Friday, 4 November 2011

A Tale of a Solo Mom...

Could Paula Benett be this woman?

Being male I have no idea what it means to be a solo mum and never having been on the DPB I don’t understand that situation either but I feel for people in that predicament. The Nats have a real thing about the DPB and benefits, which is odd when you consider some of their backgrounds. Of course the biggest problem for many single parents are public attitudes of condemnation. Not all religions condemn solo mums and fully understand that it takes two to create a baby and are not interested in allocating blame. This story is based on fact. And happened some where near where you live.
Peter Wheeler 2011
 I Accuse:
A Short Story

Peter J Wheeler

"When you wish upon a star,
 Makes no difference who you are.
 When you wish upon a star,
 Your dreams, come...True"         

The phone call was the last straw, The sand had slowly spilled from the top of the hourglass to the bottom, run its course, reached its bloody target. I was legitimately fed up.
A solo mum, a leech on society, an exhaustion of the national economy. No mean accomplishment being a solo mum. Just a habit some would say.
The allowances pruned so what money there is perpetually drifts away, slowly without prudence, a cent here a cent there. Still as the Minister of Social Welfare, better known as the Minister of diminishing allowances, says "Too many handouts are harmful and lead to too many children and a easy life. A certain French queen of a similar build and ilk once said "No bread, eat cake" so the people removed her brainless head from her well sustained shoulders. Conceivably that destiny awaits the minister, here's anticipating.

Ever had a baby out of wedlock, charming word don't you think, wedlock, guess who is locked in, wedlock what a word. The pains are matching you know, still hurts like hell. The water still bursts forth, blood still flows. When you take that insignificant innocent hunk of flesh into your arms, and love and hate it at the same time. Hate the suffering, love the harvest.
Naturally you never confess the hate and forcefully profess the love after all that's what your pressured to do.

Becoming a solo mum is the same as becoming an espoused mum. Well in most respects, it’s later that the actual fun starts. Sometimes you’re called a sex machine, like an over used bank deposit box. The born agains of course see you as the rancor of their weird revengeful God, the arch enemy of the straight laced bible married nice Christian girl who in private, consumes gin and prays her husband drops dead soon. Or the born again warlord who preaches no sex but blows his wastewater once a week in a motel room. The pro-life male protesters who are so vocal and judgmental when a women selects any other course of action. Holy, Righteous, Holy whatever.

Of course you can be the sort of solo mum who deceives, you know, husband away at sea, in the military and overseas. But sooner or later they find out and write notes or ring you up. Men are as bad as women too, will you marry me oh, you've got a baby, lets just have sex...A ready made family brings out the best in men, like hell. Who invented marriage anyway must have been a man. Come to think of it, it was a man.

Still my child gave me life, a cause for living, not particularly because I love children, but because of the entire dick heads who said I'd never manage. Fat lot they knew.
"I accuse," the caller had said, I bloody well accuse! Really it's a load of crap, but it got to me. It really did. "I accuse" he just kept repeating it, over and over again. I didn't recognise the voice but it was male. But I failed to recognise the voice. It truly got to me ate into my very guts. For hours I could think of nothing but that voice. I tried to analyze it, put it into an age category, by race, creed even but I floundered in my effort.

An hour or two later the phone rang again, as it happened I was standing by the front window which offers a clear view of the local telephone box. I saw this little short guy enter the box, then heard my phone ring. This time the call was more than "I accuse" for it developed into that sick stuff, you know, God would get me paraphernalia...hell and all that... As I listened I extended the cord as far as I could. By half kneeling down and looking under the blind I could see he was still on the phone.
I told him to stuff off, to stick the phone in a certain tight and dark place, and watched his reaction. He held the phone away from his ear. I banged the phone down after calling him a specific name associated with solo mums children. As I watched he left the phone booth, it confirmed my assumption, this guy was a nut case, a real nut case, and no doubt confirmed his mis-guided view that solo mums are foul mouthed.

The flat was small, well not even a flat actually, more like a bed-sit in size and shape. It was all I could afford; you don't get a great deal on the DPB. David that's my baby needed feeding so that's what I did. It would have been about an hour later when the phone rang again... I picked up the receiver it was him again. I thought quickly, I told him I'd be back in a minute or two because I had to tuck the baby in. I ran to the back door and picked up the brick, zipped out the back gate, around the corner in a flash.

There he was in the phone box; I rushed up and threw the brick! I saw it crash through the glass and connect about head height.
Got him, three cheers. Take that for solo mums' the world over. Try this for size you nut case. Shove this up your rear end!
I swiveled around and dashed inside, this time via the front, slamming the door.I walked slowly and proudly toward the phone to replace the dangling receiver.Then I heard the voice, "Are you there, I accuse, I accuse,
Oh! No wrong again.

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