Don’t Worry, Be Happy

My first day at job club was interesting. I met a couple of women who no wan’ be there; one who looked like a victim of domestic abuse; a young woman whose greatest desire was to get a job because she had promised her little boy that when she was working she would fill the food cupboard; and one who claims to live on £55 a week but has her own spray tan machine and regularly uses it on her five-year old daughter, right before they put on make up and nail polish. She is also a great admirer of Jordan’s and shocked to hear that she was dumping Alex Reid. She filled the role of ‘gobby one’, directing when we should have smoke breaks and go off-topic to hear about fights in the street and new neighbours who can’t control their kids. She was very funny but I can see the course being hi-jacked unless our course leader nips it in the bud.

Some of what we did repeated what we were told last week at the introductory session; some of it was not relevant to me because I don’t have child care issues; and some of it was useful.

I wonder if there is a course that tells you what to say to a worried teenager?  Spud has occasional health scares that he blows out of all proportion to their reality. And by ‘health scares’ I mean that a finger nail snaps off but, by the time he has thoroughly researched it on the internet when he should be doing his German homework, he has himself dying of liver disease or arsenic poisoning. To be fair, I did think that his last big health issue – which involved a race to A&E and an appendectomy – was wind, so he has some grounds to look out for himself; but he does worry more than he should. He is a born worrier. If he reads this, he will worry that he’s worrying too much. He’s going to find life hard if he doesn’t relax a little.

The problem is information overload: he watches the news; reads the paper; checks the internet. They all report bad things, especially about children, and it affects him. He believes he knows when the problem started: a friend of Tory Boy’s died aged sixteen, in his sleep and from a suspected epileptic fit. It affected us all: he was a lovely boy and he died far too young. He is buried near my Dad and we always stop by and leave a flower when we are there. Telling Spud not to worry is useless, of course; might as well tell me not to eat three boxes of Maltesers on Christmas Day. I try to steer him in the right direction by pointing out that, if he lives to 120 as is being predicted for the population because of medical advances, he’s going to be pretty annoyed when he gets there to find he wasted his life worrying he might unexpectedly die.

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Yesterday’s prompt was to write about a light bulb moment.  I was standing in the shower thinking I had never had a light bulb moment when bang! (or should that be flash!?) I had a light bulb moment.  Not to my credit, I’m sad to say: my friend J gave me a lift home on Saturday after a writing workshop and she took out her copy of Writers’ Muse (which I had asked her to bring) to show me her work published within its pages.  I was about to look but I suddenly thought of the  derby and wanted to check the score so I put the telly on and let’s just say that 93 is not my favourite number.  Then I went off to make drinks and came back and talked about myself.  J is far too polite to show off so I never did get to look at the magazine. 

J, I apologise for being so self-absorbed and rude.  Please stay as my friend.

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Today’s poem is short, dear reader; I know that’s how you like them.

8

A Light Bulb Moment 

8

You are old, said my child;

your face is wrinkled;

your hair is grey,

your neck all crinkled.

And what is that awful smell?

Have you tinkled?

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Suddenly,

I know I have an option:

I won’t kill myself –

I’ll put him up for adoption. 

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