If you had happened to sneak a look through a hole in our hedge at seven thirty yesterday evening you would have seen me being driven towards the car at the end of a sharpened stick wielded by my beloved. She had decided that it was essential that we should attend an adoptive parents support network meeting.
Arriving at the venue, we found that the network had been divided into two sub-groups. Ours was meeting in a sitting room furnished with tables and bookcases designed to look like crumbling Greek temples. The room had the feel of a fourth form chemistry teacher’s re-creation of Atlantis for a school play. In the middle of the lost city of the ancients sat 12 people, shoulders slumped, alternately gazing mournfully at a bowl of Pringles or smiling weakly at each other like a prayer meeting at St Bashful’s.
From the corner came a droning, keening noise emitted by a floppy-looking lady in big pants. She was recounting in the minutest detail every deception perpetrated by her social worker; every snub and shortcoming visited upon her by her childrens’ school teachers and every disappointment and frustration that could be found within the impressive bounds of her unhappiness. It seemed the Sun never set on the empire of her discontent.
Had it not been for two things she would have presented the sternest test of the network’s ability to provide the support she plainly desperately needed. The first obstacle to helping her was that on the four occasions in two and half hours on which she drew breath and someone else began to speak she rallied and was able to intervene before they finished their sentence. Then off she skittered down another throbbing leyline of misery.
The second obstacle was the fact that she was the organiser. At the close of the session she smiled bleakly and said “well I do hope that hasn’t put any of you off”. Around the circle all one could see was bloodless faces and wide eyes. It was like a fishmonger’s window.
Next time, a sharpened stick will not be enough.