Monaco

“…They’re going to occupy Monaco?”

I’m not sure I’ve heard correctly – it seems like such an unlikely thing to do, and also I’m stuck behind some idiot doing five miles an hour, so I’m trying to concentrate on that. We’re late too, and listening to the Guns of Brixton at full volume to hurry things along.

“Yeah Monaco. People dodging tax – they all live there you know. Also it’s only about two miles wide so it should be easy”

I start laughing and say something about it having a nice beach for them all to sit on too, while they are in occupation. It will make a pleasant change from snowy Cambridge, or Oxford Street.

My son’s still at home – he doesn’t go back for ages – they seem to have more holidays than term-time at his university. He’s been back so long he’s trashed the house again – it’s a total mess, everywhere. Socks, shoes, boots – why does he need so many pairs? He has more than me! And jackets – all over the fucking place, except hanging on the coat rack of course – oh no, that would be too easy. I had been hoping he’d come back more organised, but in actual fact he seems worse. He does make me laugh though, and I’m glad of that, it takes my mind off things, and if I need to leave at short notice he can feed the cats.

I don’t know yet – I don’t know .. I’ve only had half a reply so far. The other half was coming tomorrow, but tomorrow hasn’t come yet, even though it was a few days ago now. It’s okay though, I understand completely. It’s taken over his life – I can see how it would. He didn’t need to tell me that bit. I am grateful he did though. I’m grateful for everything he told me, even though it’s not good. Three hour lunch breaks, two hour breakfast breaks. How long will it be before.. how patient will they be with him … and for how long? Over there, you lose your job and you’re fucked – stuffed. No safety net. It’s the land of opportunity, but if you fuck up... It’s a pain in the arse: he says that’s the worst thing about it - the tedium– endless endless planning, driving, long waits in dusty parking lots ... and then...

He’s told me… It was brave of him to. I would so much rather know than not. Guns - in his face, and knives, and the whole fucked up seamy side of the American dream. He’s mainlining now – no more skin popping. He says my emails – all those messages I sent – the ones I didn’t even know he’d read – he says they bring him back to reality and remind him what there is to look forward to in the future. After this. I am glad about that.

So I’m waiting for the tomorrow, for when the next part of it comes, and I don’t know, but I’ll go on sending him my love because it’s all I can do. I still want to go there – bring him back. It would take me a couple of days to arrange – I’m good at that kind of thing, but I’m waiting to see if he wants me to. I think maybe something will happen soon. I think it has to.

At the presentation– sitting in the school hall for the last time ever, letting the priest’s boring speech wash over me, staring at the tapestry of the Virgin Mary, slightly crooked on the whitewashed wall, as it’s been all through these past ten years. Has no-one except me ever noticed? A slow procession of students shuffle up one side of the hall – those who’ve already left looking uncomfortable in badly fitting suits, the girls in dresses I think they probably bought for clubbing, not receiving A level certificates. It’s like a factory line – they shake hands with Father Joe, take the buff envelope, turn, and walk down the other side of the hall, looking embarrassed, as the cameras flash and we applaud them one by one. I join in, smiling, clapping.

When it’s over, they all go off to the pub – maybe they’ll discuss their plans for Monaco there, or maybe they’ll just get drunk. I drive back home, to wait for tomorrow.