Two months in the life of miserable old, me: Part 7

Tuesday 16th February

In a quest to have a game of tennis, I rang an old friend John, the best man at my wedding in fact, but not only unwilling to play me, he also, completely misunderstanding the purpose of my call, and blinded by guilt and good intentions, invited me around to his house, out of a sense of duty; something I could see he didn’t really want to do, something which I was also loathe to do.

I really dislike him as he is now, overburdened with a wife, a mortgage and three teenage children and overworked in his job. He was so lacking in spirit, so jaded. Physically he’s aged, got balder, fatter, looks worse for wear. But spiritually too he’s run down, apparently never, absolutely never having five minutes of solace in his life, his time perpetually taken up with work and children, with unremitting, unrewarding stress.

And so blinded by the fact that he in no way wanted to see me, has no time to do so, or is in any mood to be reminded, in my presence, that he once was youthful, happy and had a life, he invited me around, thinking it was what I wanted, seeing me only as a nice, kind, sensitive person desperate to meet up with him and be his chum, and in no way perceiving that it was the last thing on earth I wanted to do.

We sat in his desolate, dirty, run-down little kitchen. He was sick, depressed, soul-sore after work, and it was almost unbearable to sit with him and eat. Their kitchen was so shabby, the wallpaper so tatty and miserable, and there were messy pans here, there and everywhere, symbolising their spiritual unhappiness, their run down, dead in the water existence. They had so many spices in their kitchen, I mean so many, and as I saw John grind out some black pepper onto his chicken, saw his desperate eyes as he screwed out tonnes of the stuff, I saw that spices – the near to murderous look in his eyes as he twisted more and more of it on, desperate for an extra hit of it, tolerant off it as he is becoming – I saw that only spices can provide any comfort to him, and that his soul and spirit are undernourished and in an awful, terrible, critical state; and that anyone who goes in for a career, marriage and children, risks losing all the calm, good sense and serenity that the young John whom I once knew possessed in abundance.

And so we sat in the kitchen, he unhappy at heart, trying to be pleasant, I only wanting to be gone. Their whole house seemed repulsive to me. It was untidy and slovenly for one thing. But there is just something about other people’s houses that can sometimes afflict me. Perhaps it is the subtle odour, captured in the wallpaper, of someone else’s house. Perhaps it was the dingy lighting of John’s house. I don’t know, but God, I felt so low, so miserable, so depressed by it all. I remember how once when I was young, I went after school to my best friend’s house. But there, succumbing to a horrible feeling of doom, I had to go home early, and was relieved to get back to my own house. I don’t know what it was, whether physical or psychological, I don’t know. But I wanted to be out, I hated it in there.

So we sat there, and not only was John in such an awful mood, but I felt completely unwelcome, like the unwanted guest that I was, as his wife, now a tired, spiritually run down, hag woman, popped in to see me, to explain how she had already planned a night out, and how she was sorry she couldn’t have dinner with us. I saw, in her tired, energyless eyes that she is suffering the same fate as John, is sick of her life and has no solace in it. Then I was briefly introduced to the moody, repulsive teenagers. Huffy and hormonal, they were able, on seeing me to slightly modify their behaviour, forcing slight smiles, but being incapable of hiding the spiritual torpour that seems to infect their whole family; the son, dissolute and dissatisfied, a teenage bully and waster, a horrific concoction of hormones, e-numbers and intoxicants evidently at war within his body, came and said hello briefly; and in his revolting eyes and false smile I got a sense of greasy, pent up anger, a sense, in his low, low spirits, his joyless eyes and the yoghurty, old fish, cheesy odour he disseminated that the worthless son of a bitch had just masturbated. Then the daughter too, putting on a pleasant face, but not really able to hide the fact that she too, is huffy, moody and spiritually discontent. And with all this the totally infuriating fact that they made the effort to be polite to me under the illusion that I am a nice, kind, dear old man, who wanted to come and see them all, a bore, an intellect and teetotal churchgoer, someone who they should be pleasant to.

Later on John, recalling my skill with science, suggested to his daughter Jenny, when she happened to pop in, that I could probably help her with a bit of homework she’d been having problems with. As she went off to get her books I was overcome with hatred of John for doing this, for trying, so unsubtly, to bring me and his daughter together like this; to try and show her that I am not just a kind but worthless individual, and to try and do me a favour, by helping me overcome the reluctant, awkward, uncouth behaviour I showed, when I was introduced to her.

When she brought the books I sat there in puzzlement, a look of intense agony on my face, as I tried to work out what the fuck the book was talking about, bewildered by it all, my memory an absolute blank, my brain struggling into gear, pressurised by the presence of John and his daughter, who seeing me struggle, only upped the pressure on me, by demonstrably saying it really didn’t matter, and don’t worry about it; sitting there looking at the book pretending to think but actually, my mind wholly vacant – it was intractable and unwilling like a wild beast that refuses to drink the water it’s been lead to – just wishing the earth would swallow me up; looking at the question and seeing how hard it is, and thinking on how society and middle-aged miseries like myself are perpetually going on about how easy school is these days; and wondering whether the daughter, who so clearly thinks that physics is boring, I mean BOOOOOORING, and that school in general and miserable old gits like me are beneath contempt, I wonder whether the daughter a) would at least like to know the answer, for the sake of getting her homework out of the way, and that I can in fact do her a favour, or whether b) she in no way at all cares, and is just doing this because her father asked her to.

I struggled for some time, but unable to work out the answers, and hating myself as a teacher anyway, in the end gave it up with a half explanation and apology to Jenny. And as I told her, I loathed myself for speaking of physics to her, for playing teacher, loathed myself, absolutely despised myself, whilst she put on a pleasant act and accepted my words of apology.

Eventually the evening came to an end and I was let out.

When I stepped outside into the cold, dark, wintry night and was ridded of John, his family and his home, I felt utterly, utterly low. It was almost like a shock, as if in the cold, dark night, my breath panted out of me in relief; as if I had been, whilst at John’s, held down under water; and that on being released, I bobbed to the surface and was desperately, desperately panting for breath. It was a cold night, it was a dark and lonely sea; my person was still cold and wet; I was breathing for life, panting dramatically, at the surface. I don’t know whether I was relieved to be alone at the surface, after the horror of being at John’s; I don’t know whether in fact as I panted for breath, in the awful, gloomy deserted sea, I was in fact in a worse state. I do not know.

And so I made my way through the cold, winter’s night, a dreadful feeling of depression rankling in my heart, an awful, clinical, suicidal feeling gnawing at me, at my soul. I felt so low, so dreadfully, dreadfully deflated. My mind swirling with the memories of John, how awful he has become, his abysmal house, the dinghy lighting, the dirty kitchen, the peeling wallpaper, his worn out wife, the hormonal teenagers, my feeling of being utterly worthless, the horrific memory of trying and failing to teach Jenny, gnawing at me, biting at me, a feeling of contempt for myself, of self-loathing for being so worthless – all of this swirled around chaotically in my head and heart. I was so, so low.

I walked through the dark winter’s night in dismal Newcastle, a lonely man in this seemingly hostile, unfriendly, doomed place, and as I looked up and saw the cold, half moon, one edge removed like a worn down rubber, I felt a total sinking of my spirits. This is the lowest point of life, almost profound in a way, the sinking of my heart, the spirit of suicide, the cold, half moon. It was not the feeling of deadness, dullness, frigidity that I experienced after fighting with my wife; it was not the feeling of loneliness and isolation I felt on Saturday; there, though I may have been alone, my person was insulated, wrapped up in cotton wool, alone in my own home. I may have been lonely, but happily cosseted, not profoundly dismal; nor either is it the sort of depression I used to suffer, that second Autumn after Joanna left for university, when on a dark Autumnal night I would sit in my arm chair, terrified, profoundly upset, wondering what the hell was wrong with me, my soul set upon by a horde of nagging doubts. Those nights were thoroughly horrific, as inexperienced as I then was, my depression terrified me, it nagged at me and manifested itself in rages and anger. Then I felt myself sink with uncertainty. Now I know the score, I know what is happening. I am wise to it. Unlike back then I can see my death ahead of me, my demise at the end of it, I can see that, it is almost reassuring. It was a profound depression, a final depression of a man who has come to the end, an old hand. Physically my death may be a while away, but spiritually I see the end.

It was horrific and awful to experience, I was so sad and lonely. But it was almost with a religious awe that it bit me, nagged me. The loneliness, the dark night, my sinking, sinking heart. And in this mood, with this sinking heart, I saw up ahead of me a group of fashionable school girls, sixteen or seventeen or so, tall, slim, beautiful, laughing and happy and excited, entering their private school for girls up ahead, on what must be a parent’s evening or open night or theatre production or something; and as I saw them my heart sunk further. I felt so alien to them, the days when I could say I was in league with women are long gone, that part of my life completed and over, dead and buried, and as I saw them, saw their youth, beauty and excitement, I felt doubly doomed, and I crossed over the road deliberately to try and get as far away from them as possible.

And so I walked through the gloomy night and as if all was not already lost, I found myself taking a deliberately out of the way and lonely route back into town, a route that lead me down a deserted alley, where I heard myself crunching snail shell after snail shell underfoot, unable to do anything to avoid it, condemning those fantastically intricate and artistic works of nature to what must I presume have been a slow and sad death; unable to help, my feelings of guilt being tormented by the realisation that I couldn’t help but stand on them, that it wasn’t really my fault, that terrible things simply happen, that there’s no justice or reason in this God-awful world and that I would, as I continued down this alley way murder yet more poor snails. The thought of somehow trying to save them flickered momentarily through my mind before I gave it up for ludicrous. My heart was low and lonely. God, I was depressed.

Lonely and forlorn I entered the city. On this bleak night when all seemed lost, when I had no friends or solace to comfort me; when all about me seemed darkness, gloom, loneliness and desertation; where everywhere seemed shut up and closed for the night, no more room at the inn – one light in town shone brightly and promised food, warmth and shelter, a place to sit down and be amongst others. It was McDonalds, and I entered it, and sat down with a cheeseburger and a coffee, in the gaudy light of its interior.

Somehow I was brought back to life, resurrected, the coffee played its part, but so too the light of the interior, the sight of other lonely specimens like myself, the feeling of gathering here on this dark, cold night and of socialising. However much people may badmouth McDonalds for killing off the rain forest and inflaming the obesity crisis, it is one of the few places one can come to of an evening and not feel unwelcome. McDonalds opens up its doors to all waifs and strays, there is no pretension as with many other coffee houses and restaurants, it is egalitarian in that sense. Lowly, dirty and unkempt, even the homeless may enter in the hopes of finding a hot coffee, a hot burger, of finding food and shelter. There is something in the spirit of the place that is admirable.

I come here quite often and just sit, looking doomed and lonely. Others do too. Mainly the old, the middle aged, the divorcees of this world. A woman sitting alone, reading a gossip magazine; a young man reading a book. There are many Macdonalds loners out there. One man whom I saw in here the other day, I had also happened to see, earlier that same day, in a different McDonalds, which I had entered to use the toilet; so that I was left to conclude that he merely goes around from one outlet to the next in the hopes of socialising. He cuts a lonely figure, hopping along on crutches as he does, and is always on the lookout to start a conversation. For example yesterday, as a fight threatened to break out, he used the opportunity to try and start a conversation with some pretty, young girls sat next to him, who just as quickly made an exit.

There are lots of loners like this, like me. Some will make a pretence of reading or being busy, but others like myself merely sit there, in no way disguising the fact that they are lonely, unhappy and came here to ‘socialise’. I am not worried what people may think. I have friends, friends like John, and it would be a lie to somehow pretend that with them I am happy. I am not. I am lonely and alone, and when I come here I sit with the other Macdonalds loners and am proud of it.

Like I say, anyone and everyone seems welcome, no one cares a jot. The old, the lonely, the destitute, the homeless – no one is turned away. There is a spirit of egalitarianism, of Christian moral; and though one could write from here to eternity on all the misuse, abuse and misrepresentation the Christian religion has suffered since Christ died 2000 years ago, one can see in places like Macdonalds, that actually our society, slowly, surely and without fuss, is realising the core values of equality and respect for all at the heart of the Christian teachings.

Amidst the McDonald’s loners is the Black Raven. Emboldened and brought back to life by the coffee, I decided to go and sit next to her, to see what she had to say, to have her discern my fate from her tealeaves. Yet my illusions were soon shattered.

Although she seemed to recognise me, I found her in no way wise or special, but even the reverse. She is deaf I learnt, a good enough rationale for her homeless state. She stinks horrendously, and to the core, of body odour and excrement: It would take a lot of bathing and scrubbing to make her wholesome. But she was a good enough, kind enough, old soul. And she told me her tale of woe, moaned to me about her problems, that no shelter is interested in taking an old woman like herself and so on and so on. And so I sat there and listened to her problems, she was glad of the chance to talk, and warmed to me. For myself I felt a tad foolish for ever having believed she was something special, holding the secret of my destiny.

Tuesday 23rd February

A man sent me an email in reply to that confession I made as regards feeling lonely. He commiserated with me on this score, and told me a bit about his life. Although I posted the comment with a vague wish to share my feelings with others, I found it almost an invasion of myself and a thorough nuisance, to have this chap replying to me and lending me his thoughts. He was so open, friendly, and annoyingly nice, that I felt a full four-quarters irritated, as if I’d put myself in the position of moral responsibility, of leadership; as if I am to guide the many lonely souls of this world to a better existence, an existence which in truth I have no idea how to even bring about for myself, let alone for others.

