It’s certainly an odd feeling

“I couldn’t take on someone else’s kids, I’m too selfish”

It was something said to me in conversation a few days ago, and something that’s hit the nail on the head of how I’m feeling right now.

I always believed I could do it. Thought I was generous enough in spirit and had enough love to share that I could deal with it. Turns out I’m not, and I don’t.

Playing third violin in the orchestra of a relationship is a lonely place to be. You are behind the child, behind the demands of the mother, and unable to ask for the support of the father, because any such request always get’s the same response.

“How dare you think you are more important than my child?”

So what do you do when one person in a relationship puts a higher value than the other on their partner? When you know that the person you love will never put you first? For me, right now, the answer is,

“I don’t know”

Or maybe it’s just as simple as admitting I really am too selfish, and maybe that’s why I don’t and never will have kids of my own.

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Cosy cats, or dark doings?

At Harrogate last week I was enjoying a pint of Theakston’s Crime Of Passion ale, and discussing with a fellow writer the distinct red tinge that the brewers have given the ale. I described it as like being infused with a hint of redcurrant cordial, whilst he was wondering who’s blood had been poured into the pint as a dye….

It was a flippant comment, but it was enough to give me pause for thought. I don’t generally think in these dark terms on a day to day basis, and I don’t find myself looking at everyday objects and wondering how I could use them to aid me in nefarious deeds.

What it did make me wonder was, since I don’t think in those terms, am I destined to write the sort of fiction where cupcake makers and cats solve the puzzle of who killed Colonel Mustard with the lead piping in the library? because I really don’t want to end up doing that. Or do I need to just look into the dark, dusty, unused recesses of my brain and find that devious, and deadly part of me that can figure out seven different ways to make your death in a nearby disused metal foundry look accidental?

Maybe I need to just get some lessons in Eskrima, which has recently been brought to my attention by a work colleague who is unnervingly brilliant at turning anything you give him into some sort of weapon.