Two months in the life of miserable old, me: Part 2

Tuesday 20th January – later.

I wrote that last entry just now, after having gone to bed after my bath, then hot and bothered and unable to sleep, I got up and came downstairs and wrote.

Insomnia often affects me. Today however I am not so bothered. On other occasions – like the time I spent on holiday with my wife in North Wales (I will describe this in future some time) – it drives me wild. Tonight though thankfully I feel quite positive, and am, unlike in Wales, here in the comfort of my own home, which is a relief. I’m sitting in our conservatory, the star lit night up outside above me. I’m reclining in one of the easy chairs, my writing pad on my lap, and my faithful and best friend of a dog Harry sitting contentedly on the easy chair next to me. He is short and stocky – a Border Terrier – coloured a burnt sienna brown with black charcoal patches. Anna doesn’t like him sitting on these chairs, but she’s not around and so I’ll indulge him. He’s so happy to be sat next to me. For him I presume, the night is also very lonely, locked away downstairs as he habitually is, and he’s so happy to just sit next to me, to be in my presence. He loves me, I love him, the bond between us is simple, special, something unattainable between two human beings. Really, can anything in this world compare to the mutual, unceasing, unconditional love between man and dog?

So I’m feeling quite relaxed and positive, even soothed and at peace as everyone sleeps. It’s really quite easy to write at a time like this, the more so, since my wife is tucked up in bed and out of the way, not casting her displeased eye upon me and my tale. Yes, the conservatory, the night sky; the quiet, the cool, the cushy chair; the happy Harry who I keep stroking to his pleasure under the chin; and a gin and tonic in front of me – this is very nice.

I realise that in writing like this, it would be better if I put my current plight and problems into context by shedding some light on my character and life history.

To begin with, as I guess you already know, I am a rather morose individual. That said I have developed a kind of steadiness to my personality over the years, never allowing myself, or indeed experiencing, the highs of life; at the same time steadily and calmly trying to avoid the lows. People often think me a bit miserable; I am rarely jovial or excessive; but I think in my own way I am likeable. There is an honesty to me that people eventually appreciate. When people get into conversation with me, and understand my character a bit better, I feel a genuine bond sprouts up between us. Thus, at say a wedding, I am hopelessly antisocial and feel as though I spoil the mood; whereas at a funeral, I am somehow more at home. I am a decent listener, but often impatient of others views, especially when they seem wrong or misjudged. I am often blunt and curt with people and if I disagree or am annoyed I say so: I have no time for the good manners of polite society – they just annoy me. I prefer honesty. My brothers, more manly than I are very polite and respectful in conversation. But I, under no illusions about my nobody status, or the fact that I mean nothing to most people, never stand on ceremony and say what I feel. Anyway I speak with candour and always articulate my thoughts, and by and large I feel people warm to this.

I was born in Newcastle, into a somewhat impoverished family, the sixth and final child to my overstrained, overstressed, hard put upon mother. Lagging several years behind the birth of my siblings, it’s pretty certain – though I never heard it said – that I was a mistake (though indeed none of us were really conceived with any forthsight back then). In her heart my mother loved me I believe, but in every day life, in the tedious, daily battles of survival and relative hardship that confronted us, she was a worn down and miserable woman, and love her though I did, I can never fully and completely think of her in the light that some may regard their mothers. She was an intelligent and sensitive woman, fierce, haughty and proud indeed; her marriage and subsequent pregnancies may all in some sense be described as mistakes. She had options, she might have escaped a life of poverty. But she loved my father, and in the end, remained trapped in the cycle of child rearing, poverty and survival, bitter and disillusioned with her lot. When I came along she must have been emotionally run down, sick, tired and fed up, as well as physically over the wayside. Consequently I was the runt of the litter, inheriting non of the good looks and physique bestowed to my older brothers and sisters. Incidentally, my mother recently died after a long suffering illness; and I think it was due a good deal to her somewhat resentful and irritable parenting of myself when a child that allowed me to feel liberated in regards of my duty of care to her. I certainly took a back seat in things, caring for her only intermittently and letting my older brothers and sisters do the leg work.

