How to be Jane Eyre

I've just got back from an editorial outing to Jane Eyre (yes, really - we're stretching 'relevance training' to its limits, and boldly leaving the office where no team has before) and now have a beer in hand as I've successfully resisted the pub, so a beer is thoroughly earned. In the RUN is a spicy tomato sauce of the 'let's cook something really innovative! Oops, I've ended up with tomatoes, onions and sausages again...' type. It's nice having the house to myself. As ever, Fish and I continue to get on each others' nerves a fair amount, so some space is a good thing.

The problem is, oh gloriously empty blog, that recently my dad (who has Parkinson's) has taken a step (a wobbly one) for the worse. I love him very much, however there's no denying that the Parkinson's sufferer can be difficult to be around. It's a sneaky, non-committal kind of disease which so far dodges any specific set of symptoms. Rather like a particularly evil fairground, or an inventive-yet-unskilled one night stander, it's a different, crappy ride for everyone. Dad's 'executive planning' appears to be affected, leading to difficulties in performing tasks which require thought and planning. Sadly, this is the case for most very useful tasks, which makes this particular symptom a bit of a bugger, particularly for one of the most intelligent, reliable men I know. Suddenly, my mum is having to take on responsibilities which she outsourced to Dad around 30 years ago, and no longer has that much of an idea how to do. This has led to a fair amount of resentment, of the 'I'd be shouting right now in the middle of this restaurant if you weren't ill, but since you are, I'll wait until we're alone and shout at you for not organizing the booking of the table and lying about it' type. Mum, let it be placed on record, is doing amazingly, but it can't be easy and she's not to be blamed for letting her anger show on occasion. To put it bluntly, home is no longer the idyllic refuge I now realise it once was. I am aware of how lucky I am for the almost absurdly idyllic childhood enjoyed by my brother and I, but sadly this doesn't seem to stop my resentment that it's over! Soon, it is clear, my brother and I will need to grow up properly and start looking after Dad along with Mum. This is hardly the end of the world - they are both pretty wonderful people, even a Parkinsonian Dad beats 90% of the world's population hands down, however it has made me start thinking about my choices, and my relationship. So, now we're comfortably back at the beginning of this original diversion, which was of course, ME. And my feelings. Hello again. :) So, I've been suddenly looking at Fish, in all his weird, cute, funny, frustrating, delicious, infuriating, distant, mood-swinging, selfish glory, and as you can probably tell by the order of those adjectives, I've been worrying. It's one thing to have a relationship based on staying together while you are making each other happy, but rather a different thing when you need support; unqualified, unresentful and loving, even when you're being a bit of a bitch. A man who sulks if he's not wearing the right shoes to cross grass, or if you buy the wrong type of soil is fine, just so long as a) you can cope without smacking him with your beautiful RUN pan and b) you're not looking for support during those times when his carefully controlled world isn't as he would like it. Oh, and c) that you have enough energy to dance round the various limits which allow a Fish to survive the rough and tumble of an illogical world. So, I'm worrying. Sadly, one of Fish's limits is a failure to understand the idea of offering unqualified, hypothetical support. For him, everything has limitations because otherwise he might make a promise he can't keep. The upside here is that he'll never promise anything he doesn't commit to (unless he's drunk), the downside is a complete inability to say the right things to halt someone needing reassurance as they slowly slide down the slope marked, 'Fuuuuuck, this is going nowhere....' Anyway, I'm going to make an effort to not pre-judge him, but to see what happens when I do need him, and if he's there. The problem is, one doesn't always want to ask, and a lack of empathy when his own feelings are in any way involved means that I always have to. Meh. We'll see how it goes. Let's give it a month, and on the 10th of November (when it's about time for my monthly blog post anyway) I'll attempt to reappear and look at this again.

Jane Eyre, of course, wouldn't expect anything, and so would receive everything. Jane Eyre would never dare to ask for help, but would deal with it in such a way that she seems ever more intriguing and delicious, until Rochester is begging to be involved. Over the last 15 years I have come to the sad, yet accurate conclusion that I will never be Jane Eyre.