair; I picked up the bits, and put them in the bin, and felt kind of sad, kind of composing emails to the producer of the show to see if he had any left – he probably does; it got taken off air not long after I was on – and wandered sort of calm pondering it all. I felt that Y probably had some anger issues, wasn't so hot at expressing things, either keeping them bottled up or allowing them to gush out in non-beneficial ways. I wasn't sad for our relationship, though – even though that was probably as broken as the cup – in some ways, perhaps, it was a bit of a relief, and I felt that given that she probably hated me now, it would be easier for her to move on, after lots of years of the old 'keeping the torch burning' and all that. I guess I feel kind of cold typing that – and I guess it's bad of me to have basically done the dirty on her and then felt any real remorse or guilt about it, even if it is for the best (which I don't know if it is or not). I'm not really sure why I feel that way – but then, I know I have a bit of a dodgy time with feelings sometimes, especially when I'm in the wrong. I mean, am I in the wrong? It's really hard for me to see that sometimes – and then, even if I do see it, to feel something bad about it – or to feel anything at all. I wonder what that says about me? Am I just a bastard with women – like all men? :-)
    So Y isn't talking to me anymore, although she did send me a text asking me if it had crossed my mind to apologise. I texted back and said, "sure it did" – which is true. But that's probably as far as it goes – and maybe that says something. I don't know….I don't know what I am sometimes; oh well. And even now all I can think sometimes is, "gee, wouldn't it be nice to have some sex with Y?" – honestly, that is as far as it goes! I'm certainly not as emotionally plugged-in as perhaps The Handbook on Being The Perfect Modern Man would have me be. I mean, I guess you're just not supposed to act like that, are you? But – and let's get to the point here – fact is, I did, and can't alter the way I feel about this, and that's that. Hey, I'm a shallow man, I choose women for their looks or their bodies, and sometimes all I want is sex – is that so bad? I mean, what's the alternative, to fight what I am and try to be something I'm not, something I read about in a book? I don't think so…
    One down, two to go…and the way I go sometimes I could end up a very lonely man. I don't make friends easily, even though I seem to be well-liked; again, oh well, that's just the way it goes. I can see me as a recluse, a loner, a drifting wanderer, the littlest hobo. I'm waffling again; my head is tipping to one side; my dingdongs can't live in a tenement yard. Outta here, Mufti! I'm all kindsa outta here and jellied little Frenchmen quipping their way through several thousands gallons of treacle and tiny evaporated ice-cream berets that lick their gussets and spew invisible donkeys a million time a day like some giant funnel-shaped earlobe never been brushed; ooh, my hair, I can't do a thing with it, I've tried everything – I've tried running my hand through it, I've tried wetting it…have you tried washing it, ya dirty rag-towel, ya left-handed sponge, ya son of a moccasin oil well? Good point, cream cheese, I'm not even Graeme Garden and you've swelled me up a corker. Cool nachos, Eve-a-ning, bon teeth!

Rory