My father is in the doorway to my room. He is in shadow, light shines behind him and I see him swaying. He comes into my room and lifts back the duvet and gets in next to me. I punch him away. I tell him to stop. He is paralytically drunk. He weighs so much. He thinks he is in his room. I am not his wife. I scream at him. I kick him hard with all my strength. He gets up, totters around and lurches lopsided holding the end of his penis like a pipette.  He is unevenly weighted. He is a 6ft half-full bottle trying to walk. He walks into the bathroom and urinates into the dirty clothes basket.

I am angry in a way that feels new to me. I slam my door. I hear him stumble into the room he shares with Gloria. In the morning, my life goes on. The next night I wet the bed. I dream that I am stood up over a toilet and peeing quite naturally. When I wake, I realise what has happened. I am cold and wet. I take the sheets and try and put them in the dirty washing basket. Except it has gone. I take the sheets and put them in my bag and throw them in a bin on the way to school. All day I am sick with worry, but when I get back the cleaning lady Pauline has simply put on new sheets. She has put on the WW2 Spitfire cockpit one. I smell the sheets and mattress. It isn’t bad. You can’t tell anything. Not like my father’s piss. That smells sweet and hot and liquorish.

Michael Jackson called his third child ‘Blanket’. He thought that a blanket was a blessing, flowing with love and understanding. I also believe the same thing as Michael. I would like to tell you more about my sheets and blankets. In-fact I am writing this with a blanket over my shoulders to ground me.

I remember three blankets in particular.

The first - a nylon sleeping bag (736/3874). It held static electricity like a substation and I loved it. It was a Star-Wars sleeping bag. I got it soon after seeing the deafening space saga in the cinema. Chewie, Han Solo, Luke Skywalker C3PO, R2D2, Princess Laia -  all-together, covering all the angles, in a Charlie’s Angel’s pose. Above them was Darth Vader holding an Orange light saber. Below him, an X-wing and a huge beautiful fireball explosion.

Prior to the Star-Wars sleeping bag, there was another blanket. Where it came from nobody knows. How long I had it, nobody knows. It is a blanket of mystery. I took it everywhere. I slept with it every night. It is mine. The most important thing about this blanket is that I can take the corner and rub it on my cheek for solace. It made me feel utterly secure if I sucked my thumb at the same time. You may even catch me now, touching the inside lining of a jacket if it is made of the right material. I am 48. It is the softness I think.

I have no memory of my mother leaving. Yet I know it is there. I remember no grief, yet I look for her everywhere.

Like seeing faces in clouds. I want every woman in the world to love me. I smile a lot. I look for a smile. The click of satisfaction of a mutual yes. Will you be my 10 second mother? Can I help you with that pram up those steps? That’s what happens when someone just disappears. You never stop looking for them because inside you know that their love is the answer to the wonkiness you feel, that their love can take the edge of all the nameless rage and persistent fear. All this is woven into the tapestry of me and cannot be unpicked.

When Gloria (My Stepmother) arrives, she decides to line our new puppy’s basket with my blue blanket. She takes the puppy out of the cardboard box and holds it gently by the scruff of the neck. She is the loveliest puppy you ever saw, an Irish Red Setter with soft deep mahogany fur.

It doesn’t even have a name yet.

As soon as she is placed in her basket, I see the blanket and torn apart at it with her razor-sharp puppy teeth. Time slows down.

You’re too old for a blanket. Gloria says. You’re nearly 5.

I try and kick her. I fail. I run to my room.

We name the Puppy ‘Honey’.

There is nothing to touch my cheek with that night. I suck my thumb but it isn’t the same. Is this the feeling of being 5? Something is missing.

The final blanket of love and understanding was the one that the cleaner placed on my bed after wetting it. It is cotton duvet cover of the highest thread count. Printed on it the facsimile copy of a Spitfire cockpit. I can sit up in bed, and see the controls in front of me. Through the cockpit glass I can see 6 Messerschmitts. I down them in my imagination. Imagination is all the control I have. I know it is amazing quality cotton, because it is presently on my son’s bed, and he is 14. They both look brand new.

Sometimes, in the morning I watch him for a moment. I marvel at the smoothness of his skin. I am so pleased at the fact of his being. I know inside that it is my past that is watching him, and it is soothed the peace in his face.

Sometimes I get jealous of the way he is with his mum. I see how close they are and it makes me want to leave and go to my room. I don’t. When it comes to mothers I have no sense of what a normal experience is. I feel left out.

I feel like we used to be this triangle I say. Now you and him are a line, and I am just a dot.

There is no collusion. It is just nature. I feel I cannot judge reality when it comes to mums and sons. 

What do you actually do with your anger? It is the question of my life. It seems to me like the question of the age.

There is so much chaos in my mind sometimes that I have to send my thoughts into the world and read them back in paragraphs of order. I write. I have no choice. Writing is how I think. It is how I hope.

Here is a poem I wrote.

‘Alone at the Computer at Midnight’.

Oh No. I’ve just bought four Kayaks on Ebay.co.uk,

for me and my family

It seemed such a brilliant idea

Just 30 seconds ago.

But now I feel like I’ve spent all our Summer Holiday money

Which I have done I think.

Read the Terms and Conditions.

Terms and Condition.

Oh Noooooooooooo!

It wasn’t the marketing that tricked me.

It wasn’t the creepy re-targeting on other websites, 

Echo Echo,

Retargeting Retargeting, 

Just leave me alone

Facebook stop. I already have a shed.

What tricked me was my own mind. 

I saw a picture of a happy family

Kayaking up a river. Like ducks in a row.

It was magnificent and I clicked on that in my mind. 

Now four massive Kayaks will arrive on Tuesday.

Oh Noooooooooo.

No One come with me. 

No One understand.

They will say it’s a ‘mid-life crisis’

Like when I left my job to write a K-Pop Musical.

But it’s not the same. 

There is nothing more different than a mid-life crisis 

Than a man paddling up a river alone in a Kayak.

Oh Noooooooo.

Quick Quick. There might be a chance to contact the seller.

Yes, ‘Takethebinsout1973’ will understand the problem.

He is a man. He will help me. I will click on his profile link. The page    comes up.

Then I see.Then I understand what it is to me a modern man.

It says.

4 Kayaks for Sale. Bought for Family. Never used.

It’s an infinite loop. He like me, like me, like me.

It never ends. It is an infinite Man-loop.

Oh Noooooooo.

 
I wrote alone at the Computer at Midnight for my friends Paula Varjack and Dan Simpsons slam poetry night. She’s a performance artist. He’s a poet. Paula’s glittering parties, are to my social life what Gibraltar is to the British Empire. A last tiny outpost of fun in a world of anxiety. Her parties are places where fun happens by spontaneously. These days, my spontaneous fun has to be organised 6 weeks in advance. It is 9 months to her next party.

I didn’t buy 4 Kayaks. I did write a K-pop Musical though. It is Flatmates V Zombies II. I even went to South Korea to work on it.

What do you do with your anger? You transform it.

I have breakdowns. It is something I have had to get used to. I live in a state of constant trying to get better. One day I will.

Actually, there is one more blanket I need to talk you about, more a duvet. But that will have to wait for next week.