Always being intelligent at school, I realised the promise and potential talent of my parents, that they, trapped in their cycle of poverty had been unable to. Coming of age in the seventies, in the atmosphere of liberality, economic well-being and education for all that eventually took root in the country after the paucity of the war years, that my parents knew all too well, I was able to get on in life, to escape my humble background, to educate myself and earn money. By the time I was in my late twenties, I had a high level of university education behind me – specialising in engineering, computing and science – and moreover had secured a well-paid job in an expanding company.

Having come from relative rags to relative riches, I certainly appreciate and enjoy my possessions: I’ve always lived in nice houses. Those feelings of being impoverished, dirty and despised when young; as well as that no one seemed to care for me, or my struggling parents – these feelings have remained with and influenced me. So that I make a point of enjoying my wealth, and only sharing it with those who are near and dear to me. I am mean in general, as a legacy of the meanness shown to me I suppose. I rarely give to charity. I despise homeless people, for instance. They don’t deserve handouts, in my opinion. They should earn their living like everyone else has had to.

So for a long time I had a well paid job and a decent home. After thirty years of employment however, I took voluntary redundancy. It was a good deal money wise. Work wise, to be honest I was fairly happy to quit, having become stressed, sick and dissatisfied with the monotony of work. I know some people hide from their misery by working. Yet I was never one to do that. It seemed to me a more honest step to quit working. I would be equally unhappy unemployed, I knew. But it would be a better sort of unhappiness, more profound; I could concentrate more on my problems. I know that sounds a little stupid; and people often tell me that work will provide me with what is lacking in my life. But I know it won’t: it is simply another way of avoiding the core issue.

Anyway I have digressed. To return to my story. Financially then I was in a great position, and I guess it was at this point in my life, that I could finally turn more closely to other aspects of my existence: namely my loneliness and the absence of a woman and a family.

I spent a good few years, a young man out of humour, dispirited. My work-life was great, and within that context I was active and successful. (Though I should stress, not so active: I was never one to consume myself in work or commerce. Though I was often depressed and dispirited, I didn’t, like some of my colleagues, give everything to my work, to compensate for loneliness. No, I always retained that aspect of my personality, considering it more salutary to face an evening of loneliness and sad emotion, than burying myself in work.) So yes, in the evenings, in my social life, then I would feel miserable, lonely and out of humour. Dark, lonely nights depressed me, I felt that it would be my fate to always remain alone, aloof and downcast.

So when Anna came into my life, it was like a transformation. I fell in love. Suddenly I had someone in my life to care for, to love. Suddenly there was meaning. Suddenly when I was at work it didn’t feel so bad. I had her to think of, her to return home to: she was a joy to me.

Both in Newcastle and in London – where I eventually moved, and where I met Anna – I found myself single and lonely. The dark evenings, spent miserable and alone if I was in London, or miserable and in the company of my parents and unmarried sisters, if I were in Newcastle – both of these were dour experiences. Though I got along well enough with my family, always I felt slightly apart; lonely, moody and more complicated than they, they could pass the dark evenings in front of the TV, whilst I, irritated and unhappy, would have to take myself off for a walk in the gloom, lonely, stressed, incomplete and loveless. Eventually, when moving to London to take up a new and better paid job, I was glad to be alone. Though here again, I felt just as rotten on a nighttime, only in a different way. I would spend my time chatting with my friends in a pub, cutting, I imagine, a rather miserable, cynical, morose figure, a soul unhappy at heart. I wasn’t very good at making friends; and this was especially true with women.

When I met Anna then, it was, as I say, such a relief, as though I could finally relax. It was love at first sight. Whatever love may or may not be, whatever may have happened in our marriage since – the gloom, the bickering, the hatred, tension and disgust – still I won’t ever tarnish that first meeting of ours: it was love at first sight.

Entering my local bar to meet up with my friends, my best friend, whom I was walking toward, greeted me, and, in the same instant, stepping to the side, revealed and introduced behind his person, the smiling Anna, sitting on a stool at the bar. I had entered the pub, with my habitual look of brooding discontent; and it was this look that I presented Anna with. She smiled back so warmly and pleasantly, looking at me like no women ever had; she really seemed joyed simply by my presence and looked my whole figure over in her own time and apparently with satisfaction.

I don’t think I smiled or altered my countenance; but within me a flame had been lit: I suddenly felt so, so enthused, so happy, so energised. Here in a lonely, dreary world, a world that I’d almost given up on, I had finally found a woman, I could really, truly like; a woman I could love.

