When we followed one of our Utopian dreams, we ended up living aboard a 39 foot teak boat, in Cornwall. That is a story for another day, but it did involve, understandably, getting rid of our lovely ‘A’ class fridge freezer which I had bought new, albeit discounted because it came with a dent.
Luckily for us, we have met a sweet man, actually the owner of the Stag I mentioned once on my status. His friendship comes complete with an offer to use one of the shelves in his freezer. So, on occasion, I’ve availed myself of grocery specials and freezer space. On this particular day, not very long after I had been triggered by the horrifying event in South Africa, braving the perils that lurk within the 500 metre walk to his house, I found myself in his kitchen discussing what we were having for supper. It was my 11th wedding anniversary and for reasons too painful to discuss here, it wasn’t looking like we had anything to celebrate - I did say that it is very hard living with someone as mercurial as I am. It becomes harder when the person living with me employs tactics to deal with the situation which, rather than ameliorate it, inflame it. Part of my discussions with the mental health professionals includes avenues on how best my husband should approach me once I am threatening to spin out of control.
Undeterred by talk of an emotional nature, which included the threat of divorce, our Stag driving, freezer owning friend swiftly moved on to reminding me that I had some sausages in the freezer, as well as some Auntie Bessie’s frozen chips (they come highly recommended; the crinkle cut ones better). I’d completely forgotten about both and took the sausages hoping that they’d defrost in time for supper. We agreed that he would deliver the chips later on in the day. He offered me a carrier bag but I declined and popped them into my handbag.
A walk round town, 11 November, a very difficult anniversary to forget, reminded me of the marking of occasions, even if they are painful and I thought, ‘To hell with it, we do have something to celebrate, even if we are unable to make our marriage work.’ Armed with resolve, I went into the supermarket having planned, in my head, to bake our favourite chocolate cake, only needing butter for the icing. I grabbed a block of butter and was on my way to the till when the voices in my head reminded me that I had a pack of sausages in my bag.
Obviously, to me, it goes without saying, when I got my purse out to pay for the butter, they would be espied by the manager, the person on the till, fellow shoppers, as well as the CCTV cameras. I reasoned that the label would probably show that they were past their sell by date - they don’t get sold frozen - but I also decided against confessing to a member of staff to avoid being tackled to the ground, publicly humiliated and charged with shoplifting. I hovered and prevaricated near the tills, weighing up the merits of coming clean, taking a chance or getting the hell out of there.
I’d say, perhaps, common sense prevailed and I ended up taking the butter back to its shelf and beating a hasty retreat. But of course there was then the added thought and dilemma as to what anyone would think if they had seen me come in, take the butter, dither, dither a little more, replace it and then leave. Luckily there were fairly long queues so my exit was at least plausible, I noticed that too, and all of that, for a block of butter.
I have the sense, often, that I am taking too long in shops and that someone will think I am up to no good even though I have never stolen anything, ever. I am also on other occasions keenly aware that I am under surveillance. I told the psychologist, half convinced that she would say something like, ‘That’s a new one on me,’ but she just nodded and said, ‘That's understandable.' It was something of a relief and one more tetris block has fallen and slotted into the, 'I'm pretty normal!' row.
Who would have thought?
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