Do you think it would help if you enrolled in a crying workshop?
The Good Lady asked me earnestly, tipping her laptop to show me a screen full of women with colourful headscarfs holding each other and grimacing.
A fucking what?!
I sputtered.
A crying workshop. You know because you are not very good at crying. It would be really good for you?
I stood up from the chair I had been sitting in then sat down before promptly standing up again like a Meerkat on the hunt for some chinga.
You, lady. You are cruising for a swift kick in the balls. A crying workshop?! Are you fucking mad?
I said with a mighty and impressive dignity.
To emphasise said dignity, I puffed up my chest and put my hands on my hips and looked off to the side as if to survey a freshly pillaged village.
I don't have balls, Daddy-Bear. Remember?
She said gently as if she indeed had no balls and was in fact a lady of the gentle persuasion.
I snorted grandly out of my nose and made an Elvis strumming a cheap Vietnamese guitar face.
Daddy, it's a safe space and I think you are bottling too much stuff up.
The Good Lady came over and gently stroked one of my majestically muscular man arms.
I do not bottle stuff up, actually.
I said haughtily as if rejecting another of her figs in pastry creations.
You do. You stop yourself crying all the time since your Mum died and it's not healthy. You need to let it all out. It's part of grieving, you know that. Just let it out.
She said this in a calm soothing voice as if gentling a wooden horse.
I shook her hand off and took a step away, still refusing to look at her.
I do let it out. It's just that you are not always there when I do.
I lied with the utmost sincerity.
Hmm. I don't think you do. Will you at least promise to look at the workshop thing if I forward it on?
She asked.
I drew myself up to my full 5 feet and 10 and a half inches and fixed her with a forbidding gaze.
I would rather eat your Father's shit with a spoon than go to crying camp, thank you very much.
I turned and made to leave the room stopping at the door to look back at her.
And we have all seen your Dad's shit.
I stomped out.
