Today, a day that will be recognised for evermore as a day of misery and suffering is The GR's birthday. This day 8 years ago we were getting up and ready to go out and have fun when a friend rang to say: 'put the TV on a plane has just flown into the Twin Towers'.
'You're joking' we retorted. 'No, put the TV on'. We watched live as 'the second plane hit', these words are all so familiar now.
In the end I turned the television off and said: 'We can't do this, it's your birthday'.
We went out that evening to see a friend in a Country and Western band from the US. The event was understandably sombre. It was at The Borderline in the West End, which was spookily quiet, there was a no-fly zone over central London that day and for days after. When planes did start flying over again I remember the fear the noise brought. I cannot imagine the terror of living through a war, or of knowing someone within the towers that day. Those images will haunt me forever, more so the dust covered faces of bewilderment and silence afterwards.
I digress, back to Belle Mere.
A letter.
What did The GR do that is so awful his own mother would not call him on his birthday?
I should not write about The GR's family (a) because The GR does not know I have a blog and (b) because it's not my place to write about someone else's family. Bollocks to that. His family reward feckless behaviour and punish good. I'll give you an example: When The GR was a teenager he spent 3 hours washing and polishing his mother's car whilst his older brother sat inside snogging a girlfriend. His mother went to the shop and came back with a packet of Maltezers for The GR and a bottle of whiskey and 200 fags for the brother - ever had the feeling you've been had? This is supposed to be a funny story. Well, it is quite a funny story until you see the darker side of it, his brother is now cross addicted and The GR won't eat Maltezers.
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