There are some days when I suddenly feel much older than I actually am. Usually these are days when I am surrounded by people who want stuff from me I cannot give them; who think they know better than me how things should be and have the impertinence to tell me what is wrong with my world and how things should be made right. Back off, you people.
Like, for example, the whole internet thing; this whole ‘blog’ thing. I mean, so what if I haven’t posted for a while? Don’t give me grief about that, okay? For starters I’ve been working on my marriage – getting my husband exactly where I want him. Training your man to do the right thing, at the right time, in the right place, that takes time and practice and discipline and, quite frankly, updating my life story for the world is about the last thing on my mind when I’ve got all that going on in my head.
And yes, I know he, in cahoots with my very own Grandpa, betrayed me by starting a ‘business’ (if that is what you can call their shabby scam) without my knowledge – but he will suffer for that, all in good time.
And then there’s my mother – God help me. I mean, I’m the daughter, right? So I’m meant to be the one acting in the more childlike fashion of the two of us, right? But instead she’s the one getting into fights and organising orgies in prison, apparently to make a point about something only she truly understands. And surprise, surprise, Mum, there are people out there – a certain po-faced bitch with a teeny, tiny bit of power and a huge chip on her shoulder, as it turns out – who don’t see the funny side of this sort of thing. Apparently this sort of thing doesn’t and shouldn’t happen in a New Zealand prison – and, instead, prisoners should stick to screwing each other when the lights go out at night and not in the visiting room. And so it’s off to Christchurch for Cheryl West – banished to the Southern wastelands – a punishment, some might argue, that is worse than death.
Speaking of worse than death, I have managed to inherit, for my sins, a group of hookers who make the Tool Guys look like a crack team of dedicated professionals. The job is not difficult, for fuck’s sake: meet guy – fuck guy – take money off guy – give money to me. How hard is that? But no, all I get in return for my not-inconsiderable management skills is grief and anguish. Is it any wonder I’ve been tetchier than usual lately – when surrounded by all this uselessness?
Because here is the New World Order of the Wests, as far as I see it:
Mum is gone. She is out of the picture for the foreseeable future, because you don’t get sent to Christchurch and expect to come back in a hurry. Even Cheryl will find it difficult to be an interfering cow from down there, so we’re on our own as far as she is concerned. The Queen is no more, but life goes on, so get used to it and make the most of it. I know I certainly will.
In her absence, Pascalle may think she is the moral centre of the universe, but I know for a fact it will only be a matter of time before she does something phenomenally stupid to break her own rules. She will then fall apart and it will inevitably be me who has to pick up the pieces. I so can’t wait. But until then I will continue to ignore her, the most I possibly can.
Van is doing God knows what (apart from being useless at work, as always) and I have no interest in finding out. This situation works for me and long may it last.
Jethro – exactly the same as Van. No idea what dodgy shit he’s balls-deep in right now – and I have no desire to find out.
Grandpa – the betrayer. He and Ngaire – I shudder every time I think about them, so I try very hard not to think about them.
Judd, I must confess, is actually being okay – but only because he’s not interfering in my life. This is good. This is the way it should be.
I suppose I should count Dad in this little wrap-up of West-world as it stands, but really he is a distant memory these days. He’ll be off howling at the moon somewhere, and good luck to him I say – because he doesn’t exist here anymore.
Because this is the New Order (not the band) and the landscape we tread our path through here is very much of our own making. Me, I have things I need to do. I have businesses to run; I have a daughter to feed and clothe; I have a husband to torment.
I have gone back to basics and that suits me just fine.
Just don’t get in my way.