But putting these cursory feelings aside, and warming to the genuine and sincere, last dog in the window approach of this man – as much as I was worried he would cling to me in a desperate need for friends, I also found an honesty, a truth in his simple admittance, that he too is lonely, and is unashamed of it, as he believes we all are – I decided to meet up with him, on his invitation, out in the country around Morpeth, where he fishes regularly. It was difficult and slightly awkward to meet with him, thoughts of axe murder, rape and sexual perversion all running through my mind, as we met in such a spot, but I realised I had nothing to lose, that I am in need of friendship, and what is the point of spending another day alone, why not gamble and see what happens.

He turned out to be a very agreeable man. In his fifties, he was a retired joiner, having lived in the north east all his life. Although there was an evident gulf in our educations and outlooks, our paths having diverged so long ago, we put all that to one side, as if it did not matter anymore, both of us simply interested in the pursuit of human bonding. Probably, I imagine, at school he was the sort of joker and ridiculer, the sort who used to tease me for being small and intelligent. But in his genuine, open manner, his way of portraying himself as nothing but an ageing, weakening man, who simply wants to make peace with the world, and bury old hatchets, to try and find some sort of human fellowship, I really warmed to him. And I found him to be quite well read, one of those non-university-educated, working class people, who have a thirst for knowledge, and devour books on history and so forth, and have one of those souls that seem full of wonder, youth. There was something pure and young in him.

And so, after making me feel welcome and offering me coffee and sandwiches, we talked awhile about life, and he spoke so openly about his lack of friends, how he and his wife are alone, but really how everyone, in this modern society of ours, is. And he told me of a project he is thinking of doing. Apparently he has heard of groups of men of our age going off to the wilds, to deserted islands in the pacific even, to set up a sort of primitive camp and to live in a simple way as men once did; working together on making camp, fishing, hunting, and living in simple huts and cooking on a camp fire. He told me how all men go naked, and are discouraged from worrying about their nudity. It is an interesting picture, that which he presents, and I am in some ways drawn to it, seeing myself naked on a tropical beach with other men, building a boat, a hammock, sitting around a campfire talking, eating; no women being present, men only, as if the mere presence of the opposite sex would spoil it all (though he was at pains to tell me that they too should seek to have their own exclusive camp, that he was no misogynist, that it’s just better to segregate the sexes for something like this); and the men only mature and middle aged like ourselves, only wanting to live together in a commune.

I am seduced somewhat by this image, of returning to the wilds, to the simple life, this male bonding, though I have reservations, concerns that the men, far from being mature will turn out to be immature macho-men, he-men, and that power struggles will ensue, each man believing himself to be the chief; and that, what with all the nudity, there will be some sort of lude undercurrent to it all, some sort of sexual hanky panky lurking in the background, something which I’m not at all interested in. Anyway my friend promised to send me some details.

And so we sat there, on this beautiful, calm day in February, the sunshine so quiet, so cool, yet so bright; and shining down on the river so splendidly, a river overhung with the bare, grey branches of trees, wholly naked in winter. And as we sat there the two of us, both of us retired and far removed from the world of work; but here also physically removed from the noise and dirt of the world, secluded in the countryside on this bright winter’s day, I saw how strange it was that I was infinitely happier when in the company of a man I have never met, who I have no ties with, than in the company of a man like John, my best man, whom on account of the life we once knew, that is now long gone, I find it nauseous to even be reminded that he exists.

Wednesday 24th February

Well I’ve been to the football tonight, and what better way to not only drown my sorrows and kick to shreds, at least for an evening, the misery of my life, but also what a great way to round off this excursion of mine.

Not that football has always been my cup of tea, or that I don’t find the endless, mindless obsession with it tiresome and detracting, not that I don’t find the swarm of squawking seagulls that forever and anon hound and follow the trawler a sapping, tiring nuisance, I do. In fact for many years I didn’t even follow the sport. Even, on what was one memorable night of European glory for an English side, I remember that A, J and I all headed off for a bike ride through the East Anglian countryside on what was a beautiful spring evening. We rode through the quiet country lanes, along paths bordered by bramble, past fields full of tranquil cattle, and churches wrapped deep in slumber, before stopping in some strawberry fields to pick some produce. We made our way finally to the beautiful little villages of Eye and Diss, where we stopped and rested in the silence, in the calm, in the immortal, monastic peace that reigned there. I recall feeling joy at being so free and happy and alone on that spring evening, so removed from all the fuss and nonsense of the football match. And when we got home, and when on the next day I spoke of my evening with work colleagues, who spoke of nothing but the football, I felt joyed and happy to have missed out on all the false glory of the Champions league final, to have spent my evening in the poetry of a bike ride with my family, through the quiet of the East Anglian countryside, on a beautiful, peaceful, spring night.

But of course those days were soon consigned to the crypt, and on the dark, lonely, depressing evenings that followed in the wake of J’s departure, I soon realised that football and especially the mid-week European matches on the TV, could provide a relief, an escape, a dark well of drowned sorrows, down which to bury my head. It is of course no solution. But it is certainly a distraction.

And more so than the matches on TV, I do like to go to live games from time to time, the atmosphere, the commotion simultaneously attracting and repelling me. I’ve been to some good games in the past. The chief highlight of which was a European game, where the English team, going behind to an early goal, required to get four goals back to survive and live on in the tournament: a very tall order; a very tall order which they somehow managed to pull off, so that the feeling of collective desolation that beset us spectators as our side went down by three and we thought we were out; that sickening feeling of despair and deflation, as the entire crowd went silent, save for a collective sigh, a hallowed requiem of the doomed souls as if we’d all been herded in to the arena for our execution; that feeling was ultimately succeeded by one of utter jubilation, untold joy at our reprieve, a feeling of life-everlasting, a cheap, hollow feeling yes, but not one to be scoffed at in this lonely world, in a life devoid of true happiness and peace; a feeling of elation, a feeling of common union and communion with fellow fans, so that I hugged the odourous man next to me, embraced the other supporters in one mad, dizzying moment, where we all seemed as one, where the usual barriers between us were dissolved and disintegrated, where a drunken man, who had sat eating pies next to me the entire match, put his arm around me in the celebrations, told me I was his friend and tried to French kiss me.

And so on this dark, cold diamond of a night, I gave myself a night off from feeling lonely and depressed and headed off into town, there to make the trail to the stadium. And as I got nearer, and more and more fans appeared as from nowhere, one here, one there, an army of us forming, as with every corner turned and every cross road crossed, from all directions they converged, sorting into one burgeoning stream, like Pilgrims to Mecca, like roads to Rome; so that I found myself in rank and file amongst them, slightly wary of them; and then I began to get a glimpse of the towering, domineering stadium up ahead; and on this cold, winter’s night, the wind swirling and howling, an atmosphere is brewing up there, in that cauldron of fire; as out from it pumps the harrowing, stark, religiously inspiring music – we were like Druids come here to make a sacrifice – that classical piece, I don’t know which – Carmina Burana by Carl Orff apparently – that bleak yet inspiring music booming out of the stadium, mixing with the howling, swirling wind, creating such an intimidating atmosphere that bubbles over the cauldron, and that must have been scaring the living daylights out of the lonely team from London, having to play up here on this freezing cold, electric night. What daunting music it was. What an atmosphere.

And so I found my seat and in the noisy, deafening atmosphere looked down and watched the subuteo players and subuteo managers, act out this drama. Not one for following the herd, I do however give myself up to the mob mentality on a rare occasion such as this, enjoying the humour of it, and feeling uninhibited; so that when the referee, a diminutive man attempted to dodge the ball, but inadvertently and amusingly failed to do so, so that our side’s attack broke down and a horde of fans cynically shouted ‘cheat-cheat-cheat’ at the poor referee as if he had deliberately helped the opposition; as this happened, I didn’t worry about the truth of the situation, but taken by the frenzy of it, and with a sense of humour and a regression to the child within me, stood up and shouted ‘cheat-cheat-cheat’ with cynical passion, as loudly as anyone around me.

For all the rush and excitement of it however, the result is a bore draw, and disappointed I boo the players off at the end.

Friday 26th February

So I’m on the train back to Norwich now, and I realise that this is the end of my narrative. I know it might not be a very conclusive note on which to end, and I know my tale somewhat tailed off toward the end, but I feel I’ve said all I want to, and to be honest, have grown wearied of this self-indulgent, emotional, outpouring of mine.

The life of my wife and I, will I anticipate, go on in much the same way as before, probably getting worse as we age and become more prone to illness, more house bound, more incontinent, more grouchy and irritable on account of our agedness. It is all down hill from here. There may be good points though, J may get married, may have children, we are not finished yet. So it will be just as dreary as ever, just as lonely, though I think I will always hope, it is in my nature to do so, to always hope and dream for something better, something more, to always search for an antidote to the misery of the world.

I visited an art gallery up in Newcastle and was given there a rather bleak view of the future of humanity. The picture depicted a catch of fish on the deck of a small boat, in the harbour of a small fishing village. The picture was excessively gloomy and bleak: in the hinterground the sky was dominated by grey leaden clouds, whilst beneath it there was a choppy, grey sea, dangerous and frightening. It appeared to be raining. Inland of the sea, the beach looked dirty and unbecoming, and was completely devoid of people. The whole landscape was bleak and deserted, the weather grey and fretting, and up land of the desolated beach, there was, situated at its head, a cliff side; and upon this cliff side was some fashion of industrial works, basically six or seven chimneys pumping purple clouds of effluence into the air. It was all so representative of our cold, sterile, industrial world.

But this was just the backdrop. The foreground, the focus of the painting, was the pile of captured fish. They lay there in the gloom of the open air, piled together, one on top of the other, some dead, others dyeing, all with mouths wide open, some gasping desperately for one last breath in this poisoned world, wriggling desperately, squirming for life. And in the fate of these fish I see my wife and I. We have been caught, fished out of the ocean of life, where we once swam so freely, so easily. And together, and in the irritating presence of other fish, we squirm and wriggle on the deck of the boat, suffocating, taking our last gasps in this world. All of us desperate to save ourselves, but totally incapable of doing so, not able or willing to save our neighbours, who we selfishly wriggle against in our final agonising moments. My wife next to me, underneath me, as we both squirm and wriggle, gasping for breath, each unable to help the other, but forced nevertheless to die with such indignity next to each other, the both of us stuck in the middle, lumped together in the same catch as the other fish; the undignified melee of it, as we, the middle agers, loving not our neighbours, squirm and wriggle helplessly for life, in the backdrop of a lonely, dismal, sterile world.

I arrived back in Norwich, and in the back of a cab, looked out of my window and saw the country lanes leading to the farmhouse, then the farmhouse itself, then the drive out to the cottage. When I got out of the cab I just stood awhile looking at my house and looking out on the distant fields, some green, some black, simply looking out on the ever so flat East Anglian landscape, the land so utterly flat, the sky so pastel blue and pure, and so dominating on this calm, sunny, winter’s afternoon.

And as I stand here, there is a bit of commotion over at the farm house; and I look and see one of the farm hands, a taciturn, stolid young man come out of the house and walk with amazing calm and slowness towards me; whilst ahead of him runs the irrepressible Harry, barking and yapping, running to see me, happy to be reunited after his stay at the farm. He comes, I lift him, stroke and mollycoddle him, and he licks my face. The figure of the farmhand slowly makes its way toward me. I’m feeling positive and happy for some reason; and I’ve got tennis to look forward to this evening.

Two months in the life of miserable old, me: Part 6

Saturday 6th February

I realise that in saying my sister is in France for a month, I might mislead people into thinking she is some sort of aristocratic spinster off to the continent for a small tour. I guess it’s indicative of the age that we live in, that she, a recently retired secretary, should be able to enjoy such excursions. Anyway she did ask me to housesit, prior to her departure, and I’m glad to have this getaway, this sanctuary that her house, which she originally shared with my deceased mother, offers.

My sister like me is somewhat cold and cynical, an outsider and misanthrope in many ways, an intelligent, wise woman. Never having married herself, she is even somewhat above me in that regard, in that I, for all my scepticism on life, did throw my hat into the ring, did try to live the dream, did try to mould out of the bread crumbs thrown to me in life something of substance, something magnificent, something esoteric. That desire to hew out of the rock face a sculpture both bold and revealing, to testimony my life, to sow my seed as a man, that vision seemingly never deluded her as a woman, and as I with egg on my face, and my sculptures, schemes and bread buns all gone to ruin – as my life waned and my fortunes fell, she was as ever, wise, cold and removed in her spinster-like way.

I’ve often talked to her vis-à-vis my life, my marriage, separation and so on, and she seems to understand it all, and has often suggested to me divorce, never being one to worry about what anyone may think, and always valuing personal happiness as life’s highest goal.

She isn’t keen on Anna either. No love ever having been lost between the pair, the last time the three of us got together, we partook, on the suggestion of my sister, of a slap-up Chinese meal. My sister and I both love Chinese, but as we’ve aged and come to learn that the stuff in no way enhances your figure, we know that it’s best not to splurge on it. And being somewhat strong willed and disciplined we can control our appetites.

