There’s only one guarantee in life. Every
one dies. Yes to an extent that is true. But, there is more to life than being
in the room one minute and lights out the next. Unless, of course, you are
actually born dead when you arrive business class into this dog eat dog world.
Unfortunately for me I was born alive
and if I’d known of the other guarantees in life I wouldn’t have even bothered.
These guarantees are the ones that would appear in small print on the packaging
of life if you were to buy it in a supermarket. Or, the terms and conditions
they display on the bottom of TV screens which you are supposed to read, but,
no one gives really a toss about.
Everyone somewhere down the line
experiences love, hate, hurt, joy, anger, ecstasy, and jealousy, to name a
handful. The good feelings I could deal with. They happened few and far between
in my past but when they occurred in my life I was content. More often than enough, I have felt the size
twelve boot of life kick in the teeth every time things seem to picking up and
going well. Before leaving home most of the time that size twelve boot was my father’s.
At times it felt as though life had it in for me. It hated me. I hated it. The
feeling was mutual.
One could argue it is a miracle that I
have made millions. It is astonishing of how my life has turned out. Although,
some aspects of it are not what I wanted it to be like. Don’t get me wrong, I
love the money and the status that the money brings. I used loved my job that has
made me the money. But, now I’m bored with it. I’m fed up of routine. The
waking up in the same bed next to the same woman every day is a commitment I
wish I had never taken. I should have known I wouldn’t have been cut out for
married life. That is why I make excuses for weekends away to masquerade the
truth into lies. I suppose it is believable for an managing director of a
company to have appointments to tend to in foreign countries. My wife, Sylvia,
never questions it. Why should she? As far as she is concerned I am working
hard every day to maintain my empire.
We both know that if our love was a
candle it burned out a long time ago. We just stay together for Juliet. Juliet is our daughter. She is
only six. She is still at the age that we make all of her decisions. Although,
I tend to leave that entire decision making process down to Sylvia as I am
always too busy. Work takes up at least one third of my time. Sleeping takes up
another third. The final third is wasted at home. But, I prefer to spend that
time wisely in a five star hotel room with some talent I scouted out from the
crowd at those kinds of clubs. Or, as Sylvia is made to believe, in a boardroom full of executives making important decisions.
It is nearly Christmas. In fact, it is
exactly one month away. Luckily, we have had no snow yet. I hate the stuff. I
suppose my feelings towards snow aren’t helped by the constant reminder of my
mother dangling from the railings like an icicle.
It is that time of year where the
adverts that manipulate children into wanting all of the latest toys for
Christmas. Little Juliet sits in front of the television completely mesmerised.
There is an advert on the television in the break of a debate show. The advert
was designed to tug on the heart strings of every mother watching it. Trying to
influence her to go and buy expensive presents. Sylvia is currently in the
kitchen making lunch for Juliet so it will be up to Juliet to feedback the ‘I
want...’ to Sylvia. Juliet can have whatever it is she desires and it usually stupid dolls and pointless clothes for the dolls. But, if that is what she wants, then she can have it.
Unlike Juliet, I found comfort in
cardboard boxes. To be honest, the pathetic presents I received were not worth
the boxes they came in. I suppose that is why I spent most of the time playing
with the boxes. I had nothing else to play with. Unless, you consider fire as a
parental substitute to keep you occupied whilst you old man is not present and
your mother is in another room. To be honest, I still wonder why I didn’t
turn into a serial arsonist.
After the adverts finished, the debate
show resumes. As if by magic the next topic of discussion is Christmas adverts.
To no surprise at all the panellists thought the advert was disgusting and its
intentions were not conveying the proper message of Christmas. It annoys me
that these idiots sit and talk bullshit just to make themselves look like
angels. The feeble minded that watch these shows take in all this
crap and regurgitate the same nonsense on pointless social networking websites
just so they look desirable. It’s pathetic. People have and always will have
too much to say for themselves. Social networking just makes it a lot easier
for them to convey their pointless, unimportant opinions. To be honest, I
thought the advert was absolute genius. It is adverts like that that manipulate
the weak minded people into performing behaviour desired by the creator.
This manipulation makes my bank balance very healthy and thus Juliets toy box and Sylvias wardrobe very full.
My mobile phone rings. That is the last
thing I need on my day off. That is usually the beauty of being your own boss.
You can employ others to do the work for you, yet make you the billions. But,
sometimes when sitting at home on a weekend watching television before going to
play golf; the phone rings occasionally. My personal assistant on the over end
of the phone says that I am urgently needed at the office. I tell her that I am
on my way. Unfortunately, it looks like I am going to have to make a detour on
my way to golf.
I inform Sylvia of the situation. We
hardly ever sustain a conversation beyond hello and goodbye. There is never any
physical contact anymore. Without making eye contact and continuing to do what
she is doing in the kitchen she replies with a one word answer, “fine.” Why do
I bother? She should have been kicked to the curb long ago. But, the six year
old reason, why I didn’t, looks up at me from where she is sitting on the
floor. A disappointed look appears on her little face after overhearing me explaining to Sylvia that I need to go.
In my golfing attire I walk through
the front door to my car already packed full of my golfing equipment. I make a
quick phone call on my mobile phone. I must let George know that I am going to
be late for golf. Juliet runs after me shouting for my attention. I call for
Sylvia to come and get Juliet as I am on my way out and busy making a call.
In my car I pull out of the drive with
my window down. I can still hear Juliet shouting as I pull away. I am slightly
annoyed I have been called into the office urgently. What could be so bloody important
to distract me from a morning lounging around the house, climbing over toys
scattered all over in front of the television. Come to think of it, it is the
perfect excuse to get away from the house quicker.
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