you back.
‘Not a lamp. It’s Sandra. No, I’ll call you back. I’ll call you back .’
This conversation is repeated throughout the day. The woman is organising a Sunday roast with a group of deaf or stupid people.
I wish a piano would crash through the ceiling and kill either her or me, I no longer care which.
When I tell Isabel I wish a piano would crush either me or Sandra, she says I should be more tolerant.
Wednesday 6 July
‘…and I walked in and he was just lying there, in the hallway…’
This sounds better than the lamb.
‘…I thought he might have just been resting, but when I touched him, he was cold. His body was stiff. He was gone. Goneforever. I should have done something. I should have noticed his suffering sooner. He didn’t deserve to go out like this. I should have put an end to it all. But I let him go on. I let him fight on bravely. To suffer. All for my own selfish motives. And now this. Now this … Dying alone … Alone … On the floor … In the hall .’
Hacking, racking, sloppy sobs. I’m guessing a husband. A lucky husband who’s taken the easy option: slow, painful death in a hallway rather than slow, painful life with Sandra.
‘I picked him up, wrapped him in kitchen towel and flushed him down the loo. He meant so much to me.’
A goldfish? A bloody goldfish? I have to listen to all that for a bloody flipping goldfish. Surprised it wasn’t her husband. I’d have killed myself long ago if I’d been married to this. Or just killed her.
The managing editor ushered me into his office later in the day and pointed out that since Sandra had been recently widowed, it was somewhat tactless to go on about it. I said I had no idea about the widowing and that I hadn’t been going on about it. He said I had. I said I hadn’t. He said I’d been overheard ranting about how I’d have killed myself if I’d been married to Sandra. Or at the very least killed her. I said I’d only thought that, I hadn’t actually said it. He said I had. I said I hadn’t. Unless of course I had been thinking out loud, which sometimes happens. This didn’t seem to make him any happier. He said he’d have to put it in my record. I said fine but that Sandra was really annoying.
Thursday 7 July
Isabel’s magical dissolving stitches aren’t dissolving. By the time I get home, Isabel is lying spread-eagled on the kitchen table, clutching a pair of sterilised eyebrow pluckers.
‘Darling, we must get them out now. They’re itching.’
‘But shouldn’t we go to hospital?’
‘No, Mummy said it was easy. It’s not worth the schlep back there.’
‘What about the GP?’
‘It can’t wait.’
‘Okay.’
‘Now call Mummy.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Call her. She’s going to instruct you.’
‘Your mother is going to instruct me to remove your stitches?…From your—’
‘Come on. I’m getting cold.’
Clutching the pluckers, I call her.
‘Right, William. Are the pluckers sterilised? Good. Are your hands washed? Good. Are Isabel’s legs open? William? William? No time to be squeamish now, William. None of us was born yesterday. Now, you see the labia majora?’
Oh God.
Friday 8 July
Isabel is staying with her parents for the weekend to recuperate further. I don’t have to stay with her parents for the weekend because Arthur Arsehole has lined up some ‘very keen’ prospective buyers. I am charged with being present but not present. I must vacuum. I must plump cushions. I must keep the flat spotless, keep our drummer/party animal neighbours silen-t/-ced, and have the bread machine wafting suitable aromas at prescient moments. But whenever Arsehole opens the door, I must be gone.
This is the first time I have been alone since we got married. Isabel says this is probably a good thing: what with wishing a poor widow at work dead, I could do with some time on my own to relax and recuperate from what is clearly a stressful time of my life.
Hahaha, I say.
The overwhelming sense of
‘Not a lamp. It’s Sandra. No, I’ll call you back. I’ll call you back .’
This conversation is repeated throughout the day. The woman is organising a Sunday roast with a group of deaf or stupid people.
I wish a piano would crash through the ceiling and kill either her or me, I no longer care which.
When I tell Isabel I wish a piano would crush either me or Sandra, she says I should be more tolerant.
Wednesday 6 July
‘…and I walked in and he was just lying there, in the hallway…’
This sounds better than the lamb.
‘…I thought he might have just been resting, but when I touched him, he was cold. His body was stiff. He was gone. Goneforever. I should have done something. I should have noticed his suffering sooner. He didn’t deserve to go out like this. I should have put an end to it all. But I let him go on. I let him fight on bravely. To suffer. All for my own selfish motives. And now this. Now this … Dying alone … Alone … On the floor … In the hall .’
Hacking, racking, sloppy sobs. I’m guessing a husband. A lucky husband who’s taken the easy option: slow, painful death in a hallway rather than slow, painful life with Sandra.
‘I picked him up, wrapped him in kitchen towel and flushed him down the loo. He meant so much to me.’
A goldfish? A bloody goldfish? I have to listen to all that for a bloody flipping goldfish. Surprised it wasn’t her husband. I’d have killed myself long ago if I’d been married to this. Or just killed her.
The managing editor ushered me into his office later in the day and pointed out that since Sandra had been recently widowed, it was somewhat tactless to go on about it. I said I had no idea about the widowing and that I hadn’t been going on about it. He said I had. I said I hadn’t. He said I’d been overheard ranting about how I’d have killed myself if I’d been married to Sandra. Or at the very least killed her. I said I’d only thought that, I hadn’t actually said it. He said I had. I said I hadn’t. Unless of course I had been thinking out loud, which sometimes happens. This didn’t seem to make him any happier. He said he’d have to put it in my record. I said fine but that Sandra was really annoying.
Thursday 7 July
Isabel’s magical dissolving stitches aren’t dissolving. By the time I get home, Isabel is lying spread-eagled on the kitchen table, clutching a pair of sterilised eyebrow pluckers.
‘Darling, we must get them out now. They’re itching.’
‘But shouldn’t we go to hospital?’
‘No, Mummy said it was easy. It’s not worth the schlep back there.’
‘What about the GP?’
‘It can’t wait.’
‘Okay.’
‘Now call Mummy.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Call her. She’s going to instruct you.’
‘Your mother is going to instruct me to remove your stitches?…From your—’
‘Come on. I’m getting cold.’
Clutching the pluckers, I call her.
‘Right, William. Are the pluckers sterilised? Good. Are your hands washed? Good. Are Isabel’s legs open? William? William? No time to be squeamish now, William. None of us was born yesterday. Now, you see the labia majora?’
Oh God.
Friday 8 July
Isabel is staying with her parents for the weekend to recuperate further. I don’t have to stay with her parents for the weekend because Arthur Arsehole has lined up some ‘very keen’ prospective buyers. I am charged with being present but not present. I must vacuum. I must plump cushions. I must keep the flat spotless, keep our drummer/party animal neighbours silen-t/-ced, and have the bread machine wafting suitable aromas at prescient moments. But whenever Arsehole opens the door, I must be gone.
This is the first time I have been alone since we got married. Isabel says this is probably a good thing: what with wishing a poor widow at work dead, I could do with some time on my own to relax and recuperate from what is clearly a stressful time of my life.
Hahaha, I say.
The overwhelming sense of
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