This morning, I asked the old man the following question: If he had his time again, would he choose to relive his fifty-three years, or would he choose the sixteen-years of a dog? We have these deeply philosophical discussions, sometimes – in those rare moments he hasn’t got his nose stuck in the latest viral golf or dog video on social media.
He chose the dog’s life, which I totally understand if you’re a pet lucky enough to have the life of The Princess – stress-free, with a focus on food and walks; where the only thing you really has to moan about is daily smotherings of love from your family. That’s not to say that I wasn’t a little peeved that he doesn’t want to replay the past thirty-five years with me – his soulmate. But I get it. It’s hard to focus on those brief moments of joy when there’s all that other stuff going on… And as I’ve been reminded over the past few weeks, the freedom from stress of a dog’s life is a very hard thing to achieve in the real world.
It won’t surprise you to know that the last post I started and aborted was an incendiary piece about my reaction to the murders of Hannah Clarke and her children. It was another exasperated cry about my dwindling belief in a system that fails women so badly, but I had to can it when a wave of exhaustion from saying stuff that seems to fall on deaf ears got the better of me.
What’s the point, I asked myself, when nothing changes?
And since then, the news has been dominated by the Coronovirus, the move of the Sussexes, the art of toilet roll stockpiling, and the impending financial crisis. Sadly, Hannah’s death has been put to the bottom of the crisis pile along with other less newsworthy examples of abuse – although, I imagine that even the most fervent deniers of the #metoo movement felt some relief about Harvey Weinstein’s incarceration and the possibility that it might put a stop to women moaning.
The problem is, lads, there are just so many examples of gender inequality that we’re unlikely to run out of ammunition anytime soon – a strong case in point being the now senior, white man race to the Whitehouse.
Those (and stockpiling toilet rolls) are a few of the reasons I’ve kept my head down for the past few weeks. That and a ferocious last edit of my manuscript before it goes under the expert scrutiny of the national literary treasure who is Anna Spargo-Ryan. The author of books The Paper House, The Gulf, and numerous other publications on mental health, Anna sold herself short by accepting my pittance of a donation to the #authorsforfireys appeal and agreed take a look at it for me.
And then there’s my son, who continues to keep us on our toes through his stormy navigation of young adulthood, and makes it harder to remember, sometimes, that these difficult moments in history and our lives make us stronger and give us purpose – something I don’t see a great deal of in my dog when she’s chasing her tail or eating poo.
What we have to bear in mind on those days when the clouds finally part, the sun breaks through and we are given small drops of the good stuff to help us carry on, is that things change. We have to keep believing that with time and education, we can undo the wrongs caused by toxic masculinity and inequality. I have to believe that Kurt’s passage through the complexities of life will get easier – which it did this week when he managed to win six pieces off the old man in a game of Chess, and that someday my little story will reach a wider audience and help people like me who are struggling for answers.