But Anna is different. As we sat there that night, the three of us at the table, full and plentiful with dishes – orange chicken, barbecued ribs, beef and peppers, egg fu yung, egg fried rice, chips, king prawns, prawn crackers, crispy duck pancakes – as we sat there, this magnificent banquet before us, Anna, depressed, clinically depressed, by both her life in general and this visit to my sisters, Anna, as a means of escaping the almost suicidal feelings in her heart, set about tucking in to every tray on the table; single mindedly engrossing herself with it, eating relentlessly without thought, without looking at us, like one absorbed, barely stopping for breath; and as she did this, my sister and I – with only a few spoonfuls of rice and a piece of chicken on our plates, disciplined, refined and controlling in the way we ate, like a pair of po-faced robots not disposed to pleasure – my sister and I both watched on as she single-handedly ate up the table, the feeling of suicide written all over her downcast face, the desperation in her eyes as she tried to bury and conceal her low spirits, desperately slogging her way through all the dishes on the table.

And as I saw all of this, I also saw the look upon my sister’s face, and saw how just like me, she watched on with cold contempt in her heart as Anna ate up. And as much as I felt an involuntary contempt for Anna, I also felt dislike of my sister, for being so sterile, for watching on as Anna, clearly terribly depressed, gave herself up to gourmandizing, more so because my sister I think loves Chinese herself, but being strong-willed and cold can control her appetites, and more so because it was her idea to have Chinese in the first place. Whatever it is, I felt sorry that my sister and I couldn’t both just give ourselves up to the feast, and so join Anna, and accept we’re human, instead of cold-heartedly being above her and ‘sitting out’ the meal. And in this, in this calculated, cold, sterile behaviour of my sister and I, in my nasty thoughts and feelings toward my poor wife, then, and now as I write, I think I and indeed my sister achieved a state of dehumanization akin to the sort of mentality that saw through the horrors of Auschwitz; or indeed displayed by the psychopathic Hannibal Lektor, in his civilized, refined savagery, in the cynical and inhuman way he went about intimidating, killing and butchering people, in the way he gourmandised so refinedly on human flesh.

Anyway, as I sit now on the moving train, heading into Darlington, with a café latte in my hand, as I sit casually and look out on the dark and pregnant Saturday night, I feel rejuvenated by the process of travel, by the simple human joy of escaping somewhere, of journeying.

Separation from Anna for a few weeks does not worry me: it will revitalize both of us. When I first met Anna, I brought about an end to three or so years of intense loneliness and misery; but I recall how, some three months into our courtship, one Saturday evening Anna came around to my flat; and at one point, when I had to go out to the garage to procure something, I found myself alone in the dark night, and I stumbled upon a small wooden bird table, that I had made, a year or so earlier. And there and then in the garage, as Anna waited inside, I fell into reverie for my old life, when on a dark, cold Saturday night I would come out here alone, and calmed and relaxed on the weekend, work till three o’clock in the morning on crafts such as the bird table, listening to the radio, alone and under the sovereignty of the glorious star-bedecked night. I felt such regret for my former, lonely life and I remember feeling such strangulation of the soul, as in mid-reverie, Anna, who had wondered what had become of me, came out to see me, and with a look of annoyance and questioning on her face – as though she couldn’t comprehend what I was up to, as though my former life, the garage, the bird table, the solitude, the stars were incomprehensible to her – that really irritated me, asked what on earth I was doing out here, and told me to come back in immediately, and watch telly with her uptight and conventional personage.

Yet the idea of divorcing now is almost as unthinkable and unstomachable as having sex. Shackled to each other as we are, the thought of severing our bondage and operating as separate entities might seem enticing. But a few imaginary wanderings down this road to freedom is enough to strike me, and I presume Anna too, with horror. With there being no chance, utterly none, of finding another partner, physically woebegone as I am, and unwilling, and uninterested to fall in love, and being too wise to do so anyway, I see myself alone in a one bedroom flat, dull, insipid, blandly upholstered and lacking in the dirty and unorganised kitchen, bathroom and bedroom, the reassuring touch of a woman. I see my days spent in sterility and loneliness, looking out on a future which to the thirty-something divorcee may offer a fresh start, but which for me offers only a barren end; and for some reason the main image that I see, is of myself, in my underpants, getting older and wrinklier, my skin going krinkly, my body worse for wear, and my underpants now taking on specific significance: the thought, as I see this half naked man, that he is incontinent, the idea of him going to the toilet, being repulsive, odourous and manky and all that one can see in him; this ageing, lonely, awful man, the physical downfall of his body strangling his soul, his ageing body closing in on him, grasping and strangling his spirit till he can take no more.

It would be a non-existent future, and as equally as the thought of being dumped in the middle of America and there left to roam, might appear to a young man full of verve, exhilarating, and exciting, a blessing to travel across that continent and enjoy oneself, equally for a man of my age, it would mean sheer misery and loneliness, it would be awful to find myself alone in a foreign land; and rather than feeling freedom I would only feel the doom and desolation of the situation. Staying with Anna is the honourable thing to do, the manly thing. On our death beds we will be able to breathe satisfactorily. And even though it may often seem we are just wishing our lives away, willing away our days in order to realise the freedom of the end, there are occasional good points in our life, our daughter Joanna being the main one, and the thought that one day we may be grandparents.

*************

Later on, I stepped out of a cab and as it drove off into the night, opened up my sister’s gloomy, lonely, empty house. I stepped inside and shut the door. As I switched the lights on and slowly walked around, although it was empty and gloomy, I felt at home, have memories here and could smell, in the kitchen, living room and landing, the odours, the presence of times past. There is something in the air, pervading it, impregnating it, which tells me I can rest at peace here, I am home.

I wandered upstairs and saw the bedroom my mother once occupied, and reflected that it’s been almost two years now since she passed away. And picking up a small wooden carving of an Indian elephant that my father brought home to us after having served out in Burma during world war two, I held it in my hand awhile, and was left contemplating on all that our family once was.

Saturday 7th February

Wop! The sea air! The salt, the salinity! God I feel alive! I had no idea how unhealthy I was! Wop! How it hit me, restarted me. I can see why in Victorian times, they brought the invalids, the ailing, the consumptive here. God it’s good.

I got up early this morning and headed off down for a walk along the beach, my sisters house being by the sea. As soon as I stood on the promenade, the windy, salty, fresh sea air seemed to surge at me and to cleanse me, so that I breathed in great lungfulls of it, stood there for ten minutes just revelling in the joy of breathing deeply and invigorating myself, seeming to wake up parts of my body and mind that had been sleeping and dormant in the unhealthy atmosphere of my land-locked existence. It was like a natural drug, the fresh, palliative, saline air.

The North East coastline is one of untouched natural beauty, and as I walked along the wide and empty white sands, on this overcast, gloomy, drizzly day I felt refreshed just to be out alone, to look out on the choppy, grey, boundless sea so purifying and relieving to the eye. It is so amorphous and simple, so devoid of all signs of humanity; as if to look out on those boundless, gloomy, dangerous seas is to remind oneself of the sanctity, the joy, the relief to be found in giving oneself up to oblivion. The rain, the drizzle, the grey clouds; the occasional, solitary man or woman out walking their dog; a misty Sunday morning in the cold heartland of the North East, my soul, left to be free, purified, alone – this I would take any day over the sun-scorched, summery, baking hot beaches of more warmer climes.

When I returned home this afternoon, I was exhausted and satisfied and with a hot cup of tea and a bacon sandwich sat down and watched the history channel. Although TV is by and large utter dross, it almost seems worth it when you can isolate yourself from the malaise of it, and seclude yourself in the peace, quiet and comfort of the history channel. What a pleasure it is to watch a programme on World War two, followed by an hour on the Incas, an hour on the Romans, an hour on how the Tudors lived. There seems to be a never ending supply of these well-made documentaries, and they present such an intellectual feast to those fascinated by history such as I. Why history should so intrigue us I do not know. Perhaps we sense within it, some sort of clue to the meaning of our existence.

Watching a programme about a secret mission during World War two, I saw the dead body of a British soldier, dug out of a make-shift grave that it had been thrown into after the soldier was executed by enemy forces. It was a strange and profound sequence of old, shaky camera footage, a soiled soldier’s uniform was dug out, like a Guy Fawkes doll, flimsy, weak, collapsing, the hands tied behind his back with barbed wire. A flimsy, floppy, mummy soldier; strange that it was not just a soldier’s uniform that was uncovered; but rather a uniform with just a vague sense in the way it was positioned that a man once occupied it. The soldiers dug it out, and with dignity and respect – greater than ever, in proportion to the sadness induced by the sight of the sad, shrivelled Guy Fawkes doll they have uncovered, the last remains of a fallen comrade, executed here on foreign soil as he attempted to undermine the Nazi war stratagems – lifted it onto a cart.

Above and beyond the history programmes however are the natural history programmes, and if ever there was a worthwhile and thorough use of televisual technology it is here, in this sphere. There appears again to be a wealth of first class programmes on this topic, so painstakingly put together, so brilliantly presented. And perhaps more so than the history documentaries, these programmes interest me because again, they seem to be hinting at the meaning of our existence.

Later tonight, influenced by imagery of World war two, I went and dug out all the old family albums. Not that nostalgia is any great thing, but occasionally it is worth a trip down memory lane. Starting with the earliest, I saw photos of my beautiful mother, dressed resplendently in a land girls uniform, looking proud and fierce, a dark and handsome young woman. Then one of my father, in his vest and army shorts, dark, rugged, mean and angry, boldly looking at the camera, a shot taken when he was on tour in Burma. And so on into photos of my brothers and sisters, as children, as teenagers, as youths, at home, at school, at college. And some holiday snaps as well. Of a rare trip we took to lake Windermere, a camping holiday we undertook, my father in charge, my three brothers and two sisters and myself all young men and women now, my mother and her dog Liker as well. And in those snaps I saw us all, my siblings and I, having come of age now, and my mother and father showing the first signs of relief and quiet joy, in realising themselves through the rigours of child rearing. Yes, that was a happy holiday, and sometimes the happy family is not the young one, but the one where the children are grown up; and as well as seeing the happiness of youth and maturity on the faces of my siblings, I saw the quite joy and regret on the faces of my worn out mother and father, as if they have accomplished their harrowing fate in life, and can look with pride and relief now upon their independent children.

Tuesday 9th February

There also appears to be a never ending supply of well-made documentaries illuminating the lives of people who have deformities. Whether we see the plight of a man born without arms, attempting to ban the drug that caused his affliction; or the outlook of a young dwarf girl as she attempts to come of age in the world; or again the fate of a mother and father struggling to raise their two children, both of whom will never grow and never live without wheel-chairs – whatever it is, I do appreciate these documentaries, their civilised, socially responsible, ethical point of view, their unflinching spirit in the pursuit of truth, the way in which they portray their subjects with a mixture of pathos, generosity and hard truth, so that we come to better know the unfortunate person, and see them for what they are, see the humanity, the good and the bad in them. It is one of the commendations due to our society I think, that we are able and willing to make and view such programmes. Yes, a never ending supply of them, and all so well made. And of course what makes them so intriguing is that, they seem, boom-boom, to offer us a clue as to the meaning of our existence.

I went over to my sisters this afternoon and evening. She has three children, and the eldest Mark has, since birth, been plagued by a facial deformity. Twenty or so now, and working full time as a plumber, he is a quiet soul, thoughtful, and in his tall, manly frame, his broad shoulders and muscular chest, something of a gentle giant. As he slowly downed his pint of beer, saying little, occasionally entering the conversation, persistently exuding a feeling of calmness, never subdued or introverted, but silent and gentle as if he meant no ill will, I was struck by his presence, his gentle giant presence, as if buried underneath all his quiet and disfigured exterior, there lies something, an energy, a passion, a rage even.

And in the way that his cooler younger brother supported and acknowledged his few words in our conversation and made him feel listened to; and in the way that his brother’s girlfriend, a fashionable, sexy, little lady subtly showed him tenderness, love and affection, I got a glimpse of how the family of those affected by such accursed fate, rally around their unfortunate child or sibling, how they are simultaneously supportive but not defensive; and as well as this I saw how woman, even as young as this fourteen year old girlfriend of my nephews can be incredibly tender, supporting and mature.

Later on after I’d returned home, I went for a midnight stroll around a boating lake, in a nearby park. It is a grand park this one, and often during the day I come out and sit on the benches on the hillside above the park; looking down on the grassy verges and out to sea. Tonight, on this cool, starlit evening, I walked around the boating lake, crammed full of swans, my big woolly gloves on, the breath coming white and visible from my mouth. I stood awhile contemplating the lake and a few people a little way off. I got the impression they were homeless people or drug addicts.

There were two men and a woman. One of the men, middle aged and squat figured, was wading into the lake, asking the young girl if she wanted him to catch her a swan. In appearance a man of humble birth, in speech a man uneducated, illiterate perhaps, I wondered what circumstance in his life had made him homeless, given him that desperation of soul, the inability to cope with the everyday, that the average working class person, whom in appearance he so resembled, manages to deal with. Yes, had I have seen him with his wife in their council house, bearing all the good sense of a simple workman, or downing a cup of tea on the bench of his allotment before he got back to his labours, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Instead he was a vagabond. As he waded into the lake trying to joke with the young girl and impress her with his semi-illiterate banter, I felt only contempt for him. I expected the same from her, but that kindhearted young girl laughed pleasantly, and in encouraging the man to get out, displayed a real affection for her fellow druggie.

