@garflib: GENIUS. I don’t know how he is the one with the empire when you are this brilliant (eye roll)
@daveyodavey: Take that robe off next time.
@betterthangoodfor: I bet your mum is so proud, seeing you half naked on Instagram. I bet its all she ever wanted for you. #Getarealjob
@sesememe3: Your skin is like china. You’re perfect, keep being you.
@mellisaheart: Has Gavin got a big dick?
Ruby
Small victories are all you can cling onto when you are as terrible at parenting as I am. I sometimes wonder if I have any positive impact on Bonnie at all, but I’m experiencing a rare moment of elation at the thought that maybe one of the things I have told her has gone in. It’s a terrible shame I have to enjoy this triumph with a black eye of my own, but it is what it is.
When we leave Marks and Spencer I take her back to the park. It’s a lot easier than having her at home, and if we spend an hour or so here, then I won’t have to feel so bad about her watching TV for the rest of the day while I work in my office, hiding from the mouse. When we arrive, I see the man again. He is sitting on the bench holding a packet of baby wipes. The bench is pristine.
I find comfort in knowing other people are hurting. I have a habit of telling myself that I am worse off than everyone else. When I meet someone else with a physical or emotional defect, I feel connected to them. I guess that makes sense.
Bonnie is playing happily alone, kicking leaves and running in circles around a tree. I sit next to the man. He doesn’t seem to have a problem with me being on the bench now that he has cleaned it. His hands are clasped together, his elbows resting on his knees. He is looking out into the park, those memories replaying for him again. As if stumbling on a particular moment, he smiles to himself. It brings him out of his trance and he notices me beside him.
‘Your daughter?’ he asks, pointing towards her.
‘Yes. Her name is Bonnie,’ I tell him.
‘That’s a beautiful name.’
‘Thank you.’ I don’t tell him I regret it, he doesn’t need to know. ‘I’ve seen you here before,’ I say. He could shut this conversation down if he wants to, I almost certainly would.
‘Yes, I’m here every day.’ He turns to acknowledge the plaque. ‘This bench is dedicated to my daughter, Verity. She died when she was seven. We used to come here all the time.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Yeah. Thank you.’
We sit for a few moments and watch Bonnie. Her sweet, innocent energy captivating us both.
‘How old is she?’ he asks me.
‘Three and a half.’
‘Ah, that was my favourite age.’
I have a feeling that I could have said Bonnie was any number of years, and that this man would have said it was his favourite age. But if anyone has the right to romanticise about parenting, it is him.
‘Lovely that you’re with her during the week. My wife insisted Verity went to a nursery even though she didn’t work. Then she went to school. If I could go back I’d quit my job and be a house husband, but you never think like that when they’re alive.’
‘I guess you don’t,’ I say, choosing not to tell him the truth: that I spend very little time with Bonnie, and that I am finding these few days of having no childcare incredibly challenging.
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