Tears before bedtime

Dear Mum,

I knocked my head on the corner of a locker door yesterday. It bloody hurt. I was in a hurry to get back to work and stood up too quickly from my crouching position.

Thwack. Searing pain. It took me a minute to register what had occurred.

Of course it hurt but it was largely just shock. I had that feeling of a lychee materialising in my throat and my eyes glazed with tears.

I was sent home and John, a colleague (gay, I add), walked me to the station, his arm through mine, chatting comfortingly about trivial matters.

In my experience only gay men know how to comfort a girl. Straight male friends stand with widened eyes glancing anywhere but at you, patting your shoulder at arm’s length.

Because John was so thoughtful, I cried all the more. You’ll empathise – when you’re vulnerable or in a fragile emotional state it’s the kind people who make you bawl uncontrollably.

I received many looks on the way home. I’ve been there myself – it’s poignant to see someone crying in the street or on a train.

I always want to go over and ask if they’re alright but, obviously, they’re not. English reservation, or fear I’ll be rejected, or a more intense fear I will do more harm than good by not being able to comfort them makes me continue to gawp at a distance.

On the train I sobbed on the phone to Kate. When I hung up, the guy next to me asked if I was ok. A blessing in disguise – he was rushing home because his wife had gone into labour. His excitement was infectious.

I cried when he got off at the next stop purely because I missed him. The flood gates were not just open, a sign had been erected reading “open for business 24 hours.”

On arrival at our home station, however, another bloke asked if I was in a sensible condition to drive home and asked whether I wanted a lift. This was slightly ominous – a middle aged man asking a vulnerable young woman for a drive at dusk.

What I really needed was a night in with a gay friend. A glass of wine and ibuprofen was second best. x