Disgifted is not actually a word, more like the undoing of giving a gift, and if that is so, I was thoroughly disgifted yesterday. Massively upsetting really, for no matter which way you peruse the situation, I was promptly dismissed, which in turn means, rejected.
And I am still mad about it.
My decision to come to sunnier climes, as I live happily between South Africa and the United Kingdom, was both frugal and medicinal. Post Christmas in London, with only the local co-op for daily visitation, me turning a whiter shade of pale, faster than the covid, post Christmas tree stripathon – it’s ok, it’s expected. We did put up the Christmas decorations in September, and the day after, nah, didn’t work this Christmas, so tore them down again. I can’t even remember which Christmas ad won this year, was there a Christmas ad? Oh where is John Lewis!
Southwards I go, I mean, few restrictions apart from a curfew only the ghosts would have to adhere to, and the beaches re-opened. I am lying on the beach, with a face mask. I digress.
With no work coming in, it also seemed financially viable to return to our little home here until London opened up again. Things to be done, DIY plans, including new paving in the back garden. Everyone is in to DIY as we know, and so she goes.
Dilligent I am, informing my neighbour. There shall be builders, there shall be noise, there shall be dust and then it shall be done.
There was more noise than I expected, more dust like dust storm dust, and dust covered builders knocked off for the day.
Attack over the fence had me verbally pinned against the wall. You la la this and my tee tee that and oh my gosh, I could not escape. The guilt. I could not escape the guilt of maybe having irritated my neighbour, for one, silly day. It was official, my neighbour is not nice.
Fearful as the job still needs completing, I found my way to her garden wall carrying a bunch of roses and a box of chocolates. She would not step away from the door. And told me to take my flowers with me. Confused, I laid them, like a wreath of humility on the grass and left with promises of being a better human being for having irritated her, for one, silly day.
Turned into a spy fest. The flowers lay there, with the chocolates, in the late afternoon, on the grass. Still later, I look furtively through the window to check the defiance and watch the pale, white roses wilt. It was in darkness that the gifts, no the disgifted, returned to my door. I don’t know how to describe it really?
Later than evening, my gifts are returned to my door. I have been disgifted. They look lovely in my house.
A small incident, soon forgotten, but never forgotten. No damage done, yet damage done.
I wait to hear when the world will allow me to fly.
Why are some people so mean, so intolerant?
Image Northern Star, Clifton packaging