Kate Dawes; 24 year-old widow vs. The World.
After a while, it grew tiring. The letters and cards no longer brought honest, heartfelt condolences from intimate family members, friends and colleagues. They soon turned into two bastard sentences. Two sickening sentences that made it feel like these old semi-forgotten school friends and distant cousins had all held a meeting at one point to discuss the cruelest and shortest way to show they ‘were thinking of you’. Two foul sentences scribbled in biro on a Hallmark card in the empty space of 20 seconds, probably somewhere between turning the kettle off and pouring the milk; a scenario that would explain the half moon tea stains on the corner of every other message, along with the odd biscuit crumb, carelessly crushed between the two perpetually stiff, yet dog-eared, sides of card.
‘Sorry for your loss. David will be missed.’
The two biggest lies, written in different variants, told by these faceless names, scrawled without thought or sentiment.
Because clearly, my loss means nothing to you.
I haven’t seen you since the charity golf match your ghastly wife Lavinia held 2 years ago, that you forced David into going to, guilt tripping him out of the comfort of his office, because, “don’t you remember that time Mr. Geoffreys caught us sneaking into the girl’s locker room; what a bloody good laugh, fnar fnar fnar.”
I haven’t seen you since your wedding up in Hertfordshire where, being the partner of the brother of the best man’s cousin, I was forced into the world’s most awful buttercup yellow bridesmaid’s dress and pushed down the aisle in the place of the supermodel sister who was ‘otherwise engaged’ at a shoot in Milan for Prada.
But it wasn’t just this lackluster lie of condolence, taking my feelings into consideration, and almost having the audacity to suggest that I shall now forever be a lonely spinster; a widowed woman living into a two person flat in North London above the kebab shop that no one went to because of that one time a whole party of tourists got food poisoning after a meal. It was the notion that you believe that ‘David will be missed’. Of course he will. But not by you. He’s just a memory now. At a push, he is a small boy in an over-sized hand-me-down school uniform staring glassy eyed at a camera, a grin lazily pulled across his face, his two front teeth absent, another small pale face amongst the mass of other infants from that primary school down the road, that you attended before your parents divorced and you moved away, leaving a young David Dawes friendless and lonely; yet continually smiling out at you whenever the old school photos are bought out of the archives, dusty and long forgotten.
This is the part where I try and desperately cling onto any interest in this blog you still have left and stop ranting. And I don’t blame you really if this is where you decide to leave. Close that Internet browser. Go for it. I’m sure you have better, more productive things to do with your time other than to read about the antics of a lonely widow living in Camden, but if you don’t, I do suggest you stay for a while longer. I realise I’ve started off a little aggressive, convoluted and cynical, so I’ll reign it in now.
My name is Kate. No. Catherine. Or Kath. Or however the estate agents decides to spell it this time, but to most people, I’m Kate. My mother, a Mrs. Deidre Kingston-Hock, believed that any woman named Catherine would achieve great things. Catherine The Great, Catherine of Aragon, Catherine Tate, Catherine Zeta Jones…My father on the other hand believed that Catherine was a ‘normal’ name, far too, ‘common’ for a Kingston-Hock. So Katherine, with a ‘K’ it would be. A happy compromise. And this is? This is the blog of a 24 year old widow.