Dear Scumbag

Dear Scumbag, I’m sorry to resort to name calling.  It seems so juvenile.  Given that we have been so intimate in such a short space of time, you would think that I would at least know your name. 

You have a good idea of what I wear, my taste in jewellery, the make up of my family, what I keep in my fridge.  You will have seen that we had a double birthday celebration here recently, and a while ago, a bereavement.   Did you take the time to read the cards before you scattered them across my bedroom?  Did you look at my photgraphs?  Did you feel as much as a pang of guilt?  A rush of adrenaline maybe.  Or perhaps, indifference.  Do you know – you are the only person, apart from me, who knows where my children’s baby teeth are stored?  Does that make you feel special, Scumbag?  

You were only one of a handful of people that knew I wasn’t home that night – a very rare midweek get together, with my ‘MS & Me’ blogger friends, a glorious night away in a hotel.   How ironic that I cleaned the house that day before I left, thinking how nice it was to come home to a clean gaff. I came home the following day, on a high, with an award that the blogger team collectively received from the MS Society for ‘Volunteer of the Year’.  I knew straight away that you had visited.  I could see that a window box had been moved and was on a garden bench.  You will laugh when I tell you this Scumbag – my first thought was that someone had left me a gift and had put the window box on it to stop it blowing away.   I know, ha flippin’ ha.  The silent scream that I had walking around the house, wondering if you were still there.  Trying to establish what was taken amid the ransacked mess.  The children’s school bus arriving minutes later and the pair of them walking in on top of it.  No time to gather myself or hide what had happened.

A sleepless night in a friend’s house comforting a child, who wakes every time I move in the bed. ‘Lie facing me Mammy, rub my tummy’.  I wouldn’t have slept anyway, worrying that you and your friends might come back.  Nights of restlessness follow and I am prone to outbursts of tears at inappropriate times.  All the necessary tasks to follow up - forensics, insurance, glaziers - exhaust me. I launch an art exhibition three days later and panic at the thought of speaking in public, something I have done almost weekly for years. 

Have you any idea how distraught a little boy can be when he finds his farm set wrecked?  The boy who goes ballistic if I accidentally disturb one of his carefully arranged animals when I go into his room to open the curtains?  Did you admire his meticulousness before you ripped the fireplace apart in his room?  You should have heard him howl when he first seen what you did and again, on the evening he tidied it all up.  He cried and shouted obscenities at you that only a 9 year old could conjure up.  I told him that the nice Garda he met said that we were to forget about it.  He is taking that as Gospel and it helps.  The house is back in order now (It's amazing how well I can clean when I am pure thick), but there’s the daily reminder of a damaged window to look at in him room - You made a right job of that Scumbag.  Would I make you blush if I called you an old pro?

No doubt your greasy hands quickly passed my lovely jewellery to your friend, Scumbag 2, who like you, know the cost of everything and the value of nothing.  Do you ever think about the story behind your acquisitions Scumbag?  The special moment when someone gives a gift for life?  The person that did a decent days work to make a purchase?  It's not something you can appreciate really, is it?

You probably think I’m being over dramatic.  Of course, I am thankful that no one got hurt and that you have little to remember your visit to Poppy Cottage.  I’m not angry, I’m just tired and hopeful, dear Scumbag, that Karma will someday bite your greasy ass.  Happy Christmas, Lucina xx