Diary of a Masochist

Woke up around seven. Observed the morning ritual with unerring consistency. Enjoyed my cereal breakfast, not too much milk. Packed the kids off to school. Bless ‘em. Kissed the sleeping wife on the fevered forehead. Placed my lunch components in clearly demarcated plastic bags for ease of recognition in the workplace. Fed the dog. Picked up my keys and strode out of the house with a spring in my step, a gaiety of spirit bringing a whistle to my balmed lips. Opened the garage and marvelled at the gratuitous enormity of my fourth new car this season. I wipe a smear from the rear of the wing mirror – John must learn to do a job properly or not at all. Note to self: explain this to John this evening, while remonstrating with him for doing his homework on the coffee table – he has a perfectly good room all of his own. Climb in my car, feel empowered, mooch surely into work, my tie impeccably knotted, my shirt creaseless as a newborn. Make subtly lascivious remarks at the secretaries; sweet thirty-somethings in large jumpers, twirling their bound hair with stationary, as I march through to my cubicle, self-assurance rivalling that of a veteran matador. I process orders, keep the staff in line, watch the dawdling ants from my window over lunch, note how small they look. I do have difficulty acknowledging that these milling pixels actually possess their own consciousnesses. I ask Janine to book a window cleaner before the conference on Thursday. She complies, eager-as-ever to please. The office reeks sublimely, of a rare harmony. I can see some teenagers gazing lustfully at my car, way down below in the executive lot. One day, they could have all of this if they worked as hard and as long as I have done. Of course, my good looks, my magnetic charisma and flair for cool rationalising are traits that cannot be learnt. As cannot the intuitive business sense which sets me apart from the gophers and the other, merely functional grunts on the shop-floor. Objectively, I‘m pretty damn great. I bid farewell, blow kisses, to the office girls, who giggle into their fax machines, take the elevator to the executive lot and climb into my auto-gargantua, saunter slowly home, wearing a look of numb horror as I pass through town – the diversity of agendas populating these people’s head – fortunately, I’ll never be in the situation where I have to speak to any of them beyond throwing down simple gratitudes when they pass me my change. No, my father always said, if you haven’t got all the friends you need by the time you’re thirty, you should consider killing yourself. Anyone you meet beyond that, disregard as soon as their usefulness expires. A wise man. I’m happy. The golf course keep me as close to society as I wish to ever be. My wife loves me, and routinely serves up garishly exotic, and yet, reliably samey food each evening. I’m watching the kids grow up in their father’s footsteps. John’s expressed an interest in joining the junior golf club. Like clockwork, everything runs as smooth as the peanut butter in my lettuce sandwiches, as I squeeze one over the head of a disobedient office grunt. I am, of course, joking. Mother keeps a safe distance, she’s given up meddling with the kids heads; they’re learning that only their mother and I can be relied on to teach them anything valuable in this world. We dine, I do the crossword, John retires to his room to complete his homework – with a gentle prompting from myself. My wife retires to bed early with a saucy potboiler. I finish of with a whiskey and a tumble with the dog. I take one more look at my car, and head on up to bed, in which I don’t dream. My wife expects sex, but I find in denying her this, a certain power; a certain righteousness – things should be done this way. My life could not be better. And ultimately, this is all that matters.