It wasn’t difficult to get talking to Anna. She was so sympathetic, a great listener, warm, friendly, soft and pleasant. She was angelic, shy and sensitive. She warmed to me, listened to me, always conscious and intelligent, responsive to all I said. I talked, showed I was keen and thoughtful, whinged I might say, in my dower but endearing way, telling her my views on life, politics, society. And she listened, sensitively, politely, joyed I think by my intelligence. My excitement, I recall, grew as I talked. I felt she liked my personality. I felt I liked hers. We found ourselves agreeing on things, I liked her attitude and opinions. She was good-looking, cute and comely; yet so mature and disinterested in being cool, hip or fashionable. Her kindness and maturity ruled over her being; she was radiant and had a child-like, sensitive face; but personality and not looks were what counted for her: and she liked my personality, I knew. She was so understanding, considerate and lovely; sympa as the Italians say.

I think we both knew there was a bond between us even half way through that first conversation, even earlier I might say. Just that feeling that steals upon us when we fall in love, of being in the presence of a kindred spirit. I didn’t want it to end. When it did, it was with mutual regret, that we had to part company. We promised to see each other again. As we left, a look of meaning passed directly between our eyes.

In the dark cold air of winter, which greeted my departure from Anna and the pub, I experienced the dizzying ecstasy of being in love. Almost as if that freezing cold air that drew the very breath out of my chest, so that I panted; almost as if it drew it out with intent so that I felt as though I breathed a final, ecstatic breath of joy. Almost as if I hung, for that perfect moment, falling joyously through the open air; taken up into the ether on the wings of love; and there dropped to soar exhilarated through the Heavens.

I walked on through the night. The cold, crisp eventide; the clarity of the Heavens, the brightness of the stars; the quiet, deserted streets, the packed snow crunching underfoot. My soul was sad yet joyous. I was quiet, serene, happy as though satisfied. Quietly on the high of life, at the pinnacle; also at the end. In a twinkling, I had arrived at where I was meant to be, my destiny; the end lay ahead as well.

Well and so it went. I won’t over do it. We met again and many times after, and love followed its course. I should say part of the reason for Anna’s maturity was down to her being a mother: she had already bore a child in a previous relationship. And I think it’s fair to say, that it was also with this child, a seven year old girl named Joanna, that I fell in love with.

Joanna was in every way bright, outgoing, alive and friendly. We struck up an understanding immediately. Normally useless, stiff, and awkward, a fish out of water with children, with Joanna I was instantly witty, charming, confident and at home: just like her mother, she gave me that confidence to be so. Physically like her mother, blond, cherub like and tall and skinny, she was at the same time intelligent, sensitive, so curious and alive, and, I guess on account of having lived without a father, mature. There was also a feral aspect to her nature: she was like a wild animal: untamed, individualistic, a loner. She seemed to take pride in her strangeness, was happy to call herself crazy, and would often play by herself in the nearby woods. She was a bit of a tom-boy; adventurous, playing camps, climbing and getting stuck in the mud. She had been bullied at school, so I found out, because she had no father and was, as the other kids had said ‘a bastard.’ Sensitive, she had hated this epithet yet she was strong enough to fight it, and stood up for other children who were bullied. Like her mother, she had that angelic quality: she would stick up for the weak in life. She didn’t care who they were, they would all get her support.

One day, as a child, she came home crying from the woods: two boys there had bullied and beaten her, and worse of all, proceeded to smear dog dirt in her face. She came to me and her mother, and more so to me especially, tearful and crying, and I saw her sensitive little face besmirched like a miners with the dog excrement; her pretty little upturned nose, tipped in it. She bawled her eyes out, I soothed and cared for her, and I recall the immense love and sympathy in my breast, and my bewilderment that some boys could do this to her, to that little child, that sweet, endearing cherub.

