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.
oh my dear god and all that is good. That is not good.
Sometimes it’s very clear exactly why someone starts a support group!
How about starting your own??
You have such a voice, Moobs. That just…not good.
What a nightmare of a human being… but, wow, you describe her so beautifully!
next time she starts in mention you’re an attorney for adoption social workers taking notes for a client.. ask her to spell out her name for you
she sounds immense…maybe she is a plant…put there on purpose..
You don’t know me, but I feel I’ve enjoyed a window into your own life over the last few months as I’ve read your immensely enjoyable blogs. I’m sure the experiences recounted are deeply felt and it does feel wrong to enjoy them at a distance as it were, through your great ability with words. I hope all goes well. . . thanks for bothering to write, I love reading your accounts. Hello and goodbye from New Zealand.
Thanks all for commenting and a warm welcome to Jenny!
One thing my report may have understated is how much this experience shook P. She was quiet for days afterwards. I think she really needs to hear a positive story.
I’d like to give her social workers a prize for visiting such misery on her. Seems only fair.
It sounds like the first few minutes of Saxondale meets Clash of the Titans.
I was determined not to guffaw. Every time I read your posts, I guffaw – but not this time. And then you said “fishmonger’s window”, dammit.
yes yes yes, good post and all that but ‘big pants’? Are you talking American, or could you see her knickers? No wonder the social workers gave her a hard time