A Spot of Bother

I like the film Brassed Off. There’s a scene where the guy is sitting having an argument with his dad on a park bench and a passing policeman asks “Excuse me sir, but is this man bothering you?”.

Of course he’s bothering me. He’s my dad.

There is stuff that bothers us. That we are bothered about. Sometimes it is bothersome.  But we are still bothered. It’s good to be bothered about things, by things. It’s a good sign we are still living.

Give or take, I am bothered about two things (with some minor sub-bothers). Yesterday was therefore catastrophic. The mother of all Mondays.

Bother-sphere #1 was neatly torpedoed by a telephone call I took last night.

 “Mr Vaughan. I know that must be difficult news and I appreciate the fact that you live alone. Can I offer any help or support to you?….Mr Vaughan?….are you still there?”

Good question. Not entirely sure for a minute there but yes, I am, because I’m bothered. Abso-fucking-lutely bothered by this as it happens. Oh and thanks for reminding me I live alone. That Bother-sphere #2 is far from ideal and some temporary hope that issue might at some point be resolving itself got decimated earlier in the day. Thanks for making this Monday such a shower of happiness of joy.

Last night I didn’t get a lot of sleep but when I did I had a dream. I was in a bar. I was trying to order a pint but the barman convinced me what I really needed was a cocktail on Special Offer. I agreed in the end and he fished out a very large glass indeed. Bigger than my head. (Normally that would bother me, as I have a loose rule of thumb that I never eat – or drink – anything bigger than my head and have tried over the years to convince my children this is a Good Idea). He tipped in an entire bottle of vodka. Then an entire bottle of Blue Curacao. And added a slice of lemon which was, it must be said, rather superfluous.

The idea of parking in the grimmest bar I can find and growling at passers-by is an option. Or, like Richard E Grant in Jack and Sarah (sentimental Hogwash that I have to admit I rather like too), go and live in a skip for two weeks, and maybe find a tramp to employ as a butler. Honestly, nothing would surprise me any more.


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