I'm an alcoholic, but I'm also... (and this is good, wait for it...) a delivery driver! It's a shitty job, but at least I get to drink til my thoughts get colorful and drive around my hometown smoking spliffs out the window. It also affords me a chance to glimpse into the lives of the people of Livingston, where I live. I've been smiled at by a sexy Muslim slut, greeted by a chav in his underpants, tipped with drugs, and lots of other cool stuff. But I only saw one instance of real child abuse. It was in a house about 15 minutes walk from the pub I'm sitting in now.
Every time I delivered there, the kids would answer the door looking bewildered, scared, dirty, and in the background the Dad would be bellowing abuse at the little tykes he'd fathered with the big fat lady (she was probably grossly fat and passive because of the food we served to their house every other day). The girls would stay out of the way while the little boy cried for help. It wasn't the usual cry kids do. It was much more desperate, fueled with need and despair. And the Dad's screaming was not disciplinary, but more hateful, like a vicious Rab C Nesbitt. I asked one of the sad little girls, 'Is everything OK with Daddy?' She said, 'Yeah', in an unconvincing tone. 'Are you sure?' ...She just slinked off, back into the trash. This was a bad scene, every time I went.
I had fantasies of walking into their house, surprising the old bastard on his sofa and giving him a good philosophical talking to, followed by a severe arse-kicking, beating the shit-head outta him! Then I had the idea of giving a diary to the little girl on my next delivery (writing helps). In the end, I did nothing. But a large part of me wishes I had broken into their house and assaulted their Dad. … Still, they're only 15 minutes away... Let me finish this pint.