It isn’t hard to ruin the life of a thirteen year old. I seem to do it all the time. Take yesterday:
‘Mum, you are ruining my life. Everybody has an iPhone. You need it to look things up in class and to talk to people. I’m completely humiliated without one. Who knows what people are saying about me?…’
‘I accept that your life is in tatters, and I’m sorry for you. But in 20 years you will come and find me, throw your arms around my neck, and thank me. You will be able to think without the help of influencers and you will not have a repeating backdrop of porn movies and pile-ons to spoil your dreams.’
Poor Suki. Poor me. Poor everyone whose life is ruined.
Suki and me met after school next day to get our eyes tested – both of us could pass the medical for becoming fighter pilots but you need to keep on top of these things – dentists, opticians, parents evenings and other kinds of physical and moral scrutiny.
We took a short way to miss crowds and phone outlets. A few people and their dogs were sitting around hopefully.
‘Can we give them a bit of cash?’
‘ No it’s against the rules. Because people think that if you give poor people money they’ll waste it on drugs, booze or fags which would be bad for them. So the decent amongst them nip round the corner to Greggs and buy them Coke and sausage rolls which are good for them. It’s the dogs I feel sorry for, they get the middle bit of the sausage roll which is sometimes plant-based.’
Music for this kind of context is playing in my head – the clarinet solo that starts Rhapsody in Blue and slides up its minor scale, torturing the life out of the notes : gut-wrenching squalor, sleaze, emotional pain.
Suki is curious:
‘Why do people have to live on the streets?’
‘Bad relationships, no money, mental health problems, two tours in Afghanistan, all sorts of reasons’.
I spot a morose-looking and dogless young woman and calculate a balance between what could make a difference to her and what I can afford. I surreptitiously liberate 3 tenners from my bag and press them into her hand, mumbling, ‘Get yourself something you need.’
The phantom clarinet solo has merged with the orchestra which mutes its plaintive isolation. A problem shared maybe?
Suki and I pass our fighter pilot tests and go our separate ways:
‘I’m going to see Dad. He’ll understand about the iPhone.’
The only area of agreement between me and my ex is over iPhones.
‘OK love, have a good time and tell him….’
Tell him what?
‘You ruined my life you miserable, cheating bastard?’
‘In 20 years I will find you and thank you…?’
‘…Tell him I hope he’s well.’
For perspective: a little ruination is bearable, whereas too much can force your dog onto a diet of vegan sausage rolls.