And in an age where so many girls are obsessed by being models, where we’re so rich, and fortunate, and our problems are so sterile, I was taken by this young girl, taken by her and this admittedly fleeting and probably unrevealing glance into her life. She is a down and out, on the road to doom. But even here she is no prostitute, no heavy-eyed, heavy-set, mentally scared harlot; instead just a druggie. And in the simple, genuine kindness she displayed to the illiterate and hopeless old man, and in the light in her eyes and gentle smile on her over-skinny and over-aged face, as I passed her in the moonlight and she said jokingly ‘hello ghost’ I was given a momentary insight into an alternative life. As if these people, so sick of our conventional society, choose to avoid it; and living as vagabonds, only dare come out at night, in the magic of stars and moons, in the soothing and soul-calming darkness, that eclipses so dramatically the sterile Disney-land world we live in. Here to be free and happy like nocturnal creatures of old, like primitive man in the days before sunshine.

Saturday 13th February

I haven’t been making the most of my days, watching too much Television, going out to town and mooching around, instead of visiting castles and museums or doing something of worth. But I guess I just can’t be bothered.

In town today I passed by an open air fashion parade. From the screams and cries of young girls, I sensed, as I happed to turn a street corner, that something must be going on: then I approached and saw the thing for myself. Not feeling at all at home at such venues, I skirted, fairy hastily, around its exterior. However, although I felt ill at ease, doomed almost, as I, like a scurrying mouse, hurried past it, I did take time to cast a brief glance over the whole scene.

The fashionable presenter, a hyperactive, noise-polluting, manic depressive young man whipped the crowd up with his inane commentary and thoughtless dribble, and the young girls who walked the catwalk did look happy. But by and large the majority of girls in the vicinity whom I caught a look at, appeared dispirited and annoyed, irritated by it. They just loitered in the vicinity seemingly downcast by the presence of the parade. Many others seemed, like myself, to simply be skirting around it, and with good sense in their heads, totally ignoring it. And that only left perhaps a hundred or so girls, yelling and screaming raucously in the little crowd, and by this time, now that I’d witnessed the reaction of a seeming majority of girls hereabout, I began to see that those in the crowd were amongst the most contemptible; for not having the guts to admit that the parade annoyed them, they stood there pretending to be happy, yelling as loudly as possible to try and prove to all and sundry that they were comfortable with it. Which meant only the models were happy, and actually they seemed, as I saw them standing behind stage smoking, sick as sausages. What an amazing world we live in.

There is an old, homeless woman whom I keep bumping into. She is quite a sight. Probably attractive when young, her face is very aged, but remains, I might say, cute. She has jet black hair, styled a touch in the manner of the American Indians of yore. She is small, wears a black jacket, and even though it is mid-winter, a short skirt and sandals. Everywhere she goes she has bags in all her hands and she waddles, from side to side and walks slowly about town with these, her only possessions.

I first saw her in McDonalds; then the day later near the train station. Then I saw her in McDonalds again. The day after I happened to be walking down Pilgrim street and raising my head I saw a black, waddling figure up ahead of me. She is as black as a Raven, and seemed to dominate my horizon that day, as she waddled towards me. As if she was the only person in the street; as if she is symbolic. I looked at her. We exchanged a meaningful glance, as if she knows who I am, recognised me from earlier. Then unbelievably today I saw her again along way distant from my previous sightings. This time, completely out of the blue, as I sat on a metro pulling into Heworth, who do I see on the platform but the black raven, that wise looking old woman.

I don’t know. I feel she is symbolic, I feel she knows something of me and my fate. I feel she is going to tell me my destiny. Many of these old timer homeless people have suffered torrents in their time. I knew of one man, whom after losing his family in a tragic fire, was only able to live out life as a homeless tramp and down-and-out. And perhaps some such sorrow forced this woman into her current plight. She just looks so wise, so unearthly, as she slowly, calmly walks through the crowds, never rushing as all about her, as if she knows more than we do. I feel I will meet her again.

But by and large life has been uneventful. You might as well read a comment I left on the confessions website:

I haven’t spoken to another human being in four days. I haven’t touched one for much longer either. Surely that’s not healthy. Surely not. I’ve spent my days either isolated and alone in the house, or going to town and being around shoppers; or worse still, sitting in Mcdonalds with a vanilla milkshake, looking like a sad old man with no friends, all in the hopes of socialising.

Four days, it’s not right. I don’t even have a dog or a cat to stroke/touch/talk to. I’m so lonely, so alone, so bored! Even the other day, when I rang up the gas board, all I got was the answering machine. It’s not right I tell you.

It’s not right. And so has it been. I’m thinking of ringing some old friends to see if they want a game of tennis. That would be a social outing, and in any case I don’t want to miss out on my weekly dose of the sport.

Yes how lonely and alone I am, how depressed. And in this mood, the last thing I want or need to do, is to go to the fridge and eat some more chocolate, but that’s exactly what I’ve just gone and done.

Two months in the life of miserable old, me: Part 5

Thursday 29th January

We went to an historic castle today. Though my wife got next to no sleep last night and looked so this morning, having looked forward to this visit for some time, she was able to shake off her feelings of tiredness.

But as we stood at the starting point of what was to be a guided tour, waiting for other tourists to arrive, the guide, a tall, middle-aged man with spectacles and a big nose, tactlessly remarked to my wife, whom he’d never met before, that she looked terrible and as though she needed to lie down. It was done half in jest, yet there was a meaningful inflexion in his words, an undeniable look on his face which suggested he was in earnest, and that he had been unable to disguise his feelings of displeasure.

Understandably my wife was upset. Admittedly she does have one of those faces, those sensitive, sweet faces that look so radiant when lit up, but so deflated and irritating when tired, moody and depressed. She said nothing but looked huffy, irritated and angered by his words. Which unfortunately made her look like even more of a sourpuss.

Later on however things got worse, as my wife, nervous and bumbling now, her confidence all drained away, and evincing a cold, silent anger toward the guide, kept wandering off from the group to which the guide responded ‘oh? Where are we going now then? Have I lost one?’ I have to confess to not liking this semi-educated man, perhaps a retired history teacher or something, clearly a man of some learning, but all the same obnoxious, supercilious, unhappy in heart and soul, and tactlessly unable to control his thoughts and feelings. By this time he had gotten the other dozen or so followers onside, with a few cheap jokes and the way in which he lightly, and as an aside, made comments about Anna wandering off. He seemed especially keen to get the good will of a few middle aged, yet fairly sophisticated women, including two sumptuously dressed Americans, one in a green top, yellow cravat and stylish beret, the other in a white jumper, blue jeans and glittering in golden jewellery. And as much as he was tactless with my wife, he was submissive and respectful to them, kissed their backsides and tried to joke with them, and they, seeing how limp and weak willed he was and feeling flattered not only by the respect accorded them, but by the way he indirectly and subtly put my wife down, were more than happy to flatter him, and asked him questions which he bowed and scraped to answer.

Then at one point, my wife, angry, silent and really feeling disliked, happened to wander off slightly as the guide spoke, and started fondling some books and pottery resting on a table. To which the guide quickly shouted at her, telling her it was forbidden to touch things. At which point my wife, dejected and humiliated, walked off out of the room we were in, and as I and everyone watched her unhappy, downtrodden, dumpy little figure walk off, the guide, this time with a slight inflexion of genuine regret in his voice said ‘oh, I think I have lost her’ and the rest of the group laughed lightly.

A few minutes later, looking out of a window of the castle, I happened to look down upon the figure of my unhappy little wife, walking along the grassy bank of the riverside, shaded by a line of trees. And as I saw her walk slowly, dejectedly along, a sorry, outcast figure next to the river and trees, I knew I should have felt some profound sense of sympathy and love for her, for her predicament, after all we’ve been through: knew that I should’ve ran after her and consoled her. And yet for all that, I just felt utterly annoyed by her, as if it were all her fault, as if she’d brought it on herself; and as much as I tried to rouse my sympathies, thinking of how much she once meant to me and how much she’s done for me, I could only feel contempt for her.

After the tour finished, I went back to the car and sat waiting for her. I started wondering where she might have got to, or what she might have done, but eventually, after an hour or so, she resurfaced.

I now expected a long, bitter argument with her and to be berated for not following her, and I expected she would be sore, miserable and annoying. However she was in fact very calm, settled.

‘Where have you been?’ I asked slowly, a little taken aback by her cool return.

‘Oh, just having a look around’ she said calmly ‘it’s better that way, more relaxing. I had tea and scones in the refectory.’

‘Oh’ I said calmly. I had been all ready to discuss the events of the morning, to try and placate Anna, to justify myself. She surprised me by her demeanour.

We sat there awhile in silence, Anna’s calm, serious mood infecting me. She wouldn’t make eye contact with me, but looked ahead into the distance. I, sitting next to her, looked at her, seeking her eye contact. Eventually she spoke.

‘I first came here with the school when I was ten or eleven’ she started up.

‘Oh?’ I said, ready to listen.

‘Although it was something of a boring excursion for us children, lots of memories of it remain in my mind, not least that we saw horses and cattle mating in the fields along the country roads our bus took, and that we were in stitches of laughter as we crammed to the windows watching the stallions and bulls, strangely upright and on two legs, mate with the females. The trip and the castle were totally boring in truth, and I remember how annoyed my teacher Mrs Shaw became on this hot and sticky excursion, and how later, as we children sat in the sunshine of the courtyard, we all gossiped about what an old witch she was, and Jennifer Kerr said ‘shut up would you!’ really tactfully, ‘you can’t say that, not when her husband’s just sitting there.’

‘Her husband, an oldish looking man with grey hair and black glasses, had accompanied us on this trip, and we were all a bit scared of him, and thought it weird that Mrs Shaw had a husband. And as we criticized crusty old Shaw and Jennifer Kerr butted in, I remember looking at his face, to see how he responded to this; and instead of being angry or annoyed, he just sat there unconcerned, with sange froide, a look of calmness and forgiving on his face. And that’s the thing I most remember about the trip.

‘He was, in his calm, quiet, bearing, quite the opposite of Mrs Shaw, who spent the whole day tired and irritable, shouting at us children, eternally dogged by headaches and the heat, and forever at the end of her tether. In his calmer constitution, he must, I guess, have provided some solace for her. She was the archetypical school mistress, constantly annoyed, bad tempered, short on energy, never in a good mood, overworked, sick of children. And she was so slight of frame, so small, skinny and anaemic, her hair was grey and her teeth stuck out a bit and were crooked and she spat as she spoke sometimes, a trait which we children never ceased to pick up on. In every way she seemed unhappy, a dissatisfied, raging, angry little Napoleonesse, and yet for all that, she possessed a fine, keen intelligence, a highly-strung sensitivity, a desire for something more. She was special and on occasions we really loved her and warmed to her.

‘English was one of her favourite lessons, and she always picked great books for the class to read, and we would all get into the story and she would spend hours seemingly, talking about it and what we thought would happen. That was when she was at her best, when liberated from all the palaver of disciplining and shouting, of meeting targets and following the rules. That was when she was in her element, when free simply to talk and philosophise at leisure, to capture our imaginations, to spellbind us in awe and silence. I remember reading the Runaways, a book about a boy and a girl who run away from their foster home. And she would take us off for drama as well, in the quadrangle, and there in the summer sunshine and the freedom of youth we would enact little parts from the book and she would guide us and instruct us. Another thing I remember were the Faberge eggs. She really had a love for art and craft, and for a few weeks she set us to work on designing and then executing a display of painted eggs. I spent hours making the drawings and then finally I set to work on the eggs themselves. And at the end, I had this lovely basket full of them, patterned in a sort of tortoise shell design, with black outlines and the regions inside painted damask red, blue, green and purple. It was such a sight and Mrs Shaw and I were both so pleased with them.

‘And I was something of her favourite. Even before I got to her class, there was an assembly taken by her in which she talked about her dogs and how she had needed to weigh them and how that had presented a problem because they wouldn’t stand on the scales, and you could only get them on by taking them in your arms and standing on the scales yourself. And she asked us, if anyone knew how it was possible then to determine the weight of the dogs. And I put my hand up and told her the answer, and she was so impressed. And the next year, I entered her class and there was an immediate bond between us, I was her head girl so to speak and I told her how I wanted to be a vet, and she was pleased by this, for she always wanted us girls to become doctors and lawyers, scientists and prime ministers, she didn’t want there to be any limits to our horizons. And she recommended a book to me, especially for me, lent me her copy of it in fact, the Peppermint Pig, such a delightful book, about a young girl who tries to save a little piglet, the runt of the litter from being slaughtered. And I so enjoyed it and would come in everyday and talk to her about it.

‘Well anyway, she was often angry and run down, easily irritated and annoyed and one day when the head teacher decided that as part of the school’s jubilee celebrations, there would be a football tournament between the classes, she took exception to it and had an argument with him, asking why it shouldn’t be a netball tournament, why the boys were being favoured. Even though she was married and had two sons of her own, she often got irked with the boys and favoured the girls, and trusted them more and always felt aggrieved if the boys were favoured. Anyway her argument with the head fell on deaf ears, and worse than this was that miss Zuckerman, another teacher, sided against her. Miss Zuckerman was a young Jewish teacher with lustrous black hair, a magnificent, beautiful face, and such a wondrous body, tall, rangy, athletic, buxom. Everyone loved her, both boys and girls, and we used to watch her play tennis on a Saturday, on the grass courts, and we would sit spell bound and in awe and cheer her on, enraptured by this women, her grace, her beauty. Well as a rule, Mrs Shaw and Miss Zuckerman got along and were friendly, but on this occasion Miss Zuckerman took the side of the head, saying it didn’t really matter, since the girls would be allowed to play in the football tournament just as much as the boys.

