Another Long Rant

I'm sorry about the constant father in law issues going on on this blog. I'm going to keep documenting things on and off, however. When the last straw breaks the camel's back and we have to do something drastic, I want to be able to point people who will disapprove back at all this and tell them that if they're prepared to live with it, they're welcome to take him on - but that we've had enough.

Jon's father had been nagging for a dentist appointment. Yes, another one even though, yes, he only went a couple of weeks ago. So Jon made him an appointment, for Monday morning at 11.30. Yesterday in the post a health appointment Jon's been waiting for (for himself) finally came through. It clashed with his father's dentist appointment. Nevertheless, for reasons you'd only understand if you had to live here, Jon was prepared to cancel/move his own appointment to get his father to the dentist. So he went to tell him he'd made the appointment for 11.30. Cue almighty tantrum from father in law. He didn't want an appointment at 11.30. He eats his lunch at about 11am these days (?????) and it would inconvenience him to have to put it off until after the appointment. Was there a thank you anywhere in there, even a thank you but... don't be silly. There was just the normal huff, puff, sulk, tantrum, what did you make it then for you useless fool, you're trying to be difficult.....the usual crap.

So Jon moved his appointment all the way forward to the middle of November, which was the next available one. Is he happy with that? Is he hell. That's far too long to have to wait.

At least Jon gets to go to his own appointment. This is a rarity. Although somehow, now so sick of this man am I, that I feel that if Jon's father knew that by going to the dentist he would have stopped Jon going for an appointment, the 11.30 Monday would have suddenly seemed very attractive to him. Yes, he is that spiteful.

Jon went out before 7am yesterday to get his shopping for him. Not from our nearest supermarket, mind. Oh no, he won't have that. It has to be Tesco, which is quite a bit further away. Came back with shopping. Cue rant and rave. He hadn't got something which wasn't on the verbal list to begin with. He'd got the wrong brand of something. He'd bought something which was on special offer that he thought his father would like (he is under instructions to do this) - of course he didn't like, didn't want it and resented the fact that it had been bought. He didn't want to have to put his shopping away himself. And of course, it was much too late in the day and Jon should have gone earlier. Thank you, anyone? Of course not.

He used to go with Jon to get his shopping. Whilst this meant Jon had to be out of the door by 7am come hell or high water, and had to endure an hour of snide remarks into the bargain, at least then his father couldn't complain about what was bought. But now apparently he can't manage the walk from the disabled parking space into and around the shop. Oh, really? That's not what the hospital seemed to think.

The rest of the day for Jon was filled with random rants from his father, including one of his personal favourites about answering the door. We get quite a lot of deliveries, and his father takes it upon himself to answer the door, as his room is next to it. We've never, ever asked him to and would much prefer he didn't - he's not the sort of person you want "greeting" your guests or even being associated with you, frankly. But he does, even though he's been asked not to. And then he makes a point of coming to find Jon to complain about it, and just for good measure, to make snide remarks about how our business is run and how lazy Jon is.

And so we come to this morning. By 8am, Jon was already in trouble for not having been out to get his newspaper for him. Jon was up until the early hours working, as he is most nights. He was extremely tired and he's not all that well just now. I made him go back to bed and stay there until he feels like getting up. The newspaper has not been fetched for our lord and master, and isn't going to be unless and until Jon gets up and feels like going to get it. Where we live, there are three houses and a pub between us and a junction of our little road with an A road. Directly across the A road (which is easy to cross) is a mini mart type shop, which sells newspapers. It's insane that Jon's father is not willing to make that tiny walk, especially since he is now under instructions to *exercise* to help recover from his angioplasty. Ah - but to add to his other endearing qualities, my father in law is an out and out racist and proud of it. He doesn't like the race of the people who run that shop, not to put too fine a point on it, and has always refused to step foot in it.

There is another shop, about five doors away from that one, run by a "nice, white, middle class, middle aged gentleman", if you'll excuse the sarcasm. For some reason he doesn't like that one either. He wants his paper from the post office, which still isn't very far away; it can't possibly be more than a ten minute walk even if you're going extremely slowly. He claims he can't walk that far. This is an utter lie. If he was on holiday in Canada, he'd be mowing his eldest son's grounds, chopping wood for them and going out and about with them. He's just being bloody minded for the sake of it.

He could have his newspaper delivered, of course. But he doesn't want to pay the extra. And besides, that would be one less stick to beat his youngest son with.

Today, as far as I'm concerned, he can go without his bloody newspaper. There'll be no thank you if he does get one. And once he's got it, he'll complain that he can't read it.

I am so sick of being expected to tolerate this kind of behaviour. It's a constant, non stop, drip drip drip of tantrums, put downs, sulks, unreasonable demands, mental and emotional abuse. Far from getting better after his treatment, his behaviour is deteriorating even further. I really don't know how much longer we can be expected to live like this. And I really, really don't know how much more my husband can take.