Apologies, first of all. Dog ate my homework and all that. Actually, my PC ate it. It wouldn't download and then I forgot to click save and it was gone. Shame. Good one it was. Never mind.
First, the morning walks, which have been getting progressively colder. The dog walkers now dress like modern-synthetic Scotts and Captain Oates. Hoods are worn so the only sign of life is vapour gasping from the faux-fur and fleece. Boots are of the solid, Go Outdoors-type, Hi-Tec imitations of Karrimoor and Berghaus, squelching Yeti-like prints marking progress. Their dogs gambol and frolic and sniff and bark back at the lurching humans following in their wake. Two grey squirrels, a fastly-retreating muntjac, a few magpie, a jay and numerous twittering smaller birds hidden and hopping in hedgerows has been my weekly quota of fauna. Disappointing.
Next, the Paula saga. This has now reached the level of 'normal' in relationship terms; the early passionate sex-and-the-stuff-that-leads-to-it cooling like the weather in the last few weeks. We're not quite at 'comfortable farting in bed in front of' intimacy, but the earlier passion seems to have fizzled like a wet firework. We're both working full-time, which is the obvious excuse, and we both still make the effort, but certainly in my mind, there's something more homely and stable about it. Yes, more dull. The lascivious kisses goodbye have become little pecks, the words 'I Love you' muttered more because the user feels they must rather than from any heart-feeling. Perhaps I'm wrong and it's still the same. She certainly seems happier. I suppose child-bearing is the next logical step for her. Or marriage. But we never seem any nearer either. and whilst I'm still stoically grateful for the first, I can't get my head round the other.
Work has been the escape recently. I never thought I'd write that. Birmingham is the epitome of Christmas, despite the drizzle and the grey. The lights splash colour onto darkness and anoraks, the shops are festooned in tinsel and white sparkles and strangely enticing goods. Paula needs a new handbag so I've treated her. £300 from my savings. She'd also like some Penhaligon's scent, a scarf and a baby. I can manage the first two. The third is taking more time. It's like we've entrusted the delivery to Yodel and they've missed the house. In gloomier moments, I can see me in some sterile waiting room, clutching a plastic sample pot wrapped in a bit of kitchen roll, containing a pathetic semen sample, the old girls waiting for their varicose vein diagnosis eyeing me with disdain and whispering "I swallowed more'n'that when my Charlie tried givin' me a pearl necklace that time".
Tel hasn't exactly been a bulwark either. We went for Sunday dinner last week, all roast beef and pillowy Yorkshires and plates of wet veg and roast spuds the size of apples. He greeted us in his Playboy pinnie, the excess of batter from the Yorkies making the girl's nethers look more indecent than normal, despite her racy underwear. It just deepened my gloom. Mrs Tel pulled me round (not off, no, we're beyond that sort of thing). "Took us ages to get preggers" she whispered to me when Paula went in from her fag. "Ah wun't worry love, stop tryin' ter do everyfing at once". She then told me how Terry thought "'e was seedless, like, or firin' blanks. But it woz me, see. I'm the one 'oo couldn't".
Tel came out with the wine and serenaded us with his latest interest, a spanish guitar he's attempting to learn how to play. "Avin' lessons from 'er nephew's guitar teacher, Stu, 'e's a nachural. Course, 'e lives in Braintree so issa journey'n'alf but 'e reckons I'm geddin' it". He struck the first notes of what sounded like Cavatina from the Deer Hunter, then stopped. "Only learned one chord so far" he said, sheepishly. We clapped like he'd just performed at the Royal Albert Hall, and he smiled and mock-bowed. Later, when drunker, he sounded less John Williams and more John Merrick, but we still applauded his painful picking. You have to be supportive, don't you?
"So 'ow are fings?" he said to me later, when Paula and Mrs Tel were outside smoking. Fine I said. "Could tell yer bleedin' face that sometimes" he muttered back, his breath a heady mix of brandy and wine. I looked startled and he smiled "Only kiddin' mate, still, the ole 'Unnymoon period's wearin' off I reckon". I asked him if Paula had mentioned anything and he laughed. "Er? Nah. She's still madly in luv, int'shee?". So it is me then. Christ. I'd better snap out of it before I ruin everything.
The cab came at twelve and we kissed and shook hands and made vague promises to do it again soon, although when is another matter, since Tel is now working all week as is P and I'm working in Birmingham until next Saturday. He mentioned a curry meet for Saturday and I nodded, but then Mrs Tel reminded him they were off to Braintree for a meal and he snickered and looked momentarily annoyed but then raised his eyebrows and said "Ah'll 'ave ter text yer". And we left and Paula snuggled up to me in the back and her hand went south beneath my jacket and rested on the old crotch bulge and moved in greedy grasping motions and I knew we'd be at it when we got back and maybe, just maybe, this time would finish with a happy ending for her. But it didn't. Well, she was very happy afterwards but just not fertilised. And now she's menstrual and it's just naked embraces and cuddles sans la sex. But the goodbye kisses have resumed their potency. And she says "I love you" as though she means it desperately, which tears at the old heart strings still.
And the football, well, it's looked better and better recently, aside from the 0-0 with Oxford and the luck of a thirty-yarder from El-Miz to see us past Oldham. I honestly expected a win yesterday. I was out looking at scarves in Cambridge, Paula working til 7pm and coming back for dinner and another moan about her monthlies. She is desperate to resume intimacy. So am I. But as you all know, there are ways around it...
I had a quick half in the old Wetherspoons Cinema place in Cambridge and we were still 0-0 on my phone. I caught the Newmarket Road Park'n'Ride and looked again, Still 0-0. My car radio, set to BBC Suffolk, sounded cheery when I switched on. 1-0 down was why. The Sunlan fans were roaring like the ocean on a neep tide. Then a handball and penalty despatched and 2-0 and the off switch and a brief moment of despair that we'll ever escape this penance and get back to the equally purgatory-if slightly more upmarket Championship.
I did the cooking at five and prepared the steaks and the veg and the chips and the béarnaise sauce was whipped and folded. She drove in at 7.30pm, her headlights beaming on my porch (not a euphemism). She positively ran in to the house, threw her bags and embraced me with vigour, the kiss one of hunger and longing and missing me. I responded in kind and we slumped onto the settee as one, her on top raining her sweet kisses, me stroking her bum through her Morrison's skirt and tights. Luckily we managed to burn ourselves out before dinner was ruined, and we ate and drank wine giggling with each other about our respective days and I thought "why am I being such a negative twot?".
Everything seemed right again. Until the next time, I suppose. But what if there isn't a 'next time'? And if there is, why don't I be the adult and ignore it? I'm forty-seven years old for god's sake. Not a kid any more. I can't get away with moody at forty-seven. It just seems all so quick and sudden. My ex (I know, I hate comparing too, but it's human nature innit?) and I took a year before we decided we liked each other enough to marry. Perhaps I'm rushing things? Dunno. Perhaps my ex was right. I have to have everything my own way. But she was even more self-centred than some Z list celeb.
Conundrums. It's like Countdown on Viagra. |  |
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