‘Well that was that. Poor Mrs Shaw was having a bad day of it, but later that afternoon she perked up somewhat as she took us for a lesson on farms and animals, wildlife and nature. And at the very start she turned to me and asked, with a pleasant, sensitive look on her face, what did I want to be when I grew up, believing I would say a vet. But at the time I was going to dancing classes and was quite into it and so I said I wanted to be a dancer. And I remember the look of surprise and dejection on Mrs Shaw’s face when I said this, and I felt I’d let her down and hurt her. And she said ‘oh I didn’t know you could dance?’ And I told her how I went to lessons with some other girls, and she couldn’t hide a feeling of disappointment, it was a final blow to her, she had thought she could rely on me, but now she’d found out that I was into dancing and wanted to be a dancer. And that seemed to be the final straw for her on that woeful day, her voice betrayed a hurt, an anger, a feeling of dejection, and she talked without enthusiasm, withdrew into herself, and shortly after, abandoned the talk she was going to give and told us to get on with some book work and went and sat at her desk and did some marking. And I recall feeling so terribly guilty and sad that I’d hurt her, and at the end of the lesson I looked at her, and smiled lovingly at her, but she just looked angered and peeved and wouldn’t respond.

‘And so that was that. She retired about five years ago now, but poor soul, only a year after that her husband died of cancer. Well, as I was touring around the castle, I came across this room on the ground floor, next to where the kitchen is, which is set out as in Tudor times. It was virtually empty, very peaceful, there was music playing and I just walked in slowly and had a look around at the old furniture, the old bookcases, the chairs, the paintings on the wall. Then when I’d walked to the far end, I turned around. On the right there was a blazing fire, and two women dressed in Tudor style sat doing needlework. At the far end sat other old women, bedecked in Tudor garb, one playing a harp, another a lute, and a third, a little old lady with grey hair sat playing the flute. I recognised her immediately as Mrs Shaw. She hadn’t really changed at all. And as I watched her from a distance, saw that little old woman, oblivious to passers by, move her fingers on and off the flute, and heard the melancholic strains, I felt she really captured all the sadness, all the misery of her life, it was like poetry to see and hear her. As though she told her life story through the flute.’

‘Did you speak to her?’ I asked.

‘No’ said my wife. ‘What good would it have done. I didn’t feel like it. Better not to spoil the moment. But it’s funny how someone else’s life, the life of poor Mrs Shaw, a life spent irritated and angered, shouting at stupid and spoilt children, craving for something more, intelligent and bright, yet meeting only with the harsh reality of a senseless world; an unfulfilled life I imagine, a frustrated life, a life unable to express itself, its passion, its energy, a misspent life you might say; it’s funny how viewed from afar it appears so poetical, how in a sad and cruel world, that old woman and her mournful flute somehow portray a meaning and a sadness, a tragedy that would not have been possible, had she have led a more fulfilled, enjoyable life. And it’s funny that I can find myself so full of sympathy for another person, when my own life is so incomplete.

‘It’s just in my nature I guess, to be sympathetic. No matter how awful my own life is, even though I’ve got nothing to live for, am miserable, depressed most days, even though I know I’m a nobody, and nobody is interested in having my sympathy, even so I just can’t help feeling such immense sympathy for Mrs Shaw. Her life has been one long, unremitting series of stresses and strains, disappointments and bitterness, rarely relieved by the pleasures of this world. For her, her life must seem woeful, depressing, not profound, a meaningless and worthless existence, spent being unhappy, just like I know my own life to be. But for myself, looking on her life from a distance, looking on that grey-haired, intelligent old woman playing the flute, I see only the tragedy, the sorrow, the poetry of her life, I see in her woe something profound and magnificent, as if her story, her journey through life was worthy of note.’

We sat there a few moments in reflection and thought, just looking out the front window.

‘Do you still fancy going for fish and chips’ I said after a few minutes to my wife.

‘Yes’ she replied.

Friday 5th February

When I read over my entry of last week I see I am guilty of portraying myself as a calm and cool headed individual who puts up with all life throws at him, whilst portraying my wife as a neurotic, who runs off and makes a fool of herself, on the slightest of pretexts. Although I am often like that, it is also true that I am, from time to time, infected with pathetic moods of rage and anger, childish, petulant behaviour when the bully in me shines through, and that often my wife is the cool and rational one, able to cope with life far better than I. It’s been a disastrous few days, and only now, after tennis, am I in any frame of mind to write about it.

It began on Tuesday evening at a dinner party at my brothers. I don’t really like him or his raucous wife and children that much, and they in turn regard Anna and I as bores and intellects. They especially dislike Anna, as all my family do, and consider her a dour-old fuddy-duddy, a prude, a fumbler, a sour puss. And they do little in there behaviour, and false, supercilious way of speaking to her, to dispel this notion.

I spent the evening brooding and keeping my mouth shut, not particularly showing my dissatisfaction, but not being overtly nice either, annoyed by the senseless laughter and stupidity of my two teenage nieces and teenage nephew, and the annoying behaviour of my brother’s wife. My brother himself loves to moan, ceaselessly putting people down, decrying the injustices of the world and deluding himself that his spiritual dissatisfaction is down to other people, when in fact, given so much in life, it’s his own fault for lazily squandering his opportunities. He thinks Anna a toff and southerner, a naïve, inexperienced woman, and Anna knows he despises her, but she, always trying to get along, tries to placate him, by decrying the world as well, and deliberately bringing up topics such as rising house prices or gun crime in the hopes of getting in his good books and showing herself a cynic. I can’t and couldn’t stand to see her lower herself like this.

Afterwards when we got home and got inside our dark, lonely, cold house, just the two of us now, we didn’t speak a word to each other, and fell into that dismal but truer state of being, after having put on false and frankly despicable faces at a dinner party we didn’t want to be at. There was a tension in the air, as we fell into our real persons. We felt moody, angry, and dissatisfied, tired after all that acting. Sick in heart and soul. We said not a word to each other but were simply gruff and terse.

I woke up at one, unable to sleep. Anna not lying next to me, I went downstairs to the kitchen and found her sat in a chair. Angered and irked with myself, I was overcome with loathing at seeing her person there, a tired, worn out old hag, clearly unable to sleep, exuding a silent, nasty anger, perceptibly irritated as she read. I saw her stupid, stupid face, her tired face looking especially dreadful, her eyes smaller, her nose seemingly bigger and redder, her clunky reading glasses on her face as she sat and read, an awful, annoying sight; her person bristling in a bad temper that manifested itself in angry and persistent sniffs – she being too out of humour and lazy to go and blow her nose. As I poured myself a glass of water, I wanted to scream and shout at her, to beat her to a pulp. But I controlled my temper, and in my pyjamas, walked off upstairs and back to bed.

But I couldn’t sleep, and returned downstairs again, this time with the intention of having it out with my wife. When I got there, she turned her stupid, bespectacled face to me, the glasses perched ridiculously on her nose, so that she glanced over them at me, and in this gesture, this one and single annoying gesture, she really lit the tinder of my bilious and belligerent soul. She returned her glance to her book, persisted in reading and said nothing. I’ve never been overcome with such hatred of her, and her tired worn out face and I went over to the arga, on top of which stood a cauldron of half eaten casserole filth, my wife had made two days earlier.

I had wanted to tell her at the time how disgusting it was, but had held my tongue. Now I stood over the arga, spoon in hand and stirring it, and overcome with psychopathic loathing, shouted out ‘slop-slop-slop’ in savage imitation of somebody eating.

My wife looked up at me. And in the irked glance she gave me I read that she saw precisely that I was spoiling for a fight, that I was trying to precipitate an argument. She looked at me steadily, and there was meaning in her eyes as if to say, she couldn’t be bothered, wouldn’t rise to the bait, and that I should go away and leave her alone. She stopped looking at me, and, ignoring me, returned to her book. But I was determined.

Stirring up the casserole once more I again repeated the ‘slop-slop-slop’ and when she happened to sniff, I mimicked this too. But not rising to it, eventually I simply walked over to her and with evident peevishness and anger in my voice asked

‘Why did you have to be so false tonight, talking the way you did. You know they all hate you, Ronnie especially, so why did you try to lick up to him? And why on earth were you going on about rising house prices and gun crimes? As if that has any bearing on you, as if they were to blame for all the shitiness of your life?’

‘Well what do you want me to say?’ she responded ‘At least I make the effort. Do you think I like any of your family? They’ve never once gone out of their way to be nice to me, not once, not once in the twenty years we’ve been married.’

‘I know. They don’t like you at all, and never have. So why do you have to act like such a despicable dog, grovelling and contemptible, licking their boots and whining for a biscuit, fetching their sticks to try and ingratiate yourself? And why did you have to say that about some people never having experienced true poverty, or having to work for a living – when you know fine well they consider you to be exactly such a person – and then linking that in with orphans in Africa and ‘these silly people spending millions on cosmetic surgery.’ That was an embarrassing little comment you made.’

As my wife, attempting to ingratiate herself with Ronnie had made this remark – he and his wife, never go out of their way to make people feel listened to – the two of them had expressed in their body language a feeling of contempt for Anna, and she, embarrassed and unsure of herself, had faltered as she made this trite little social comment. Whilst I, a look of true loathing and contempt in my eye had looked on her with scorn. She had noticed this at the time. And the memory of this, and the fact that I’d so callously brought it up again now, mortified her.

‘How dare you!’ she shouted, genuinely hurt, deeply wounded ‘how dare you ever look like that at me! Don’t think I didn’t see your look, I did. How dare you! How dare you treat me like some piece of scum, look at me like I’m a worthless piece of rubbish! Do you think I enjoy talking to Ronnie? I hate him, I hate all your family.’

‘Well just don’t act like such a lowly dog’ I said, coolly, oh so coolly, deliberately in response to seeing how mortified, embarrassed and ashamed she was, how much of a lowly dog she felt herself to be, how I’d treated her as such. And there and then bursting into an outpouring of upset emotion, hating to be treated like a cur, she stood up and shouting, screaming and breaking into tears, hurled a tea cup from off of the dresser, right at me. It hit me ‘bop’ straight in the face, fell to the floor and smashed.

The anger, the massive anger that I felt as the thing hit me, hurt me, and truly pained me, the anger inside me exploded, and as much as I had instigated this fight, I now, as though I had been wronged and aggrieved set about retaliating.

And so a fight set in, a fight between two middle aged, diminutive figures, man and wife in their pyjamas, at one o’clock at night, in the kitchen-dining area of their lonely, isolated farm house, situated as it is three miles out in the sticks, the two of us fought, devoid of anyone else, or anything else in our lives, anything more than just each other. Just the two of us, at each others throats, finished, nothing more to live for, no one at hand to help us, no God, no nothing, nobody: just us, fighting each other. We grappled, we wrestled, I was in the ascendancy. Our pathetic, ageing bodies writhed and fought, my wife screaming, emotional, crying, slapping; I, more aggressive and stronger, holding her in submission, venting my pent up psychopathic rage. And as the two of us played out this tragic, theatrical farce on the kitchen floor, this lonely, spectator-less, empty fight, our dog Harry, saddened, depressed and alarmed to see us so viciously at each others throats, ran around the kitchen floor, whining and barking desperately, terribly upset to see us like this, going crazy, terrified of the flying, smashing crockery, of the wrestling, running around in a circle, yelping, screaming, frightened and upset, and reproachfully whining at us to stop: exactly like a child of ours it was too much for him to bare to see us like this, as though his world had ended. He was the only witness to this shameful debacle.

‘Look at poor Jack, look what it’s doing to him’ pleaded my wife, sobbing as I held her in submission now. ‘Look at him!’ But I ignored her. We had wrestled for five minutes or so on the floor, but now I had her, holding, as we lay down, her hand behind her back, as policeman do when they arrest a suspect. I held her like this for a few minutes, recovering, she too, after the fight. Then

‘Get up!’ I shouted, and as she did so, now my prisoner, I angrily force-marched her over to the arga.

‘Now listen to me!’ I screamed at the top of my voice. ‘Don’t you ever dare make me this casserole filth again. Do you hear me!’

In response she just whined pitifully and seemed ready to cry.

‘I hate it, it’s like cow poo, you’ve just shovelled in from the farm’ I shouted. ‘If you ever dare feed me this again I’ll kill you.’

At this point my wife swore angrily in her tear soaked voice and threatened to break loose; and in response, I now tightened my grip, and, my hand on the back of her annoying head, forced her to bow down, bend to place her head in the pot of casserole. She screamed as I did so, and I rubbed her face around in it, that cold mince, and said ‘you eat those disgusting slops, slop-slop-slop!’ And then finally my energy spent, and suddenly overcome with a torrent of regret, I raised my wife’s sorry, sad, pathetic little face from the casserole, saw how pitiable and sad it was, how silly and contemptible, smeared in the thick gravy as it was, the stuff on her cheeks, on her chin, mouth, and on her turned up pretty little nose; and when I saw all this I was so overcome with sadness and regret, I knew the fight was over, I released my wife, she burst into tears, an outpouring of endless tears, and we both dropped to the floor exhausted, and lay on the cold kitchen tiles.