And so I fell in love also, and I dare say more so, with this young girl. We were in tune with each other like no one else. Cold and begrudging with other children as I was, this one I indulged unsparingly, so consistently mature, intelligent and lively was she. Even to the detriment of my relationship with Anna, I would favour her. Few have been the occasions where I sided with her mother and not Joanna in an argument. She and Anna – A and J as I sometimes call them – often found themselves at loggerheads, especially in her teenage years. And usually J could rely on me to side with her. Not because I was a poor parent, ready to satisfy her every whim. On the contrary, J was never that sort of child. But rather because her demands usually seemed reasonable and mature, and I often felt it to be her mother who was being overprotective. Though so alike, J has always had a certain confidence, strength and sense of courage that my wife lacked. Anna, pleasant, sensitive, intelligent could also be annoyingly timorous, uncertain, unconfident, a worrier, a petit bicker and overprotective of her daughter. Whereas Joanna was always more forthright. So you see, when Joanna wished to go off skiing to France with the school aged thirteen, my wife was full of misgiving; would she break her legs, get pregnant, be raped? What if she ran out of clean underwear, skipped breakfast or forgot to brush her teeth? Or if aliens landed and fed her ice cream? My wife was full of bumbling doubt. I, decided, and irritated by her, laid down the law, and told her J would be going. In the little triangle, of Anna, Joanna and myself, the union between myself and Joanna has always been strong, often to the detriment of our relationships with Anna.

Of course those who think, like certain members of my family did, that Anna simply married me so as to acquire the security and support necessary to raise her child, may indeed possess a grain of truth in their deductions. Certainly Anna’s previous boyfriend, the father of Jo was a rough and tough, field-playing rogue; myself the plain and grounded husband material. But I don’t really care. They came as a package, the ties of love were true between us, and I was glad to throw in my lot with them. They provided the happiness and love I needed in my life.
I think I will now describe one particular memory that sticks in my mind: a holiday spent on the west coast of England. Such days, such times, gone forever now, but the likes of which formed the happiest days of my life.

It was the Whitsuntide half term holiday. We set off on the Sunday morning in our car, such a feeling of freedom and adventure possessing our hearts and especially the young Joanna’s. Enthused, bright and innocent, up for some fun, an adventure – how uplifting youth is, to the down trodden and dispirited like myself. J’s joy was infectious, I felt it too, felt those feelings of my childhood rekindled. By evening we were nearly at our destination. We stopped off for dinner at a motorside café, the little chef, beloved of children (and adults) everywhere.

How good it was, on this Sunday evening, this holiday, to relax and unwind in the knowledge that we had a week off, a whole week of liberated amusement up ahead of us. God to be free. Let on the loose for a week. How glorious. Especially so for the young Jo. She studied the menu rapturously, deciding what to have.

‘Are we having a dessert, Bertie’ she asked of me, employing her favourite nickname.

‘No, we’re just here to have a meal dear’ said my wife. ‘You’ll get something sweet later, when we get home to the cottage.’

‘Argh!’ I immediately burst in ‘I had my heart set on cherry and pancakes.’

‘Oh don’t be encouraging her’ said my wife, annoyed that I was playing up. ‘We’ll get something later. It’s so terribly expensive.’

‘Well I won’t have anything then’ I said, deliberately childish. J beamed, her dark, brown eyes lit up, like a little animal with joy.

‘No, me neither’ she said, playing the game.

My wife soon saw it was two against one, and being in a good mood gave in. We got two desserts in the end – J was desperate for a waffle with treacle and cream – and we shared them between the three of us, J and I not liking Anna to miss out, and wishing to sample each others dishes.

Such a simple, genuine thing: swapping desserts with my daughter, her eyes, face and entire soul lit up and beaming. Not wishing Anna to miss out; sharing, so that everyone got a bite; and sharing for sharing’s sake – not each person, keeping their own dish for themselves; but sharing – almost as if to say how much we loved each other. My dear wife, my darling little daughter. How simple, how loving. The joy of it. The happiest part of my life. Where did such days go to, never to return? It almost brings a tear of regret to my eye.

We settled into our holiday cottage that night. J and I had wanted to go camping, but Anna had talked us out of it. Certainly it was a very homely cottage. Joanna enthusiastically went about exploring, looking in the bathroom, the kitchen, delighted with her own bedroom, and the free towels and soap.

The next morning she was up and about exploring; the sprightly waif, beaming and excited, running off to look around the camp. By midday we found ourselves at the seaside. To be honest the weather was awful: gloomy, overcast and raining. As well as this the entire seaside resort was run down and deserted. We went to a fun fair, J determined to go on the waltzers, the roller coaster, the dodgems; her mother horrified, frightened, arguing with her; I stepping in, telling my wife to calm down, that you have to take risks in life, you have to live, and going on all the rides with J.

