#NaNoWriMo 2017: Day Twenty-Six

High Dependency

The previous chapters can be found here: https://medium.com/high-dependency

Chapter Twenty-Six

Why are people so lazy? I just don’t understand it.

Why don’t they get off their backsides and show some initiative?

What’s wrong with people?

Don’t they find digging and growing stuff rewarding?

Don’t they find it satisfying, having weeded a whole vegetable patch?

Why am I not like the others?

I love being outside. They just need to toughen up.

And wear the right clothes. Nobody wears the right clothes. They’re really not a practical bunch.

Some of them didn’t even bring wellies. What kind of idiots are we trying to start a new life with?

Are they lazy, are they stupid, or are they both?

No no no. Try not to judge people. Let them do their thing and you do yours.

They’re going to fuck it up for everyone though. We could be making loads of cash from organic veg.

Who’d want the indignity of living off benefits?

I guess I do rely on money from my mum.

Oh God I should be more self-sufficient at the ripe old age of 27.

I’m an embarrassment.

I’d call myself a gardener but I’m more of a drop-out; a loser.

27. No money. No job. No girlfriend. I live in a hut in a muddy field. What have I done with my life?

No, that’s not true. I’m living with authenticity. I haven’t sold out. I’m pursuing a dream.

What dream?

The dream is fucked. This commune is failing. The odds are stacked against us. We’ll never do it.

I’ve got to keep the faith. Keep calm and carry on. Dig for Britain. Dig for victory.

I’m the only one who does any digging though.

No need to get resentful though. The alternative is what? Working in an office?

Not everybody likes gardening.

Some people find it boring.

What the fuck are they doing in the countryside then? They should go live in the cities if they don’t want to live off the land.

What the fuck am I doing here?

Where has all the hope and optimism gone?

Have we abandoned our ambitions to grow enough food to support ourselves?

Have I abandoned my permaculture experiment?

Have I failed?

I’ve worked as hard as I could. I couldn’t have worked any harder.

That’s where I’ve failed, isn’t it? I’ve worked hard on my own. There’s only one of me. It doesn’t scale, no matter how hard I work. I should have tried to motivate people to get more involved. I should have taught people how to work the land.

Some of these people don’t want to be motivated though. They just want to sit around taking drugs, getting drunk and pontificating. They want to have sex and party. Nobody wants to put the effort in.

Who am I to judge though? I’ve never managed to fit in.

How do people know I’m different? Why is it that wherever I went, other children always knew that I was the one to pick on?

I’m playing the victim, aren’t I? I’ve let myself be put into that role. Doesn’t it take two to tango?

No.

That’s the bullshit that teachers used to tell you.

The teachers told you that it was your fault you were bullied.

You brought it on yourself.

You were asking for it.

I’m big now, so why do I still feel little?

Why can’t I let this go? It was a long time ago.

I wish my life was going better. If life was going better I don’t think I’d be so hung up about my childhood.

Was it really so bad? Oxford was a beautiful city. The university parks were gorgeous.

Yes, but we didn’t stay, did we? Besides, that was just the summer. Summer holidays. Sweet relief from the relentless bullying at school. Bliss.

It never really ended, did it? Bullying was the big constant.

Was it so bad?

Yes. I’m not being hyperbolic. It was every day. It was horrible.

What the fuck are we doing putting all these kids together in a school anyway? The horrible kids can ruin lives. Those scars last for life. There’s no escape behind the prison bars of the school gate.

I wonder where they all are now.

I bet you half the kids in that school are behind bars. School was just a holding pen for those feral little shits. School was just there to keep them busy before they went to borstal and prison. The girls all got pregnant in their teens and the dads are all locked up.

Who really knows where they all are? I never stayed in contact with anybody.

How could I stay in contact with anybody. Kids don’t write. Out of sight out of mind. How was I supposed to make friends for life when I kept getting moved around? That was the big lesson I learned in school — never make friends with anyone, because it won’t be long before I get moved. Also, the world is full of cruel little shits.

I can’t believe that my mum used to be sympathetic towards the bullies.

Yes, they were poor. Yes, some of them came from shitty homes. They made my life fucking misery though.

They could tell I was posh, couldn’t they? That’s why I got bullied — because I speak like I’ve got a plum in my mouth.

I can’t help my upbringing. What the hell was I doing in those schools? What’s the point in bringing up a child to be well spoken and an academic high-achiever and then dumping them in shitty schools with the children of parents who don’t give a fuck about their kids’ education?

Why am I so bitter about this? I’m a different person. It was a long time ago.

If my life was going better I wouldn’t care.

It’s undignified. I don’t have enough to do something and I don’t have enough to do nothing.

Some of this community have enough to do nothing.

Yes, but they have to suffer the indignity of going to the government with their begging bowl. They have to go to their doctor and plead for a sick note. They have to live with the constant threat of having their benefits cut off.

Is it any better to be getting handouts from my mum?

It’s fucking undignified to still be dependent on her when I’m 27 years old.

What else could I do though?

I could be a farm labourer.

Like those Lithuanians and Romanians who live in farm outbuildings, thirty to a room, getting slave wages.

I should be punching made-up numbers into a spreadsheet in a grey concrete office block, with artificial lighting. I should be wearing a snazzy suit and riding the cramped commuter train with a load of other miserable wage-slaves. I should be living in an overpriced, overcrowded city, rife with crime and pollution. Then I’d be really successful.

I don’t want to be successful if that’s what success is.

I want something else.

Is this it? Is this the best alternative?

“Oh hello Slim. Have you come to give me a hand?” Thom asked, as Slim approached the allotments.

“I just came to ask if you could give it a rest with the cabbage. I’m bloody sick of cabbage. Why can’t we have fresh peas? I’ll give you a hand if you’re picking peas” said Slim.

“They’re not in season, I’m afraid. Won’t be ready to pick until June at the earliest”

“That’s shit. They’re always in the shops. Why can’t we grow them ones?” asked Slim.

“Those ones are probably grown in Kenya or somewhere with better weather than here. The broad beans will be ready to pick soon”

“I hate broad beans. They taste disgusting”

“They taste a lot nicer if you take the skin off the bean” replied Thom.

“What? Every single bean?” asked Slim, incredulously.

“Yes. Every single bean”

“Sounds like a lot of work. See you later mate” said Slim, and he walked off.

“Got a busy day ahead of you, I expect” muttered Thom under his breath.

The next chapter can be found here: https://medium.com/high-dependency