And in that state we both lay on the floor, resting, hoping someone, God for example, would miraculously extend his hand down toward us and help us out, give us comfort. I in my pyjama top and underpants, she in her nightgown, both of us lost, confused, desperate, at a loss, on the cold, kitchen floor, in a big house in the middle of nowhere, in a Godless, spiritless, empty world. And as I lay there I recalled not only the beatings my brute of a father occasionally dished out to me when he was in a bad mood after work or drunk; but more poignant than this, I saw before me again the sad, little face of Joanna, her sad little face so like her mother’s, when she came to me crying, with dog poo all over her face, and especially on her turned up, pretty little nose, and how I comforted her and wondered how on earth anyone could ever do such a thing.

Later we went up to bed and I slept in the spare bedroom alone. I slept for an hour or so. A peculiar sleep, a mixture of regret and sadness colouring my heart, but also indifference and coldness; also strangeness in my new position in the spare bedroom; especially sterile not only because of the bland bed and walls, the guest-room aspect of the place; but because I was alone, estranged from my wife. A strange sleep, a vague sense of sadness that I was alone pervaded my heart, a half-regret at my actions rebuked me. But by and large a simple icing over of my emotions, a coldness and emptiness stole upon me. And it was with this empty feeling that I awoke after an hour or so, my dreaming unhappy, stilted, and halted with a recollection of our previous dog, Rocky, a Border Terrier like Harry, who had to be put down after hurting his leg through excessive walking.

Unable to sleep I got up and went down to the kitchen to see Harry. I opened the door and saw him sleeping in his basket, and suddenly overcome by tenderness, bent down, and lovingly and with real emotion said ‘hey boy’ and stroked him. And he, he roused his sleepy head, opened his eyes, and though tired and somnolent, was pleased to see me, and made a sad puppy face for me, a mixture of tiredness, wisdom and genuine heartfelt love for me in his mien, a look of wisdom that tired dogs posses, as if he were a human in a previous life, and knows all about the ups and downs of it, and is glad now to be living the happy, indifferent, sleepy life of a mongrel. He comforted me and I recalled with sadness how probably I was to blame for killing poor Rocky. Senselessly overwalking him as I did, in my pursuit of the countryside.

We went out for a walk, through the lonely, deserted, dark night. Everywhere in slumber, sleepy at that hour. Even the motorway which we arrived at, was empty and silent, save for the occasional nocturnal car or lorry. And as I walked through the silent, dead night I was overcome by a feeling of deadness, dullness, a coldness, a frigidness, as if I really, really don’t care for anything anymore. I wasn’t depressed or deeply saddened. Just cold, indifferent. I remember that when I was younger, I read of a man whom on his death bed, announced coldly that his heart was empty. And though I’ve always been a cold and cynical man, I remember thinking how could anyone die with such dismal words upon their tongue, and that for all the gloom and misery of the world, there is something else out there, something more, something profound, special and magnificent, something of the otherworld, and that in death one finally experiences this, one is exalted to a higher state of consciousness, one feels the mystic, the religious, the esoteric. Yet here, feeling only cold and numbed, my brain, my senses dulled, dimmed, almost switched off, feeling indifferent, careless of everything I not only have no interest in the higher side of life, the mystical, the spiritual, the necromantic, but I also feel I will die with an empty, tired, indifferent heart, colder and more emotionless than any man’s.

Being an amateur admirer of art, I know something of the painter Constable, a man of these parts and how badly he took it when his wife died. The early, sunny, joyous scenes of pastoral life that he depicted, were in later life, when he lost his dear wife to tuberculosis, and his heart was ploughed asunder with sorrow, replaced by equally impressive evocations of the countryside, this time portraying a more barren, bleak, lonely world; dismal, sad, lonely scenes reflecting the desolation that had taken root in his heart. And having been acquainted with his story and viewed his paintings, I always felt such a deep understanding of his predicament, of how he loved his dear wife, how she meant everything to him, and how her premature death caused immeasurable heartache to him; the sadness that she was gone forever, and wouldn’t ever return, quietly assailing a heart that she had made so tender. And I always felt such sympathy for this story, for the fate of Constable, as if I shared it, knew of it, understood it. And yet for all that, what feelings of utter antipathy do I have for my wife, what coldness and indifference is engendered in my heart toward her. Love was long ago dead between us.

Ironically that very same day, in the nighttime we went off to another dinner party, having to put an act on once more, to bury and hide the fact that we fought so horribly during the night. Yet this dinner party was different, as spent in the company of Derek and Sheila – a retired couple, their children long since gone, who are and were Anna’s friends primarily, and knew her well before I ever came on the scene – I saw how my wife acted completely differently to the other night at Ronny’s, how she was quiet, calm, intelligent and at home, so sweet and gentle, lovely in the presence of her friends, and especially the tall and gracious Derek, who treated her as though she is still the young girl he once knew. Yes, that is the effect of other people: it was a major transformation. And as I watched on, as the tall, manly and gentlemanly Derek, graciously walked around the table as my wife and I were seated and Sheila was at the cooker, as I watched as he stopped to fill up Anna’s wine glass, a bottle of red in one hand, and resting his other hand lovingly on Anna’s shoulder, as if he was happy to see her, and glad of this opportunity to reminisce with her; as I saw the serene, kind face of that strong, manly man look down on her and ask her to say when, and saw how Anna beamed back up to him, and saw how they made a joke of saying when, saw the genuine, heartfelt merriment between them, I was overcome with a feeling of shame for my own despotic, tyrannical, little person, my unmanliness, and reminded that Anna could’ve had a life without me, a better one perhaps, and that I have over the years, to some extent brought her down to my level, moulded her into an opposite of me, never allowing her to be anything more or something else, something else that the likes of the tall, strong, Derek, allows her to be. He sees something in her that I don’t.

When we got home that night, my wife informed me that she would be going off to her mother’s for a while, to spend some time with her sister who is home from France. My wife spoke coldly with me as if all is over, and I was left to feel regretful, like a naughty boy. She didn’t speak to me all day until the dinner, and had spent the afternoon on the telephone arranging something, which I later learnt was her trip down to her mother’s. There was an air about Anna, a cold, distant air, and she hinted to me that her sister, who is now living in France, was interested in asking Anna to join her out there. I think she is only trying to frighten me. I don’t think it will come to divorce. But she wants some time apart.

So she left this afternoon, and before, during, and after tennis, a thought was brewing within me to do the same. My sister up in Newcastle has gone to France for a month and won’t be unhappy if I go and do a spot of house-sitting for her. I need a break. So then, to Newcastle it is.

Two months in the life of miserable old, me: Part 4

Monday 26th January

So I promised to detail the holiday my wife and I recently took in North Wales.

One of Anna and my mutual interests has always been travel: a desire to visit new places, to experience new cultures, a wanderlust. It’s taken us to many a place in our time, and we still holiday regularly. Yet though that incipient passion remains, of wonder and awe, that sets us revelling in the prospect of travel, the actual holidays themselves as separated from our expectations, have been very lonely affairs. This was no different.

Arriving in Llandudno, at 2.30pm, on a rainy, overcast Wednesday in Autumn, after a two hour drive, we checked in and received the keys to our cottage. It is difficult to express the loneliness and emptiness, the doom that greeted our arrival. The deserted, hibernating, off-peak holiday camp; the polite but unwelcoming, sterile manner of the reception staff; the loneliness, the sheer loneliness and fear that harassed my wife and I as we opened up our cottage alone, and with sinking, sinking hearts explored the interior. The plain walls, the barren, sterile cottage, the feeling that someone had just died in there.

In fact the cottage itself was reasonably plush; in better times, as when J was little, it would’ve been exciting to have come here, and have this cottage as our own. But now, as my wife and I looked around and settled in, it was impossible to keep at bay a gnawing loneliness, biting at each of our lonely persons. We wished we had never come. As if in coming here we were exposed. We were to be locked in, at the mercy of all our demons, face to face with all of our problems. A sense of loneliness and doom, the end. An emptiness, a fear, with nothing, utterly nothing to lift our spirits. It was as if my wife and I had been sent to prison, so desolate was it as we paced around our new quarters. Or like a house we’d come to in order to die; lonely and cut apart from the world, we had been sentenced to come here and live out our lives, disconnected from everything. Like a nursing home, I guess.

We were both taciturn and curt, morosely unpacking our cases. I switched on the TV in the hopes of livening myself up; it worked for a while; but in the end, not even that feeling of well-being and surety evinced by the good old comforter television was strong enough to overcome the all pervading doom of the cottage. It was a death sentence.

We went off to town to explore before long, the two of us desperate to escape. Yet, driving for ten minutes to the seaside town, and there getting out and traipsing about, that same horrifying feeling of loneliness, of being vulnerable and unprotected hounded our souls. As we walked along the deserted promenade in the miserable grey weather, unsure where we were going, our hopes rapidly fading that we would find anything or anyone of intelligence and culture here; a sense that no one was here to welcome us – how lovely it would’ve been to have our own personal guide, a local, happy to show us around, to talk and joke with us, to listen to our problems; yet the reality was that no one was here for us, we were utterly forlorn. The natives seemed unfriendly, we were scared. We were in need of love. It was not forthcoming. And it was stupid of us, we knew, to somehow expect this friendship. As if the staff at the holiday cottage, or the locals in the town, should suddenly welcome us with open arms, enquire about our life and our problems, go out of their way to make us feel welcome, as if we were royalty. No it was absurd. And yet somehow we expected it. Instead, that atrocious feeling of home sickness infected us, strangling and choking our spirits.

We walked miserable and angry through the unfriendly streets, snappy with one another, curt and short, both of us terrified and afraid; my physical insignificance, my shortness, my unprepossessing looks irritating me; then too those of my dowdy, dumpy old wife, miserable faced, towing along after me, unsure where we were going. The rain, the cold, nothing to look forward to in this desolate, forlorn, God forsaken place. The loneliest place on the planet. How is it that the appetite for travel and exploration can so uplift our souls? And never fade with experience? Why should places like North Wales seem so romantic, pure and cultural? When, in both cases, the reality of it is dreariness and utter alienation. My wife and I, like two little old aliens, terrified, lonely, angry and bitter; cut off from society, wishing we were home and not here; eternally glued to one another like two prisoners – I see us walking the streets, a rope around our necks, a rope around our legs, like two shackled slaves; rowing, bickering, expanding our nervous energy on one another in fits of squabbling. Eventually in one loud and angry argument, my wife went off, I let her go. We roamed apart for a while; then came together again, everything the same, nothing having changed.

We went for a bite to eat. Scowering with trepidation, we eventually entered one of the many little coffee shops, a sense that it was a local den and that we were not welcome here accosting us; entering and ordering with complete lack of assurity. Sitting there, eating our morsels hurriedly and in fear as though people were watching us with murderous, hateful, contemptuous faces; talking to one another in subdued voices, feeling as though the natives were listening to our conversation, scoffing at our sensitive, educated speech; walloping the food down and dashing off hurriedly; and, in speaking to the waitress, and giving our orders, suggesting, blatantly and in clear as day undertones, even though we only asked for coffee and cake, that we were the two most loneliest people in the world, that we were dying here in utter doom, and would you please, waitress, or anybody listening for God’s sake save us, help us, oh God please!

Unsurprisingly, our first night here was one of insomnia. Unsettled, unnerved, wishing only to be back home, neither of us could sleep a wink. The wind howled relentlessly outside, dashing at the window pains ceaselessly as we tossed and turned. We were irritated by each others presence, as we lay there wide awake. The wind, whining like a hyena, aggravating our nerves; and apparently blowing on an unlocked gate, which persistently slammed to and fro, to and fro, to and fro! (I went out to try and fix it but couldn’t get access to it.)

The next day, tired and worn out, our nerves on the highest most point of tension, like plucked violin strings, on the point of snapping, my wife went to reception to complain about the gate. Having a long bitter argument, with a taciturn young hussy at reception, a horrible little war between the two of them. The sullen young girl – pert, sleek and sexy – revelling I feel, in my wife’s evident unhappiness, her contemptibleness for getting so bitter and agitated over such a trifling thing as a gate; eventually agreeing to send out the site’s handy man; and that decent, yet annoying old man, an inverted snob, who, presumably on the over exaggerated and misinformed description of the young girl, held a contemptuous view of us both, attempted to fix the gate, and did so; but implying in his attitude that my wife and I were somehow hopelessly impractical toffs; people who’d been used to having everything in life done for them and not wise and philosophic enough (like himself) to see that banging gates, just like shit, happen, and that you’ve just got to get on in life and be less petty; instead of seeing that we were both in fact intelligent, sensitive human beings, lonely and outcast, at the very limit of our tethers.

Yet it was on the second night that things turned disastrous.

As I sat in front of the TV, my wife already in bed, my stomach felt slightly acidic, I felt a touch nauseous. I presumed this was because I’d rather overeaten that night – in a pathetic way of fighting off my misery. I thought it would die down in time.

But as I lay in my bed wide awake, my wife snoring next to me, I realised I wasn’t going to shake off so easily what was in my stomach. Then I started to consider being deliberately sick, to jettison the burden of my stomach, and so be able to get to sleep. Eventually however, as I lay there thinking on it, I realised it was going to come out of its own accord; and I got up and went to be sick.

It was painful indeed – especially so since I had to kickstart the process myself by placing two fingers down my throat; my stomach felt cut and torn as I threw up; the tension in my head lethal; the groaning, the horrible, stressful process of vomiting, bent down on my knees, concentrating only on that; my two hands on the open bowl. The tension, the silence, the hush, the focus, the concentration, the waiting like a sportsman taking aim on a crucial shot; finally one plucks up the courage to get on with it, to start the gruelling process, even though you know it will hurt. Finally though I did it, hurling up bowl-fulls of acidic-stenching, porridge quaff. I felt relieved to have got it out of my system. It was over. I returned to my bed and to sleep.

