closure report

I had a meeting this morning, at the Police Divisional Headquarters, a huge rectangle of a building, big and ugly. The interior was no different. Whitewashed walls. All furniture, all fittings were pine effect. A loudspeaker in every corridor and in every room called out ‘PC this’ and ‘DC that’ intrusively and often. We could not turn it off. We settled at the table, with notebook, a paper cup of machine tea and a plastic cup of water.

We proceeded to discuss the subject of the meeting; well, everyone else discussed and I took notes. My manager continued incessantly with her David Brent-isms. Using jargon erringly, failing to ever give a useful suggestion or to assert herself without error. Now that I have noticed this once, every example, even the smallest, makes me snigger. Whenever giving a hypothetic situation, the child in question is always called ‘little Johnny’. This annoys more than I can convey here. I think that I may show my disdain to her too openly in the office. Any of her attempts to show managerial assertion are quickly mopped up with my cynicism and sneering looks over my shoulder to colleagues.

The meeting continues. I write down words and phrases like, ‘partnership working’, ‘feedback’ and ‘standing agenda items’. Some light jokes are shared, and everyone, including myself, ‘umm’ and ‘ahhh’ in the correct places in agreement or understanding. I feel a lingering anxiety in this building. A poor attention span often stares into mid-distance, losing track of the conversation and having to catch up. I feel lost in this brutish building. Discussing things I care about, but in strange ways – the young people in question seem a long way away from this level of hierarchy. It seems to me that me attention lets me down and gives me away to the rest of the meeting. But the group, looking around, stare into the distance momentarily also. Glance out of the window, toy with a pen, sip from a plastic cup a little too ponderously.

We finish and leave. She again manages to patronise me without really trying. Any attempts at a reasonable conversation from me, as the car toodles through this fair city, stops abruptly. We return, and I proceed to pretend to work for he remaining 5 hours.

The sun shines at my back all afternoon. The romantic idea of the sun I have in winter, and how it sits here now make even the possibility of depression seem distant. I know the issues still reside, but they sit hidden elsewhere, and sunshine pierces my skull. How to explain this? Even the sadness that comes with sunshine feels manageable – the self-loathing and hopelessness dissipate and are replaced by insignificance. A feeling that although things probably will not get better, at least things are ok right now. The prettiest blue is there, just out of reach. Lots of midges are trying to fly in through this open window.

My diary is a mess. Attempts at organisation have not yet collapsed into reticence and denial (though according to the usual scale, this should occur some time in the next 48 hours). I woke up at 4, bouts of anxiety about the girl displaced with small a few small OCD pinches – those jumpers put on that shelf; the contents of that box in their place; those books in the desk there; the scrap of paper next to it; a small sub-list of things that need to be done.

I think for a moment about colour-coding different life strands differently in the diary – one colour for every day personal items, black perhaps. Things work-related in another colour, a green possibly, and a red connoting social or creative items. I displace and distract so well, and all subconsciously. The self-learnt, quickly practiced techniques of hiding this away replacing the simple, writing ideas with pseudo-self organisation and tidying, and irrelevant orders.

The day passes. The first walk home in this calendar year in one layer, sleeves rolled up. Heavy coat in the rucksack remind me of walking home after school as a young teenager. I get home, put on two jumpers, some stained shorts and begin my old jog route. All goes well, though I cannot see much, as the spectacles stayed at home. The sun soothes, the jostle and bounce of the ululating paths seem far removed from the irrational anxiety triggers about the girl and the dysfunction and the paranoia. An elderly woman, carrying only a package of gammon or colleague’s shrug and facial expression sets me off with worry and disgust.

Admittedly there is a little break two thirds of the way around the park, but pleased with my performance. Upon arrival I, quite unwisely, almost immediately begin to eat some reheated nachos with a variety of topping (refried beans, sour cream, cheese, salsa, jalapenos). I won’t eat again these evening. I sit outside in just shorts, and read some more ‘Crime and Punishment’, some dark escapism. Chris comes and goes, Gemma irons. I feel at peace for the first time in a long time. The effect of the weather? The influence of exercise? I sit hear then, bounce in between 3 or four half ideas, then settle on this here page.

The darkening blue of the evening sky, Woody’s tones soothe somewhere in between the speakers, though I cannot quite hear the jokes. I haven’t smoked yet today.

~ by thebreadcrumbtrail on April 23, 2008.