I'll never be angry again.

A big part of me has always wanted to be a monk. They impress me. Tibetan monks especially. They are my monk of choice. Unless I’m in a street fight then I go Shoalin. Give me a 14 year old Shaolin with a bit of bamboo in his hands and I give you a safe passage home. It’s the Tibetan monks though, they’re just so calm and gracious. Some of these guys have been imprisoned, tortured, given all kinds of burns, most of them Chinese, and upon release what do the monks feel towards their captors? Compassion, love and hope. Hope that their angry little Chinese buddies will change. It’s commendable and I look up to it. I’d kill to learn that kind of compassion.

If I burn my hot cross bun I lose my shit. I’ll throw tea towels, I’ll yell, I’ll kick the bottom of a cupboard whilst lashing at the universe with a wooden spoon. A psychologist may be reading this thinking, ‘well that isn’t about the hot cross bun. That behaviour involves something far deeper than the hot-cross bun.’ Well my overly paid and rarely useful friend, I’m here to tell you, that behaviour is all about the hot-cross bun. More precisely it’s about the sultanas within the hot-cross bun. Can those things retain heat or what?! You try and save your burning hot-cross bun and your heroism costs you a scolded index finger and a decent spell under the cold tap. We’re all spending thousands of pounds on insulation but I’m telling you people, put three sultanas up there, four minutes in the microwave and you’re good for winter.

Would a monk think of that?  Doubt it.

Winter’s the problem though isn’t it? Santa has left the building, the decorations are down and we’re all two dull days away from yelling at the innocent. When’s the next festive escape? Easter, which isn’t for months and as mentioned, comes with it’s own set of issues. If I were a monk three months living under a grey blanket would be a breeze. It’s level one monk. Well I’m taking a leaf out of their book. They may not be getting full value from their sultanas but their ability to not get phased is the new cool and for once in my life I don’t want to miss out. I only heard about Nirvana when Kurt Cobain shot himself in the head. Not this time cool gang. I’m here. I know where you live. I’ve made plenty of grand statements in my time and a lot of people think I’m full of shit, and they are right, but mark my words. I will become the calmest person in my county. I will become the full monk. And if not, I will dance nude across the farms of Bedfordshire punching cows in the face.

Ego

If you define success by having your son cry as you leave to do an open mic gig then I have nothing left to achieve. He was in tears as I entered the lounge room to say good bye. We had just been wrestling, which is our new thing. He jumps on me,  threatens my sternum, I tackle him to the ground trying not to wince and we repeat for about two hours. He wasn’t expecting this next move. The phantom elbow that is the absent father. ‘Sorry son Dad has to try out his new joke that he wrote in the shower.’ As my ego is my prison of choice I leave the weeping ball of wonder and light, make my way to the train and head on in to North London to give it some quality posture.
The gig was a poorly run open mic night which I hoped would surprise me. As a rule I love open mic nights, I love the successes, I adore the failures and I respect the courage. You do have to be strong. My favourite part of this night was being introduced, ‘The headliner is great so stick around but can the three remaining acts stick to time as it’s getting late. Anyway the next act is (he glances at a list)... Adam (he looks hard at the sheet) Vincent, Adam Vincent... please Adam Keep it short (he said that on the mic before saying off mic yet loud enough for all to hear) Really keep it short.’ Wow! Where was that pep talk at the start of the night? What a prick. My mind remembers my son crying at the doorstep, a lump begins to appear in my throat which is only defeated by a rage that I do my best to channel into my material. The joke, the very reason I made the trip was lost in a vacant anger. I had a paid professionally run gig the next night, why not try the new line then? Ego. 

The Last Dance

Working in Aged Care is like being a doorman at a really unpopular but always pumping nightclub. The music sucks, the toilets stink, drugs are rife and everyone is hard of hearing.  The great exception is when it’s time for people to go home you don’t kick them out you hold their hand. I was never good at this part.

When I lost my first friend his last words to me were, ‘Can you stop doing that? It’s annoying.’ There’s a bad day at the office. ‘What did you get up to today honey?’ I pissed off a guy who was being eaten alive by cancer. And you? I was young and didn’t know about the simplicity of holding a hand. Instead I chose to rub his leg until the lump in my throat cut off my oxygen supply. I nearly passed out on his colostomy bag. The first rule of being an Aged Care doorman; don’t pass out on a colostomy bag. I’ve also gone the other way and tried to feel nothing. I once had the audacity to wonder out loud what kind of chocolates the family would bring me as a reward for my efforts. There’s some witty office banter. ‘I hope I get a novelty sized Toblerone. Kevin was nothing short of hard work.’ Can you smell the humility? This bullshit bravado acts as a shield for a while but has a tendency to fall apart, usually when you least expect it. For me it was when I was buying toothpaste. ‘Check out that guy, he’s crying over Colgate, what a weirdo.’ Did Kevin ever stab you in the head with a toothbrush? No! You weren’t there man! Now can I have aisle three to myself for a while please?’ The truth is it’s not their demise that hurts but the reality of your own.

No one ever really thinks about their last dance. The egotistical amongst us speculate about our final words like they may provide the world with some deep meaning. ‘And then she said ‘caterpillar’ and it all made sense.’ Really? Unless your final hard fought mutterings come with a movie, your rosebud moment will get caught up in the bag they wrap you in. And the planning of anything beyond your life is nice and sweet like the biscuits you want people to eat when they chat about who you were as a person, but it won’t help you when the moment arrives. What moment? I don’t know. I’ve never been there. But here is a brief description of a good one.

He outlived two world wars and the countless others they put on to prevent the third. He started with a horse and cart and saw humanity park it on the moon. He was humble, funny and light. He had the strength to refuse his pills and I liked that. He loved his tea but he didn’t want his dinner and I liked that too. I knew what he wanted and he was getting it. The cheeky smile became focussed and then he turned away from his favourite drink.  His feet got cold, his eyes rolled back and his family came in.  I held his hand. That night he danced his final dance to his own beat and from all accounts his return home was beautiful.

The next day I was thrilled and had to explain to Lady Wife that I picked it. I called the family in at the right time. ‘You see sometimes you call them in and they don’t die for a week. It’s embarrassing.’ Unless you work in the field you’ll never really appreciate that conversation. As a Doorman I was happy that it all went well and I hadn’t been affected, but then I turned on the news and realised that the indescribable moment that you have to live through to die well has a lot to do with luck.