In a World Gone Mad: Sunday 24 May 2020...1

Sunday 24 May 2020

It was Max’s birthday on Friday.

I’m dead against him having this guitar because of the way it was funded and because of Max’s selfishness, he wants something so he’s got to have it and it doesn’t matter if we can afford it or not because he’ll just go behind my back to Daddy, the great demented cash cow.

The update said it would be with him on Wednesday. It didn’t come. It didn’t arrive again on Thursday and I was heart sorry for him when it didn’t come on his birthday. The latest update on the tracker yesterday said that it is in Germany. What the hell? It’s coming from Sligo in Ireland. So, presumably it’s gone from Ireland through France. From France it’s driven through Germany, where, if it doesn’t go on a gap year to New Zealand or Borneo, it will go back through Germany and France to come to England on a ferry.

If I’d have bought him the guitar I’d have been gutted if it didn’t come in time. But it’s nothing to do with me. He was disappointed but hid it well and said that he had a lovely day. I’d collected the things I bought him as they arrived—in good time, and hid them in the office until Friday.

I bought him accessories—yay, well done me. I had no input into buying these things, I didn’t choose them, no thought went into it. I just put him a hundred and thirty pounds in his account and told him to fill his boots. We have a choice of Asda, Tesco or B&M. I wanted some surprises for him to open, but I found nothing that he’d like. I was pushed for time as he waiting in the car and I’d gone in on the pretence of getting things I needed for his trifle.   The alternative would have been some clothes from George that he would hate. I could have picked up some tat from B&M, but what use would he have for furry cushions or a photo frame that says Family, or has some other twee random word on it. I looked around but couldn’t find one that says Guitarless.

I bought him a guitar strap, he made all the right noises when he opened it, but it bored me.  And I bought him some contact cleaner for his amp, how’s about that then?

‘What did Sarah get you for your Birthday, Max.’

‘A can of contact cleaner.’

I bought him a guitar lead, that was super exciting because it had a fibre outer coating so that it doesn’t twist. I hardly contained myself.

And I bought him two capos. It was supposed to be one at eighteen quid a piece, but his finger slipped, and he ended up with two. They are unremarkable capos and nowhere near as nice as his big silver one that goes with his big silver guitar.

I was underwhelmed, but he said the gifts were great because it’s all the bits that add up once you’ve bought the guitar—not to three thousand pounds they don’t.

He sat at the table in his dressing gown with his hands in air guitar.  He had his guitar strap over his shoulder, his cappo in his fret hand and the lead trailing over his knee.

‘What’s wrong with this picture?’

I fielded Arthur all day to try and give him a break, I wouldn’t let him so much as load the dishwasher and I did food. Being the perfect wifey, I even took him breakfast in bed.  I kept twenty pounds back to make him a sherry trifle, he had the choice of that or a cake. And I did a buffet of party food—for four.  I put out hot and cold pickie bits and that saw us through the day and night.

Arthur held the fact that it was Max’s birthday all the way through scoffing an enormous plate of food, and a dish filled to the brim with trifle, he couldn’t fit his teaspoon in it and had cream spilling all over his knee, the greedy old man. After he’d eaten—and before he threw up, he got excited.

‘Right Boy are we going out for a few pints for your birthday?

Max said he’d been keeping hold of that for well over an hour and not letting it slip away because he thought he was going to get to go to the pub.

We gave him a glass of Guinness, his tipple of choice for the last thirty years, but he’d forgotten it and said it was horrible. He forgot trifle and egg mayonnaise too. Every day, he’s asking what his food is and saying that he’s never had it before.

I had an afternoon off editing, and we watched a couple of films as best we could with Arthur asking questions every three seconds and saying, ‘Is there nothing good on?’ at least once every five minutes.

Good for Arthur falls into two categories, either Tarzan or westerns.  That’s all he enjoys now, and he can’t follow the story of them.

One of the things that gets on my nerves is the way he calls Max, boy. It drives me mad. We’ll be in the woods and he’ll be shouting Boy, Boy to a sixty-two-year-old man. But year’s ago, when he told me why he calls his sons boy, I was touched, it’s a homage to Tarzan. He called his son Boy. And if its good enough for Jonny Weissmuller, it’s good enough for him.

We had a music night and then played MTG until four. I was shattered and because I’m so tired, I haven’t enjoyed our last two date nights. I had my first drink at midnight to try and stay awake and three quarters of it was still in the lounge this morning. I went to bed at four and they stayed up the rest of the night playing guitars.

Max said he had a lovely day. We’re on lockdown, we can only do what we can do.