This morning, when Howard asked me if I did much last night, I paused.
I wasn't going to tell him I’d been celebrating an article I’d written about anonymous bloggers which appeared on The Guardian on-line careers blog.
“Quiet one,” I told him.
“You’re so dull your life would speed up if I put you in a bloody retirement home. Socially it would give you a boost.”
“Perhaps you’ve broken my spirit,” I joked.
“I was aiming for your neck.”
Howard went on to say he’d changed his mind about euthanasia. He’d been all for it, but since meeting me he’s realised that although some people lead shit lives, there are those determined to keep breathing no matter what.
“I’ve come to understand that just because I’d kill myself rather than live your life, it isn’t necessarily the case you feel the same way.”
He stared at me and shrugged.
We are so used to Howard's ‘pro-Eva euthanasia’ that a few months ago, when the Office Manager found the BBC website “Guidance on Assisted Suicide” notes lying by the photocopier, she handed them to me believing Howard had forgotten to put them on my desk.
They’d actually belonged to a solicitor who was doing some legitimate research.
“I think the Dignitas Clinic is in Geneva,” Howard continued. “Easy Jet are doing good prices one way if you’re interested and you don’t have to make a final decision till you get there. No pressure though. Like I said –I’ve come to see things differently.”
He'll also come to see things differently if he checks out The Guardian careers blog.
See you soon.
Eva x
Thursday, 25 February 2010
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
Skiing
Having handed in my notice last Monday and then taken it back it was essential I show at least 8 hours of genuine regret for wanting to leave. And it was genuine. I believed Howard would try and I didn’t want to worry about where my rent was coming from. Showing I was an upbeat team player was a little harder considering my face was still itching with hives. Howard, however, was done being nice.
“Simon bloody Weston didn’t make this much fuss,” he announced to our colleagues, waving a hand in the direction of my pink face.
Emotionally raw and tearful, I came upon the idea of a bet.
I bet Howard £10 he couldn't go for a week without calling me Ugly.
The calculation went as follows:-
Showing I’m a team player - £5
Showing I was willing to laugh it all off - £5
Not being called Ugly for a week - PRICELESS
“Easy,” he said, accepting. But Howard didn't want £10. He said if he went without saying it for a week I’d have to take a beginner's skiing lesson at a dry ski slope. Something wasn’t quite right about this, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
He did it though. Howard got through the whole of last week without calling me Ugly.
The strange thing is, it worried me more. If it was so easy for him, why hadn’t he stopped all the times I got upset? Why’d it gone on for so long? And a question began eating away at my frayed nerves.
Why was it so important to him that I go skiing?
It meant enough to break a habit he'd had from the beginning. Sure, Howard liked skiing, but this was out of my comfort zone and straight into the Twilight Zone. He e-mailed me ski times for a dry ski slope which was miles away. He watched as I booked and paid for my beginner’s lesson over the phone.
So, yesterday evening I joined five couples and three groups of friends as we all donned skis for the first time. They’re all practicing for skiing hols. I kept to myself and, being careful in the rain, hopped sideways about half way up the slope and let myself slide down. I felt a curious detachment. The instructor shouted out exercises to try on the move: little jumps, lifting our arms, touching our knees. Up and down I went. The teacher pointed out my good balance and lack of fear. Truth is, all I felt was an aching sense of mental tiredness. I didn’t fall once, not even when I took a discreet look at my watch half way through.
In the darkness, a few spectators watched outside the perimeter, cheering their beginner friends on as they waddled up and glided down. The drizzle sparkled like snow in the flood lights. Squinting, I kept thinking I could see Howard down there, laughing at me behind the chain link fence.
Being honest, I’ve never felt worse.
I missed the bus back to town and waited alone for over half an hour in the freezing bus stop. I then had a damp trudge across town to get the second bus home. By the time I got in I was soaked, too tired to eat and too cold to sleep. My teeth chattered all night.
There’s no snow on the dry ski slope, but I left feeling very much out in the cold.
See you soon
Eva x
“Simon bloody Weston didn’t make this much fuss,” he announced to our colleagues, waving a hand in the direction of my pink face.
Emotionally raw and tearful, I came upon the idea of a bet.
I bet Howard £10 he couldn't go for a week without calling me Ugly.
The calculation went as follows:-
Showing I’m a team player - £5
Showing I was willing to laugh it all off - £5
Not being called Ugly for a week - PRICELESS
“Easy,” he said, accepting. But Howard didn't want £10. He said if he went without saying it for a week I’d have to take a beginner's skiing lesson at a dry ski slope. Something wasn’t quite right about this, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
He did it though. Howard got through the whole of last week without calling me Ugly.
The strange thing is, it worried me more. If it was so easy for him, why hadn’t he stopped all the times I got upset? Why’d it gone on for so long? And a question began eating away at my frayed nerves.
Why was it so important to him that I go skiing?
It meant enough to break a habit he'd had from the beginning. Sure, Howard liked skiing, but this was out of my comfort zone and straight into the Twilight Zone. He e-mailed me ski times for a dry ski slope which was miles away. He watched as I booked and paid for my beginner’s lesson over the phone.
So, yesterday evening I joined five couples and three groups of friends as we all donned skis for the first time. They’re all practicing for skiing hols. I kept to myself and, being careful in the rain, hopped sideways about half way up the slope and let myself slide down. I felt a curious detachment. The instructor shouted out exercises to try on the move: little jumps, lifting our arms, touching our knees. Up and down I went. The teacher pointed out my good balance and lack of fear. Truth is, all I felt was an aching sense of mental tiredness. I didn’t fall once, not even when I took a discreet look at my watch half way through.
