Last year things like this would have been discussed ahead of time as an automatic human courtesy. This year none of these things are vocalised, as if it can't speak and it just takes the action offered in kindness and we hope it won't take it upon itself to respond badly (but if it does it can't help it poor thing).
When caught short for amusements, last year I would have been offered something like a scientific or technical magazine, a cryptic crossword, or engaging conversation on topics ranging from society and culture to DNS server configuration or the latest discoveries in genetics. They would be offered first, and acceptance would be necessary before proceeding, of course. This year I am assumed to like only housewife magazines, romantic novels, simple card games like snap, and trite conversations about the latest celebrity pregnancy or who won the meat tray last week.
If there are others to be entertained as well, we may be organised to play the group games that are typical of children's birthday parties. None of this is offered, it's just bestowed without option, without comment, and I feel under tremendous pressure to accept these insults with expressed gratitude. After all, they mean well don't they. Yes they all mean well.
Last year, as I walked down the street the other pedestrians hardly noticed me. In crowded situations people politely look away to help preserve each other's personal space. This year, as I walk along people look me straight in the eye, put on a big cheesy smile, the patronising look (with or without the wink), and make very sure that I hear them say "hello" clearly as we pass. People I've never met. I've been told it's because of the hat or scarf I wore, but I saw no other hat or scarf wearers who had the whole neighbourhood assuming such unwarranted familiarity.
Last year I used to phone Mandy and chat about computers for hours on end. Now when I call she only wants to talk about my health. Have I lost a friend? Of course not, she's always there for me, even more so now. But the difference is that I'm not there any more. We've both lost me.
Last year I was kept, wisely, away from very young children and delicate elderly who had sheltered lives, or anyone else who could not handle the F word and an extremely frank and explicit mode of speech. This year people panic to keep the "bloody"-sayers out of my hearing range.
Last year people wouldn't touch me unless we were being intimate, brawling, or accidentally colliding. This year everyone and their three cats wants to paw me, and they seem to think that I'll like them doing it without asking first.
Last year I enjoyed doing a lot of different social activities that were a bit difficult to fit in after full time work. This year I'm encouraged to attend more activities and offered transport to my chosen groups, but only if they are during pensioner-business hours. My normal activities, my already established social groups, are out of bounds due to dark and distance. Sure, in my copious free time I could make new sets of friends by playing bingo and whatever other intellectual challenges are available before 3pm each day. After all, nobody will help me unless I help myself, will they.
Last year people used to come to me for advice and guidance, whether for business or artistic or technical or personal matters. Since long ago, in some circles I was dubbed Aunty as a form of respect for that role. This year, new acquaintances and even strangers seem to think they have permission to instruct me on how to live my life, how to think, what to feel, and what attitude I should hold towards human existence in general. They seem to think I am ignorant of the most rudimentary life skills and understandings, and that it is their role to instruct me, in monosyllables, and mine to show gratefulness. But they do mean well.
Last year there were some people who would call in for a cuppa occasionally, or phone and invite me to go out or eat or do something with them. This year I am invited to charitable rather than social events, and some people now only visit for servicing on demand. I prefer to be "serviced" either by people I don't know, or friends who remember and like me. But come now, mustn't be ungrateful.
Last year, if religion was mentioned I'd be asked what mine is, and the answer would be respected. This year, I am assumed to be Christian, prayed over, and given biblical pep talks uninvited. Some go so far as to weep, as if they must proxy for my mysteriously inactive tear ducts. Should I feel guilty for upsetting them by having a fate, I wonder?
Last year my companion parrot used to shout "Tired!" when she wanted to be covered up, "Coming back?" when I left the room, "Wanna cah..." when she wanted a cuddle, and "Outside!" when someone came into the yard or knocked on the door. This year my companion parrot shouts "Tired!" when she wants to be covered up, "Coming back?" when I leave the room, and "Outside!" when she wants a cuddle because tricking me gets faster results than asking directly, at least the first few times. She's a good mate.
Last year the postie used to ride her motor bike up to the front door and honk the horn when she had a parcel to deliver. She still does. She has no idea which houses contain people who are sick and dying, so she treats them all the same. I never have to be on my toes to show gratitude and hide offence. I don't know her name, but I need my friends to be like her.
Last year I was myself.
This year I am myself.
Something, something else, changed.