Yet half an hour later, I wanted to wretch again. Despite now having so little on my stomach, I still had an overwhelming desire to do so. I lay in bed anxious, caught in two minds; wanting to vomit and relieve myself; yet unwilling to go through the gruelling pain of it, my stomach still aching, remembering how last time it was so torn and pained.

In the end I had no choice; circumstance found me kneeled once more before the toilet bowl, sweating now, concentrating, desperate to be sick; yet for all that, no matter how much I tried to wretch, bringing nothing forth. It wasn’t surprising as I had brought it all up before. Yet the urge to vomit persisted, cruelly putting my torn stomach through the mill. Then as I crouched there in agony, sweating, trying to vomit, but unable to, I was afflicted from a new and hideous angle.

I suffered chronic diarrhoea. I had no idea where it came from, but surprising me, as I knelt concentrating, suddenly it burst out of me, drowning, soaking my pants. That horrible feeling of incontinence, of having no control over it. I knew I was in desperate trouble as it spewed out ceaselessly, the diarrhoea dribbling around the corner, soaking my testicles and penis, creosoting my coarse hair.

The agony of wanting to be sick was unbearable. And I thought it would never end. When it finally did, I felt relieved, lying there on the toilet floor, my head next to the open toilet bowl, what sick there was spattering the toilet and its rim; and then the diarrhoea, the hot curry-stuff, drenching my underpants and seeping and spilling out onto the tiles. I removed my pants and lay naked, shivering on the floor, moaning, recovering.

In time I tried to clear up; to flush away the sick; to wipe up with domestos, the diarrhoea on the floor; to put my dirty pants in a make shift sink; to put on some new ones. Wanting now to be at peace I returned to bed.

But it wasn’t long before the feeling of sickness returned. And now I entered, what at the time, promised to be a never ending cycle, of desiring to be sick, lying there preying it would go away, feeling I wouldn’t have the energy, desperately unwilling to put my stomach through the mill once more, recalling my labour pains of last time; then unable to call it off any longer, racing to the toilet, crouching on the floor, sweating, in agony, beside myself, overtaken by the virus, desperately trying to vomit, my stomach feeling as though it had been run through a cheese grater; producing only minor quantities of vomit, transparent, watery, acidic, lethal to bring up; and then, totally unexpectedly, my body telling me to vomit at all costs, the surprise of the hot diarrhoea spewing out incontinently from my backside; the hot curry-stuff rushing out my backside irresistibly, oozing out and spattering over the floor.

Then when it was finally over, sweating, weak and in disarray, now unable to even contemplate cleaning up, simply returning like one possessed to my bed and there lying down, ill, at sea, fighting now this virus, that threatened to overrun me. I was weak, overcome and pained thoroughly, it was vicious. I was at its mercy, ready to die.

My wife became aware that I was ill at around the third time. I can only imagine what awful sight presented itself to her as, opening up the bathroom door, she must have seen an ageing, naked, scrawny man, his back and posterior to her, crouching over the bowl, in agony, desperately trying to be sick; my pasty, white, naked backside pointing right in her direction. And then to see the hot diarrhoea squirting ceaselessly out of my buttocks, incontinently, God it must have been some sight.

She tried to be sympathetic and to help, but it was clear she couldn’t be bothered with it. She spoke pleasant words, told me not to worry, that it would be alright. But I could sense that she just felt annoyed by the whole affair: tired to have to be up in the middle of the night, when all she wanted was to sleep; irritated that the bathroom would have to be cleaned; irritated that I was in agony and that she was powerless to help.

The sickness was immensely aggravating and painful. I was hot, sweaty, barely conscious, struggling, diverting all power to fighting off the virus; the cycle persisted; the need to get up and vomit; the howling, lurching, retching; the failed deliverance of vomit; the flanking, decoy manoeuvre of the insidious virus, fooling one every time so that I was bent double, my head in the bowl as the diarrhoea spewed hotly out. The pain and soreness of my put through the cheese-grater stomach; the pain and soreness of the base of my rectum; my ever growing reluctance to fight another battle, knowing fine well how sore it would be to lurch and excrete; lying in bed, sweaty, delirious and in agony, trying to avoid another debacle; but in the end the inevitability of it, of having to get up and try and vomit once more.

By the time morning came the bathroom was a litany of sick piles and diarrhoea, an atrocious mess. Piles of sick and diarrhoea lay about the place. In the agony of it, in the madness that infested me, I had irrationally crawled around the bathroom, like a man having a heart attack, grasping, moving, desperate to find some relief, the torture of spewing becoming unbearable, the thought of having to puke once more mentally agonising, my stomach ripped and grated; myself desperately lurching up. And then as a pile formed here and another there, on the next occasion I found a new patch and so on.

It must have been another horrendous sight for my wife that morning. The piles of sick and diarrhoea, the piles of dirty underwear in the sink. I should’ve been grateful that, as I lay in bed, out of it, she dutifully went about cleaning up. I should’ve been grateful that she had expressed some sympathy for me at first. But I wasn’t. Instead I just felt annoyed by her and by the fact that she resented being by nurse. She almost seemed to blame me, as though it were my fault for being ill. She came to me early that morning, as I lay there unbearably, dreadfully ill, trying to stay calm, to sleep off my agony, my illness. But she wouldn’t let me rest.

‘Why don’t you get up, you’ll feel much better for it’ she said irritated.

‘No, no, sleep, sleep’ I said barely conscious.

‘You won’t get any better lying there like that’ she said, peeved, aggressive.

‘Noooo!’ I moaned, giving up. I turned over. Weak, feeble and annoyed, it was only by grunting and moaning that I could possibly try to convey to my wife how unbearable my pain was, and that I had no energy to argue.

Why did she have to be like that? To come and harass me, and tell me what was good for me. A nurse yes, but an irritated one. Why couldn’t she just let me in peace, and concentrate on her own life?

Later on, on another visit to see me in bed, I tried to explain.

‘It’s unbearable, please, I need something to eat. I’m desperate to vomit, to wretch, but I have nothing to bring up. Please, I need something to eat.’

‘No, you can’t have anything to eat. It won’t do you any good’ she replied condescendingly. ‘You only imagine you need to be sick.’

I can’t describe how my wife angered me, telling me what was right and wrong for me, and telling me how I felt. It was stupid and irritating of her, yet probably only borne out of frustration that she couldn’t help me. Yet it was annoying all the same. Why couldn’t my wife have had more sange froide? If it meant she was only going to come to our bedroom to get irritated with me, I’d rather she’d have been an indifferent nurse, and left me alone to ride out the storm. Having said that, I have to express my gratitude. Lying there sick, tortured, she saved me with hot lemonade – having had to go out on a twenty minute walk in the rain to acquire it.

I lay in bed with fever for two days. By the end of the second day, I was feeling a lot better.

Given my wife’s attitude to my illness; her annoyance at it, her patronising remarks about how I was feeling, as I lay there in utter agony; and given how close she’d been to me and my vomit and excrement, it wouldn’t have taken a genius to have worked out that my wife would be next victim.

I felt sorry for her, for being hit by a sucker punch like that, for not having seen the blindingly obvious. I also felt satisfaction, justice.

‘It is unbearable, oh it is’ she said, whining pitifully. I felt such sympathy for her as she admitted this.

‘Oh it’s terrible. All I want to do is wretch, to throw up, but I have nothing left in my stomach. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.’

And so now I, still lacklustre and lethargic, recovering from my illness, became the nurse and she the patient. Now I got to see the horrific site of her naked, pasty, cellulite backside, pointing at me, diarrhoea projecting rapidly outwards, and falling on her naked legs, cascading hotly, as the poor woman, head in bowl, agonisingly attempted to be sick. I spoke kind words, I tried to soothe her, said ‘it’s ok love, you’ll be alright’ just as she had said ‘come on dear, it’ll be alright, don’t worry’ to me. Yet my sympathy was limited. Even just having had it myself, my sympathy was limited. It’s just not natural to be so. It’s annoying for so many reasons: the irritation of having to get out of bed in the middle of the night, of having to play nurse when you want to sleep; having to mop up spew and shit when all you want to do is sleep; the annoyance of having your patient sully the bathroom yet again, just after you’ve cleaned up for the umpteenth time; yet above and beyond all this, the simple powerlessness of genuinely wanting to help but being totally and completely useless. Who would want another human being to suffer? Yet when you are powerless to help, and can only utter a few, condescending, unfelt, disingenuous words of encouragement as they suffer, it really is frustrating.

So that was how it went, I in agony and she the reluctant and irritated nurse; then our roles reversed, and I, after my ordeal, unable to find any real sympathy within myself, an equally tired and irritable nurse, taking it out on my wife, as if it were her fault she was ill. Only in very special cases, when for example the patient is your child, or say, your loved one, in that psychosis of love that exists between lovers in the first six months of love’s illusion; only in these special cases can sympathy be found and the energy mustered to put your arm around the patient and say with genuine feeling ‘you will get better you poor thing.’ To really feel as though you care. Yet even here sympathy is limited. Eventually people become impatient of the sick one, their dependency on others. It’s annoying and depressing to even know about them. One just wants to forget about them. God help the aged, God help them. Only the truest of true Florence Nightingales could have the energy to care for them.

And old, old, old and terribly lonely was exactly how I felt, as I lay on the floor of that alien bathroom, shivering, sweating, my naked, white, weak, pasty old body, lying sprawled and helpless amidst the sick and diarrhoea piles. I am a lonely man. It was brought home to me just how acutely so, as I lay there in agony. We are all alone. It is the cold reality of things. Once I was young, a young, fresh boy. Now a wrinkly, old, lonely man. The arrogance of youth, one’s past crimes and misdemeanours come back to haunt you, as if now your time has come, and justice will be served. The innocence of youth is totally gone. You are old and finished.

A tired, empty, lonely, old man, vomiting, in agony and helpless, shivering, cold and naked, left for the wolves to come and devour him, to remove him from this empty, Godless world.

Tuesday 27th January

It was ironic that two weeks later we had to almost retrace our journey, travelling again from Norwich to the North Wales area, this times stopping just short of the border in Shrewsbury for a wedding, and I think I’ll spend this evening just penning down this, also unhappy little episode.

The wedding was for the daughter of an old school friend of Anna’s. Close when young, they had however had little contact over the past ten or even fifteen years. Most likely, when they were drawing up the guest list for this celebration, our hosts had been in two minds whether or not to invite us; probably we were a borderline case. In the end, presumably not wishing to offend us, on this jovial occasion, they had extended the hand of invitation to us.

Of course we wished they hadn’t. We were to be involved now, in one of life’s little farces, they too polite to dismiss us, we in turn too polite but to accept the invitation. Neither of us wanted to go. Not only would it mean the awkwardness of having to socialise and mingle with people we no longer knew, who we weren’t close to; the loneliness and hassle, the sheer travail of travelling all the way across the country – the North Wales holiday nightmare, still keen in our memories – to stay a night in yet another, anonymous and lonely hotel; then having to put on false faces, false cheer, to help celebrate the marriage of people we barely knew; the two of us forced to socialise with a load of people we never met; and the two of us, in our position of outsiders, borderline invitees, on the fringes of the hierarchy, the poor relations, having to work hard to force our way into the social scrum of this wedding; pariahs, we knew we would be, on the outskirts, the periphery, lowly nobodies, orbiting and in servitude to the centre of blazing glory, the hive of joviality, of joy and genuine happiness and youth, the nightclub at the centre of town, where the revelling persists till dawn.

So not only all of this, but how we would rather have stayed at home! We were still recovering from the Llandudno ordeal for Heaven’s sake. We wanted to be at rest, to be at home. To experience that centrality of spirit, when your soul feels motionless and at centre, at rest. Not, as when we had to make this awful trip, sent into tail spin and waltzing all over the place. And then to see what we were missing out on. Travelling over on Friday afternoon, I would miss my beloved tennis. Then both of us would have to forgo our Saturday. Though we both stopped working several years ago now, we are both so in tune with the week and come Saturday always feel that relaxed, chilled out, soothing of soul. We love to go to a café, to have coffee and lunch, to sit, relax, read, soak up the atmosphere. All of this we would have to forgo.

So stressed, irritated and tense we drove, the journey characterised by an anger and tension, foreshadowing our up-coming act, in which we would have to put on false faces and pretend to be happy. Feeling insecure and lonely, nervous, not looking forward to arriving at our destination, knowing we had nothing to look forward to till, well, perhaps next Friday and Saturday, which was too far away in the future to give solace; angered, terribly angered to have to play out this farce when we didn’t wish to go and probably they would never miss us; oh so angry to be missing out on our weekend pleasures. Angered and peeved to drive two hundred or so miles into the jaws of loneliness, when we could be relaxed and at ease, and at home, delighted playing tennis, or chilling out, at peace in the café. Oh such annoyance.

So did it go. The journey there, the horror of being caught up in the Friday afternoon rush hour traffic; myself at the wheel, tense and irritated, my wife next to me, irritated, annoyed likewise. Then the check in at the hotel. The sterile, cold procedure of checking in; the white walled, unhomely, dreary hotel room.

