Melancholic Malaise

For reasons too complex to even attempt to describe, I have been on You Tube playing a clip to Manfred Mann's 'Ha-Ha Said The Clown'.  Cracking Sixties choon, as I like to think.  I saw them in Newcastle in 2004, whilst heavily pregnant with my second child.  Great night, great show.  They didn't perform those great Seventies covers they did - remember 'Blinded By The Light' and 'You Angel, You'?  The former of course is a Bruce Springsteen number, and no matter who performs it, there is conjecture about what 'that' lyric is.  I believe it has since been established that it is NOT 'wrapped up like a douche'.  The latter is an old Dylan number.  Dylan writes some mind blowing lyrics, but I always prefer other people interpret them.  Everyone's been too busy looking away from the elephant in the room to point out the lugubrious qualities to Bob Dylan's singing voice.

Still in a malaise of late.  My oldest has been off school for almost two weeks.  He had blood, urine, and throat swab the other day, so hopefully we will find out on Friday the root to his affliction, which thankfully appears to be waning.  It was strange to see a nurse taking his blood.  This is a first for him.  My younger one has had to give blood on a few occasions to ascertain carbamazepine levels - he's epileptic. 

Having an unwell offspring is enough to bum one out.  Been running around over the last week ferrying various spawn to the doctor, and the younger healthier one to musical theatre class, as well as to the school this evening for a performance (he plays bass drum in the school band).  Younger one is in good spirits at the moment.  His father and I are still in a state of shock over the suicide of one of his classmates over a week ago.  I took our son to the child's funeral, and will never forget the sight of a group of twelve-year-olds, confused and weeping for their lost friend.  Life is not just.  I cannot get my head around a twelve-year-old feeling that intense a level of hopelessness.  Parents should not have to grieve the way that boy's parents are grieving.

It's hard when you want to say things, but can't because you know it will cause a monstrous shitfight that just might sink it's venomous fangs firmly in your glutes and hang on with the tenacity of a bad tempered turtle.  I am capable of saying things.  I have learned a good way to phrase things.  I start with 'this is flawed because...' before providing a well-formulated and articulate response.  This is hard when I itch to write 'You unadulterated pile of stupidity!  You should be tied to a tree and shot with a ball of your own shit for having such a moronic and misinformed view.  Please tell me you haven't been breeding.' 

So many things I'd like to write, but can't.  Things I'd like to say.  Those things vacillate between the pleasant niceties, and Oh-Christ-You-Unbelievable-Fuckstain-On-The-Bedsheets-Of-Humanity.  But things will be fine.  We will be laughing again. Like Manfred Mann's clown, we will go, 'Ha-Ha!'