I am the bad cop. I am the angel of death. I am the person who tells you your bum looks big in that dress or you are being a bit of a dick to your husband or I don’t think that paint colour will work. That’s why people ask me things. I am – in a loving way – the arsehole. I take a dim view. I tell it how I see it. Largely because I care.
But I’m tired of being the arsehole. Life – across its ever-shifting spectrum – is asking all sorts of things of me at the moment and I’m in a constant tangle with varying degrees of anxiety; some weighty, some shimmery. It’s fine. I’m not thrilled by every step of this journey but it’s fine. The thing is, being my breed of arsehole is a choice, it’s harnessing a personality trait and externalising it. And it takes energy. Right now I envy the ‘Yes’ men and women.
Could I pull that off, I wonder? Could I smile and agree and try to be helpful in a less agitating way or would that just be unnerving for everyone? Would they marvel at how nice I had become or would they wonder if I was on drugs? Or needed drugs? Or would they just think I had evolved in to a different, quieter, more sinister kind of arsehole?
And so I think I’ll just be the quiet cop for a bit. And see how that feels. Maybe it will give me – and those around me – a break. Or maybe I’ll lose my place in the world. Maybe I’ll lose my – such as it is – magic.