Bullies, Bitches and Bastards. Eileen Condon

you need to do

      Next time she grills you, come over all Beckettian. Ask her exactly what she means by ‘Where?’ counter her question ‘What are you doing?’ with an existential riposte, ‘Hmmm, “doing”, are we anything when we are not “doing”?’ And as to her constant ‘Who were you with?’ reply enigmatically, ‘Do you mean in the corporeal sense? Or are we talking metaphorically?’

       The Town Crier

       What she does

      Spends so much time bawling, it’s a wonder she doesn’t drown. Your whole relationship is a snivel and phlegm fest. She’s just so sensitive. Actually, she’s not. She’s more expert at manipulation than a chiropractor.

      How’s this for sensitive? She can flirt with your best friend, run down your job, and denigrate your family but if at any point you raise the slightest objection, you’ll get instant waterworks and, ‘Boo hoo, why are you always so mean to me?’ And if she can do it in public, so much the better.

       You on barstool, flicking beer mat. TC on stool next to you, inspecting fingernails.

      You: Do you want another drink?

      TC: No.

      You: Shall we go home then?

      TC: I’m here with my friends.

      You (sighing): Is this about Christmas?

      TC: What about Christmas?

      You: Look. My mum’s not well. She’d love to see all the family this year. We’ve always been away, this is just one year when I’d like to do the family thing. It’s not much to ask.

       TC: I want a holiday. I need to get away. Your sister can look after your mum.

      You: That’s not fair—she’s got the girls. Besides, I want to see my mum.

      TC (imitating whiny toddler): ‘I wanna see my mum.’ Oh grow up.

      You: That’s out of order. You’re being really selfish. You can forget about going on holiday now.

       TC starts to cry, as friends emerge from dark corners and flock around, twittering, ‘Oh my God, what’s up?’ ‘Are you alright?’ ‘Oh sweetheart, ahhh, don’t get upset, has he made you cry?’

      TC: I don’t want to talk about it. He’s just called me a selfish bitch. (Gasps from friends, accusing eyes on you)

      You: I’m really sorry…I didn’t say bitch…I…just…

      TC: Sob. But. Sob. You. Sob. Said. Sob. I. Sob. Was. Sob. Selfish. Sob sob.

      You: I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Let’s go home. (Now. Quickly. Away from the baying mob)

      Whoever gave her Tiny Tears as a child didn’t realise she was going to use the doll as her role model for the rest of her life. If only scientists could figure out a way of regulating the ebb and flow of water as deftly as she does, East Anglia would breathe a sigh of relief.

       You will soon learn never to thwart her. Because if you do, she will wield the water torture. You, the kind-hearted gent that you are, will be struggling to come to terms with the fact that all you ever do is make your girlfriend cry.

      You awful, unfeeling, callous bastard. But wait—think about it. The tears are for you and you alone. Funny how she can sit granite-faced as a friend tells her about a heartbreaking love split, or remain unmoved and dry-eyed through TV scenes of famine and war. But then she would, because there’s absolutely nothing in it for her if she blubbers over starving orphans.

      Crying isn’t an indication of her empathy with the suffering of humanity. Crying is control. And if she hasn’t got her own tragedy to use as a weapon against you, she’ll just hijack someone else’s.

       You and TC in bed; you reading, TC, back to you, huffing.

      You (resignedly): You OK?

       TC huffs.

      You (placing book down): I am not driving all the way to Inverness in one day.

       TC huffs.

       You: It’s ridiculous. If we take the sleeper, we can make an adventure of it, we arrive fresh…

       TC huffs.

      You:…we’ll have the whole day to ourselves. I won’t be knackered from driving. And anyway, the weather’s rubbish—we wouldn’t even be able to have the soft top down…