The wedding, on the Saturday, was to take place entirely at this very same hotel. The ceremony at twelve noon, the lunch at three, the disco at seven and so on. So at eleven o’clock or so, my wife and I, descended once again, with gloom in our hearts, from our imprisoning hotel room, to the congregation area below. The marathon was about to begin.

I think I’ve mentioned earlier my lack of fashion sense, my slovenly style, the fact that I prefer to dress in drab clothes. Usually that takes the form of trainers, jeans, a grey hikers fleece. And I hate wearing suits. Hate it. I don’t know I just feel uncomfortable, foolish, not in my comfort zone. Here I was forced to wear one. But I deliberately wore an old one. The top and trousers didn’t match: I wore a shabby, old, lilac grey, school master’s corduroy jacket, with old black trousers, that didn’t fit. No, I certainly cut a drab figure, not at ease, shabby, the clothes too baggy, not fitting me, hanging off me disrespectfully. I was acutely aware of my physical insignificance, especially at a time like this, my shortness, my inability to impress, my weak looking figure.

And so we descended, I already irked and out of humour, irritated by my clothes, my nervousness in making an entry into the pack, manifesting itself in an uptight expression on my face, that only made me all the less appealing; my drab wife in tow, following me, annoyingly like a sheep, also uptight and unhappy, also cutting a poor figure, old and over the hill, even her dress sense, usually far superior to mine, failing her here, and extenuating all the drab and dreary aspects of her face, figure and soul.

When we entered the vestibule area, we found it a hive of activity. To the main characters of the show, the happy young groom and his cohort of hung-over, yet relentlessly jovial young men; the family of the bride and groom, the fussing mothers and fathers, the well-fed, healthy looking, hale and hearty younger brothers and sisters; the older of them sassy, young and at ease, the yet younger ones running around playing chasy, in excitement; the rows and rows of beautiful, young ladies, decked out magnificently and looking relaxed and easy; to all these central characters with major parts, a sense of well being and joy seemed to enrapture them; caught up in the buzz, the carnival of excitement and activity, they seemed oblivious of all else. Especially the outsiders.

And the outsiders were numerous. Probably more than half the guests, I would say. The lesser relatives, those on the edges of the family circle. Cousins, aunts, uncles even, friends of the happy couple, just not intimately so. The old as well. Yes, I believe that at any wedding, the majority of guests must feel like this, cut out and lonely, having to submissively grin and tip their hats to the bride, groom and main supporting cast, as they buzz around, in excitement, knowing that this is their day, their moment, that today the camera is on them. The majority of guests though are simply supporting cast. Extras. And Anna and myself were right on the fringes of things, the lowest in the pecking order.

So we presented ourselves. Standing there tensely, nervously, I exhibiting a look of undisguised irritation on my face, my wife more humble and self-deprecating, fumbling around looking nervous. In a room full of strangers, brought so close together, not wanting to be here, tensely wanting to be out of it, having absolutely no desire to get into conversation with people I never met; looking out, seeing people in exactly the same state as ourselves, also tense, also unhappy, also pariahs, reluctantly here, wishing they were elsewhere. Then I, looking out upon the hive of activity, the innocent, stupid joy of the bride and groom, getting myself annoyed by the rows and rows of young ladies, beautiful and amazing, but people I have nothing in common with, simple, hollow and boring most likely. Also seeing the well-fed young men and women, young, at ease, relaxed, perfectly at peace with the world; getting myself annoyed by the screaming children, running around chasing each other. And especially on seeing the young ladies, and the dashing, gorgeous, buxom bride, like a plump hen ripe for plucking, feeling anger and rage, which, when I turned to see the shapeless, dowdy old wife, nervously following me about, turned to a black, black anger and impotence.

In this state of tension and irritation – and I mean for many of the guests, as well as myself – did the day sprawl hopelessly along. Whatever anyone may say about the church, I found it irksome, that the couple chose to have their ceremony here, as if to say they were above all the nonsense of religion. At any rate it would’ve broken the day up, to travel from church to reception venue. Instead everything took place in the same room, so that in between events there was much waiting around in the lobby, many tense stand offs in the vestibule.

The ceremony itself was sham and hollow. It might seem hypocritical, for people like the bride and groom (and myself), who never go to church, to turn up there on their wedding day, but the alternative of dismissing such a ceremony, and holding your own, in the commercial atmosphere of the hotel and under the guidance, not of a priest but of a registrar, seemed wrong to me. There may be no God, religion may have many blotches to its name, but for the young couple to confirm this, and arrogantly dismiss the traditional ceremony, left me feeling hollow in my heart. People are foolish when they think they’re above God. Even just in going to Church on wedding days and funerals, just to sing a few hymns, to feel miserable and bored, yet somehow rejuvenated by the dower building, the words of the pastor, the inherent gloom, the sour smell of the cold building – even this, I say, does good to the human soul. Reminds us of something. Seeing it replaced by the smugness of the corporate wedding registrar, the soulless, dull hotel building, hearing the couple with their ‘personal statements’ – as the registrar thought fit to re-brand the wedding vows – their own thought out words of love, amateurish and trite, replacing the boorish and admittedly equally hollow words of the traditional ceremony – seeing this dispirited me. We need God, even just a little bit. Or at least I do.

Then after the wedding, the farce of being introduced to the bride and groom, as all the guests lined up to bestow their good wishes. My wife and I waiting in line, I growing ever more irritated and tense, having spoken to just about no-one, the scowl on my face growing – I didn’t know what else to do; then the embarrassment of having to be introduced to the bride and groom – people I don’t know and never met, people who on another day I would have absolutely nothing to do with; the torture of having to embrace the glowing, tanned, beautiful, buxom, plump peach of a wife, her cleavage on show and drawing one’s attention; my body language terrible. She glowing, radiant, willing to smile on everyone today, to forgive even shabby individuals like myself; I, awkward, tense, bearing an angry, irritated countenance, a scowl on my brow, menacing like a thunder cloud; humiliated by my physical inferiority, my shabby, loose clothes, dwarfed by the physicality of the bride, her beauty eclipsing my plainness, the fumbling, as we half embrace, a handshake, as if I make it clear we shouldn’t kiss – the knowledge that that is what’s going through her head and mine. Suddenly the two of us brought together, face to face and alone, the intimacy of it, the falseness – I think she knew I can’t possibly in my heart like her. Saw in her eyes that she knows I don’t like her. No, no, it was agony for me. I felt humiliated and foolish, and mainly irritated with myself, for not having the bubbly sort of personality, of say, the small, insignificant man up ahead of me, who with genuine joy and happiness, heedless of all else, stepped up to the stunning bride and said ‘give us a kiss love, you look amazing. I’d love to get my hands on you’ and turning to the husband, the proud, strong, handsome man in a kilt next to her, jested ‘God I envy you son, you’re one lucky boy he-he!’ slapping him on the back as he did so.

So the day dragged on. As it did so I became worse and worse. Whereas my wife, even though she too was sick at heart, was at least willing to try and converse with strangers, to put an act on and make small talk, I decided almost from the first instance, that I couldn’t and wouldn’t go through with this farce, and rather than try and make meaningless conversation with people in the same boat, I would just keep my trap shut and show how I truly felt. Which wasn’t good. And the more taciturn I was, the more it came to pass that I scowled and looked angry, simply by being in the presence of all these strangers. Just the tension of it. Not knowing what to do with myself, looking about. The pain of making eye contact with people again and again and again. People like ourselves standing about tense and unsure. Or the young ladies. The constant fuss and hassle as we walked to the vestibule, then were brought in for lunch; then ordered out again while they cleared the tables; then once more in the vestibule; wandering, aimlessly about, constantly going to and fro; seeing how the other guests mingled, feeling left out. Repeatedly passing a group of girls sat on a sofa, the irritation of making involuntary eye contact yet again; the definite impression that the girls thought me a dour old bore and kill joy, and were sick to their back teeth of my presence; my feeing of self worthlessness, hating myself for not being able to socialise.
Then as the disco started, my wife and I moving nervously back into the dining hall, unsure; a look of irritation on my face, a nervous unsurity on my wife’s; the sheer hell of looking about me and making eye contact for the umpteenth time with that same set of girls; quickly breaking the glance and looking around irritated, not knowing where to go, not in the slightest bit interested in the disco, wishing I could be out of it, and knowing that the group of young girls over there are, if they’re not saying it to each other, then thinking to themselves ‘Oh my God, there’s that miserable little man again, with his miserable, nervous looking wife in tow. God! What have they come to the disco for. I’m sick of the sight of them. I wish they’d go home. We tried to be pleasant to him earlier, we smiled at him, made him feel welcome. He had his chance. And yet not only did he remain sour and unwilling, holding himself back, but instead of just heading off home, he’s remained here all day, the complete misery, spoiling the atmosphere for everyone else.’

Finally getting sick, I left the disco hall and marched off upstairs, to escape to our miserable room. My sheep-wife behind me, following me, annoying me by her bumbling behaviour. As we went I deliberately allowed doors to slam in her face, rather than holding them.

‘Where are you going’ said my wife, dropping into an intimate tone as we found ourselves alone in the hotel corridor, upstairs, a long way from the party.

‘I’m going to our room’ I said with real irritation. ‘Why do you have to follow me around like a lost dog’ I said, ‘can’t you think for yourself?’

My wife, seemingly unsure, nervous and bumbling, transformed, thank God, on hearing my words, into a more aggressive tone.

‘Look!’ she said with real anger as we entered the room, as she now, behind closed doors, dropped her self-deprecating, humble attitude and adopted her truer, angered, intelligent, moody persona.

‘I am sick to death of seeing you act like this! You’ve made no effort to talk to anyone. How dare you be so rude to that man and his wife, they were trying to make conversation with you. I am sick of looking at your scowling, miserable God-awful face! I wish you’d wash that bloody look off, I really bloody well do. And make an effort! Because let me tell you’ continued my wife, breaking into a tone as if to make me listen, as if to share some vital, intimate truth with me and only me, ‘I am absolutely sick and tired as well, I’ve absolutely had enough. But I’m making an effort, because you can’t spoil the happiest day of other people’s lives with your own doom and gloom.’

As she said this, she looked intimately into my eyes, and I saw just how tired she was, how stressed, how all she wanted was to be miles away, in the comfort of her own home, going to bed early for a good night’s sleep.

We descended again, and this time I, calmed, made an effort, and joined my good wife in making small talk with some strangers.

As the disco proceeded, and the young and happy danced the night away, we found ourselves at a table on the periphery with another ageing couple, like ourselves, not part of the family, total outsiders. They seem delighted that my wife ventured to sit down next to them – she had spoken briefly with them earlier – and so save them from the torture and embarrassment, the ignominy of sitting there alone, by themselves, and being on the fringes. We were like two lonely boats meeting in the middle of the night.

Yes, as we approached and my wife asked if it’s alright to sit down, and said gently, smiling, did you meet my husband; and as I saw the lights in the eyes of the lady light up welcomingly, pleasantly, as if she’s happy we’ve come to save them; saw her husband change, and shake my hand generously and with exuberant friendliness, as if to say he’s desperate for a friend, a buddy, a chum; as all of this happened it was clear that they were happy to have our company, simply because it removed them from that awkward, tortuous circumstance of sitting there alone.

And I too was glad of this meeting. Relieved to escape the state of moodiness and irritation that had beset me, after hours of sitting and standing around silently, morosely, eye-balling people, getting annoyed, annoyed with others, annoyed with myself. I was glad by this simple act to have drawn a line under all of that agony, and to have entered into something new. True, to any onlookers, all four of us must have cut pretty contemptuous figures; it must have been obvious to all eyes that we only came together for mutual protection, two isolated and lonely couples both on the fringes of the party, lonely and secluded, willing to do anything to escape the horror of sitting alone. And I myself, after my well documented antisocial misery of the previous six hours, where I was rude to all, must have then presented, as I made an attempt to lighten up, a figure of much ridicule and hatred. But I didn’t care.

They were a pleasant couple, she an ex-school teacher, he an engineer of sorts. He told me about his time in Japan, sensitively, a little light in his eyes. We exchanged stories of our lives, and especially about our children. Of course all of the conversation was, as I knew it would be, totally routine and simply there to keep at bay the loneliness that encroached upon us all. I crave intimacy, I want to get to the heart of the matter, to the root of my problems. I despise meaningless chatter, I want that connection, that true bond, that brotherhood of man. Small talk tires me. I can’t understand how the majority of people can make do with shallow pleasantries, and the usual, boring old tales of children and the like. But this time I kept my mouth shut, and half pleasantly listened to the story of the engineer.

It was evident, to me at least, that they are just as lonely and confused as us. Not just here tonight at the wedding, but I mean with life in general. Old, lonely, their children having flown the nest, they have been, like us, hit for six in recent years, loosing all that surety and conviction that the young bloods around us, partying on the dance floor, possess in abundance. They are just as lost as we.

The night went on, it drew to a close, I felt more relaxed. And thankful of my wife, and reminded that she isn’t just a dowdy old fumbler, following me about like a dog that’s had its day. No, in seeing her, her willingness to socialise though she was in no mood to; in seeing her listen to Dave and Margaret; to watch her genial, friendly, sensitive little face, as she pleasantly acknowledged their words; see how well she listened, occasionally chipping in with her own little thoughts; to see again that look of radiance and gentleness on her face, in her eyes, as she smiled, humbly and self-deprecatingly; in all of this, I was reminded again of the woman I fell in love with.