In the darkness, a few spectators watched outside the perimeter, cheering their beginner friends on as they waddled up and glided down. The drizzle sparkled like snow in the flood lights. Squinting, I kept thinking I could see Howard down there, laughing at me behind the chain link fence.
Being honest, I’ve never felt worse.
I missed the bus back to town and waited alone for over half an hour in the freezing bus stop. I then had a damp trudge across town to get the second bus home. By the time I got in I was soaked, too tired to eat and too cold to sleep. My teeth chattered all night.
There’s no snow on the dry ski slope, but I left feeling very much out in the cold.
See you soon
Eva x
Monday, 15 February 2010
Hives
My hives worsened over the weekend. Honestly – it’s painful. This morning, having spent a tearful night with an ice pack pressed to my burning face, I phoned work to say I’d be in after I’d seen a doctor.
I was early for my appointment so I stopped in the newsagent and bought a paper.
“What’s happened to you?” the shop keeper asked. “You look like you’ve been beaten up!”
He’s right. My face is covered in this agonising rash. The area around my eyes is swollen and scarlet. My mouth’s puffy. Where my skin isn’t splotchy red it’s ashen and grey. Worst is the rash around my neck. It’s an angry red wheal, which looks exactly like someone’s tried to strangle me with a piece of thick rope. It doesn’t escape me that this is Howard's favourite visualisation. The power of laughter, I suppose. I’m utterly depressed.
Every time I pass a mirror I can’t help thinking, “You are so bloody ugly.”
The doctor said my condition is serious enough that he’ll refer me to a consultant; they’ll have to find the cause. But I knew exactly where to find it. I left the surgery intending to hand my notice as soon as I got to work. I had to detour home first though, quelling yet another panic attack. My head was pounding. I’d had enough.
When I arrived at the office, Howard winced at how awful I looked. I told him we need to talk.
“Am I implicated in this…in what’s happened to you?” he said.
Howard and I had a meeting where he did all the talking. I was too surprised to speak anyway when he admitted everything. He said he’d known it was bad and had to stop. He talked and talked - about his family and about working with me. He asked me to give him two weeks to change. I said I’d think about it, but I just wanted to leave. I felt free at the thought of it. Leap and the net will appear.
An hour later, Howard asked me again to reconsider. At least wait until you’ve got another job, he said. I sent Howard an e-mail saying I’d think about it if he would please, please stop telling my colleagues I’m asking to be raped. I told him it caused me EXTREME anxiety. I asked him to promise he’d never mention the subject of rape again. He agreed.
“It is my unfortunate sense of humour,” he wrote, “and in the cold light of day I do appreciate the distress, which I assure you was my not my intention.”
“Will you stay?” he asked when I gave him his post. I still didn’t know.
“If you leave I’ll jump out the window and kill myself,” he whispered. The threat brought fresh heat rushing to my face. The surreal and over-dramatic promise hung in the air between us.
Two minutes later Howard and I were sat back down in our old positions, but I didn’t decide to stay because of his threat or even because I didn’t have another job to go to.
The truth is that no one’s going to hire a secretary with hives and on the brink of nervous exhaustion. I have to get myself better.
Eva x
I was early for my appointment so I stopped in the newsagent and bought a paper.
“What’s happened to you?” the shop keeper asked. “You look like you’ve been beaten up!”
He’s right. My face is covered in this agonising rash. The area around my eyes is swollen and scarlet. My mouth’s puffy. Where my skin isn’t splotchy red it’s ashen and grey. Worst is the rash around my neck. It’s an angry red wheal, which looks exactly like someone’s tried to strangle me with a piece of thick rope. It doesn’t escape me that this is Howard's favourite visualisation. The power of laughter, I suppose. I’m utterly depressed.
Every time I pass a mirror I can’t help thinking, “You are so bloody ugly.”
The doctor said my condition is serious enough that he’ll refer me to a consultant; they’ll have to find the cause. But I knew exactly where to find it. I left the surgery intending to hand my notice as soon as I got to work. I had to detour home first though, quelling yet another panic attack. My head was pounding. I’d had enough.
When I arrived at the office, Howard winced at how awful I looked. I told him we need to talk.
“Am I implicated in this…in what’s happened to you?” he said.
Howard and I had a meeting where he did all the talking. I was too surprised to speak anyway when he admitted everything. He said he’d known it was bad and had to stop. He talked and talked - about his family and about working with me. He asked me to give him two weeks to change. I said I’d think about it, but I just wanted to leave. I felt free at the thought of it. Leap and the net will appear.
An hour later, Howard asked me again to reconsider. At least wait until you’ve got another job, he said. I sent Howard an e-mail saying I’d think about it if he would please, please stop telling my colleagues I’m asking to be raped. I told him it caused me EXTREME anxiety. I asked him to promise he’d never mention the subject of rape again. He agreed.
“It is my unfortunate sense of humour,” he wrote, “and in the cold light of day I do appreciate the distress, which I assure you was my not my intention.”
“Will you stay?” he asked when I gave him his post. I still didn’t know.
“If you leave I’ll jump out the window and kill myself,” he whispered. The threat brought fresh heat rushing to my face. The surreal and over-dramatic promise hung in the air between us.
Two minutes later Howard and I were sat back down in our old positions, but I didn’t decide to stay because of his threat or even because I didn’t have another job to go to.
The truth is that no one’s going to hire a secretary with hives and on the brink of nervous exhaustion. I have to get myself better.
Eva x
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