To be honest, now that I recollect all of this – the miserable, run down fun fair, with its shooting galleries, its rides, its silly prizes; the mindless, depressing amusement arcade, which like the fun fair really belonged and does belong to a bygone era; the miserable and lonely walk we took thereafter along the beach; the cold, windy, wet day, the grey sea flecked with white sea horses; waves crashing in a cataclysm of froth, noise and foaming; the irritation of sand in my feet and in between my toes; the loneliness and isolation we all felt, as we traipsed, unsure what to do with ourselves, through this barren and deserted tourist town, so unwelcoming and unfriendly – when I recall all of this, I see that back then too, even with the ever buoyant J by our side, Anna and I were really very sad and lonely, and our mood infected poor J. Yes, it would be a fallacy to look upon this part of my life with rose tinted glasses and claim it was all so good. No, that was quite a miserable first day we had then; the loneliness, the profound feeling of being unhappy – my wife and I knew it all too well back then.

So we walked along the beach, the energetic J, running ahead, searching for treasures washed up by the sea, or skipping and splashing at the water’s edge. She had a ride on a pony, my wife again objecting on health and safety grounds, I again intervening to make it two against one. After that we all ate some pink candy floss. Later on, in one of her scouting missions J headed off ahead and discovered an object of interest. She stood above it waving and yelling for us to come and see it.

It was a stranded eel I believe. Quite how it had landed in its predicament was hard to tell. But it had been washed ashore somehow, and lay breathing badly, wriggling and in distress on the sand. J, loving all animals – she’d nurtured back to health injured birds, wounded field mice and even an ailing hedgehog previously – was desperate to help. When I caught up and stood over the poor, squirming creature, I cast a cool but interested glance at it.

‘I think it’s an eel’ I said curiously, ‘I don’t know how it’s ended up like this.’

‘Does it need to go back in the sea?’ asked J.

We decided to lift it back to the sea. J, impressively anti-squeamish, picked the thing up, and carried the slimy, squirming creature to the water’s edge. Yet however hard we tried to reintroduce it to the water, the tide, coming inwards, washed it ashore again.

We made several attempts. By now the rain was falling hard: the grey clouds had finally broken, it was chucking it down. The tide drove in, the grey waves rolling and crashing, their leading edge breaking furiously into foam. Having waded in, my jeans were wet at the bottom and stuck to my legs. It felt as though there were fountains at the bottom of my trainers.

We made several efforts, each time venturing further in; but each time the helpless creature being washed up anew. It was like a mini disaster. For all that J and I were wet, soaking and sweating, engaged in our task, we both knew we had to help this creature. It was our mission somehow, an adrenaline hit for both of us.

After several failed efforts, we hatched a new plan. The water where we stood was just too shallow. Nearby however, there was a craggy rock pool that reached far out; by running out along this we might reach deeper water, in which to release the eel.
To my poor wife who observed all of this; saw J and myself enter the water in the first place; and then make a second sortie out onto this rock pool – to my poor wife this must have been some horror show. We heard her screams and her pleading, begging us to cease our ludicrous shenanigans, to stop giving her a heart attack. At the time we just ignored these as we routinely did: she was worrying over nothing, so we thought. Yet in retrospect, my God she had a point! Even the sea itself, in these parts, is notoriously deceptive; mud flats, uneven surfaces, tales of paddlers caught out by incoming tides – we could have easily been swept away simply by entering the sea; but to make an expedition out along that low-lying rock pool, slippy and treacherous with wet and algae as it was, when the tide was coming in, with mist descending and limiting vision and when there wasn’t a lifeguard within miles – good God my wife had every right to be petrified.

J and I ran out across the rock pool with pace, recklessly stepping across the stones. Reaching the periphery we considered throwing it in. However the periphery was not quite the periphery: a ledge on a lower level to that on which we stood protruded yet further; and in order to avoid throwing the eel onto these rocks I decided to lower myself onto this very ledge. The keen J was right on my heels. Telling her to back off and be careful, I lowered myself down the side of the rock pool; hanging at arm’s length, then allowing myself to drop the remainder. Yet I lost my footing as I fell, slipping on the rock.

