Friday, 18 May 2012

Angry all the time again

I wonder about the situation with Virgil and Sarah. Are they planning a date, just being friends or biding their time? I catch a glimpse of some emails between them on Virgil's computer. The question of why glances at Virgil's inbox are both inadvertent and searching is one I cannot answer. Certainly I could just not look. Instead I tell him off for letting me see his stuff. 'Why do you do it?' he asks, reasonably. 'I can't help it.' I say.

I make jokes about becoming a professional plate spinner but the number of uncertainties, anxieties and loose ends is wearing me down. I am going round in circles. First I blame it on PMT but it lasts too long to be that. Virgil is solicitous, tender, smiley. He offers tea, hugs, treats. I shout, calm down, apologise, lose my temper again, scream.

Alan phoned to see if I wanted to go on a date but I couldn't: I had flu. But I'm better now and I haven't called him back. Next week, I think.

We are trying to plan a holiday together. I have insisted on it but now I don't want to do it. Virgil compiles a document with ideas for trips that all include visits to theme parks: France, America, Japan... I read it while using his computer (I wasn't sneaking around: he wanted me to use it but had left the document up on screen). Virgil tells me that I should not have looked at it. Instead I should make my own list so that we can compare notes afterward. I hate internet research. It leaves me exhausted and usually none the wiser.

'What's the point of having ideas for holidays and spending time costing them out when we already agreed that you could choose where we go?' I scream. 'It's just a fucking waste of my time, Virgil. What's the point getting invested in something that we're not going to do?' He tries to calm me down but it has the opposite effect. I don't want to do this work on my own. I want to collaborate. It's like the stupid fucking thing with the fantasies - of not letting me see his before I had written my own - and then I had to rewrite mine. Unnecessary work when my head's already full. I tell him that I have enough to do without spending time on pointless tasks like this.

Virgil says, 'But you're supposed to be setting the budget so you should do some research for that.' But there are so many different holidays and types of holiday and the cost depends on when you go and how long for. 'Why don't I just go and survey lengths of pieces of string?' I scream.

Then, aware that his holiday ideas cost significantly more (face it, Virgil: theme parks are expensive), I say: 'A hundred pounds a day. That's probably about what I can afford and we should be able to do something good for a hundred pounds a day each.' 'Does that include spending money?' he asks warily. I say, 'Yes, that should include everything,' and watch his face fall.

Screaming at Virgil leaves me depressed. I crouch on the sofa and don't look up when he says goodbye, even though I won't see him until tomorrow. He goes quietly off to work with a long face.

I try to think about why I am angry. All I know is that certain subjects make me explode and holidays are one of them.

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