cannot deny that that is what occurred on the morning of the fourteenth.
Maybe she wanted a cup of teh. Her pronunciation of this aye reminded me of her grannie, a lass from Mayo whom I met and loved for one week in the merry month of July, during my courtship of the illustrious Catrine her granddaughter.
I was about to ask if she wanted a cup but she spoke first. Do you mean you have got the sack?
Of course not!
Of course not? Did I actually say that? What a fucking liar man! I would have burst out laughing except she was staring at me, staring me down. I had been about to look out the window. Now I felt like a total tube, like a naughty boy, I said, caught in the act. That is what I feel like.
So what is it? she said. What happened? Was it a fallout? What actually happened? Do you really mean you got the sack?
I smiled. You are some woman, telling you, the way ye say stuff.
So you have not been sacked?
Sacked! Even the word sounds strange to the ear, to my ear anyway. When the hell was I ever sacked? Have I ever been sacked? I cannot remember. I do not think I was ever sacked, not in my whole life.
‘Sacked’. There is something anti-human about that term. I do not care for it. Here you are as an adult human being, a thinking being to use the ppolitical terminology, and then you are to be ‘sacked’, this canvas bag is to be pulled over you, hiding you completely. None can see one. Then one is smuggled publicly from the place of one’s employment, in the erstwhile sense.
Sacked, I said, what a word!
Cath looked into my eyes with a steady gaze, her sparkling blue eyes shining as befits a latterday femme fatale, one who is given to ascertaining the thoughts of a mancub by return so to speak; in other words, as soon as one has the thoughts they are transcribed into her nut.
I hope this makes sense, I said, what happened apparently is that I was sacked.
She wanted further information. Her continued silence indicated that. The truth is she was an innocent. There are a lot of women like Cath. They know nothing. Cath knew nothing. She had never experienced the actuality of work. Genuine work. Jobs where things like ‘angry gaffer’ and ‘sack’ crop up regularly. In her whole life she had never worked in an ordinary hourly paid job. Office stuff was all she did. That was a thing about women, they were all middle-class. She knew nothing about real life, the kind of job where if ye told a gaffer to eff off you collect yer cards at the end of the week. That was power and that was powerlessness.
Would you like a slice of toast? I said.
She did not answer. Other matters were of moment, weightier than toast.
No they were not. Come on, I said, let us have a bit of toast, a cup of tea.
Cath studied me. This was no time for toast and tea. Life was too important. Seriously, I said, I am not powerless, I have it in me to act and here I am not so much acting as in action, I am making toast and tea.
Cath did not smile. My attitude is more being than assumption of such. She knows this and does not care for it. When we were winching, back in the good old days when choice was probable
I lost that train of thought.
Here is the reality: I was an ordinary worker. Power there is none. It did not matter I was a would-be authoron matters cultural, ppolitical and historical, to wit my life. None of that mattered. I existed in the world of ‘angry gaffers’, data such as ‘sack’ and other matters of fact.
Man, I was fucking sick of it. And having to please everybody. That was part of it. That was an essential part of it. Then coming home here and having to do the same in one’s domestic life. It was so fucking – oh man
Sorry Cath, what did you say? the thought returneth.
I didnt say anything.
I thought you did. Because there is no point attacking me like it is my fault, it is not my fault.
I didnt say anything.
I am glad because really
I did not say anything.
Right.
I am not attacking you.
Okay then but in a
Maybe she wanted a cup of teh. Her pronunciation of this aye reminded me of her grannie, a lass from Mayo whom I met and loved for one week in the merry month of July, during my courtship of the illustrious Catrine her granddaughter.
I was about to ask if she wanted a cup but she spoke first. Do you mean you have got the sack?
Of course not!
Of course not? Did I actually say that? What a fucking liar man! I would have burst out laughing except she was staring at me, staring me down. I had been about to look out the window. Now I felt like a total tube, like a naughty boy, I said, caught in the act. That is what I feel like.
So what is it? she said. What happened? Was it a fallout? What actually happened? Do you really mean you got the sack?
I smiled. You are some woman, telling you, the way ye say stuff.
So you have not been sacked?
Sacked! Even the word sounds strange to the ear, to my ear anyway. When the hell was I ever sacked? Have I ever been sacked? I cannot remember. I do not think I was ever sacked, not in my whole life.
‘Sacked’. There is something anti-human about that term. I do not care for it. Here you are as an adult human being, a thinking being to use the ppolitical terminology, and then you are to be ‘sacked’, this canvas bag is to be pulled over you, hiding you completely. None can see one. Then one is smuggled publicly from the place of one’s employment, in the erstwhile sense.
Sacked, I said, what a word!
Cath looked into my eyes with a steady gaze, her sparkling blue eyes shining as befits a latterday femme fatale, one who is given to ascertaining the thoughts of a mancub by return so to speak; in other words, as soon as one has the thoughts they are transcribed into her nut.
I hope this makes sense, I said, what happened apparently is that I was sacked.
She wanted further information. Her continued silence indicated that. The truth is she was an innocent. There are a lot of women like Cath. They know nothing. Cath knew nothing. She had never experienced the actuality of work. Genuine work. Jobs where things like ‘angry gaffer’ and ‘sack’ crop up regularly. In her whole life she had never worked in an ordinary hourly paid job. Office stuff was all she did. That was a thing about women, they were all middle-class. She knew nothing about real life, the kind of job where if ye told a gaffer to eff off you collect yer cards at the end of the week. That was power and that was powerlessness.
Would you like a slice of toast? I said.
She did not answer. Other matters were of moment, weightier than toast.
No they were not. Come on, I said, let us have a bit of toast, a cup of tea.
Cath studied me. This was no time for toast and tea. Life was too important. Seriously, I said, I am not powerless, I have it in me to act and here I am not so much acting as in action, I am making toast and tea.
Cath did not smile. My attitude is more being than assumption of such. She knows this and does not care for it. When we were winching, back in the good old days when choice was probable
I lost that train of thought.
Here is the reality: I was an ordinary worker. Power there is none. It did not matter I was a would-be authoron matters cultural, ppolitical and historical, to wit my life. None of that mattered. I existed in the world of ‘angry gaffers’, data such as ‘sack’ and other matters of fact.
Man, I was fucking sick of it. And having to please everybody. That was part of it. That was an essential part of it. Then coming home here and having to do the same in one’s domestic life. It was so fucking – oh man
Sorry Cath, what did you say? the thought returneth.
I didnt say anything.
I thought you did. Because there is no point attacking me like it is my fault, it is not my fault.
I didnt say anything.
I am glad because really
I did not say anything.
Right.
I am not attacking you.
Okay then but in a
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