J screamed. Immediately I was up, my knee and shin stinging with pain. The rain pounded, the foam spewed over, crashing against the rock. To my wife who watched all from ashore, some 60 metres off, and saw J and myself at the precipe of the rock pool; saw the raging sea, battering against the rocks, the white foam spewing over us; saw the white sea mist envelop our distant figures; saw my figure disappear out of sight as I descended the reverse side of the rock pool; heard J scream – dear Lord what must she have thought. In the end, my legs soaked and paining, I nevertheless proceeded with the task; J lowering the wriggling eel down to me, and I taking it in my arms, then turning, bending over the side and lowering it in. In the deep water it swam away.

J helped me clamber back up; and then the two of us, wary all of a sudden of the serious peril we were in as the mist descended, carefully made our way back to Anna, who quite rightly didn’t speak to us all the way home.

Though I see clearly now the danger I allowed myself and my child to get into; and though it could’ve ended disastrously with the two of us stranded or swept out to sea, still, for all that, I would do it all over again, and allow J too as well. There was something in our nature to take risks like that; we loved the adrenaline of it. It was a great kick at the misery of our lives.

We arrived back at the cottage soaked to the skin. We had one of those old-fashioned blazing fires, and we both sat in front of it, soggy, wet and bedraggled, drying out, getting warm, our clothes beginning to itch as we dried and they didn’t. We drank hot chocolate and ate chocolate biscuits. And that moment remains in my head. Of the two of us relieved and renewed after our mission, so glad to be indoors and by the fire and safe again. The grey storm persisting outside, ourselves safe and secure inside. Relaxed and cosy after successfully completing our mission. Both of us happy, reclining, the warmth of the fire in front of us; the cherub J innocently getting chocolate on her face; my wife, now forgiving us, going about making dinner, and ordering us – in an endearing way – to take showers. Then the lovely hot shower, the novelty and simple pleasure of showering in a shower that isn’t your own, the mystery and excitement of complimentary soaps and towels; and then finally J and I, returning with wet hair, dried and dressed in fresh, crisp, clean clothes and sitting at the dining table chatting, my wife preparing dinner in the background; a delectable assortment of cold ham and chicken, fresh, crusty bread, salad and hard boiled eggs, crisps and freshly baked pie. Yes, me with my wet hair and my cold beer, J with her wet hair and her coke, both of us sitting there satisfied and waiting as Anna prepared such a delicious meal for us all. How beautiful.

I could probably enumerate many such fond memories. I have a wealth of little images, small gleanings of our previous happy life. I see Anna and myself sat on stools at our home mini-bar, a miniscule brewery we had in our home; whilst J dashed around at our feet, excited, lively, playing. Or J and I taking a train ride out to an animal sanctuary in the countryside for a school project she was doing. Myself middle aged, bearded, bespectacled, dressed in my fleece; the fresh young teenage girl sitting next to me, needing me, leaning toward me in security as we looked out the window together.

Or beautiful summer evenings on a Friday, when we would open the patio doors, allow the summer night to invade the house and go out in the garden and have a BBQ. I the chef this time, the intoxicating delight of its smell; the delicious hot beef burgers and sausages, the crisps, the salad, the cheese and pickled onion sticks, washed down with orange and coke; the languid summer evening, as we sat in the hazy, smoky air, eating our meal, relaxing, listening as the fountain poured soothingly into the fish pond; the last red beams of day, falling gloriously on the water. So many good memories.

Of course there were many bad ones as well. Shortly after meeting my wife we had our first quarrel, and we’ve been having them ever since. Usually it is because we don’t see eye to eye on something very trifling and petty; and I think I would be justified in accusing my wife of being small minded and over prim. But it’s not really the point. At heart I know it is because we are both deeply unhappy, that we are both sensitive beings in this lonely, Godless world that leads us time and again to argue; we feel low, we feel lonely; and because we have only each other, and no one else; and because we know there is no solution for us, our unhappiness manifests itself in petit bickering, arguments and quarrels. Which is not to say we haven’t had some showdowns, we have. On many occasions we’ve considered separation, divorce – though I think we’ve weathered that stage now. It’s just at the end of the day and in my heart I understand my wife perfectly and it’s pointless to level blame at her.

Joanna grew up. Her teenage years followed in a similar vein to her childhood; as ever she was mature, intelligent and alive. She studied hard and well, though enjoying herself along the way, a rebel against her mother, an ally of myself, clever, witty, strong and independent. Eventually she went off to university.

When she did so – to study as a vet – it didn’t at first hit home to us. Because she was so close at hand and visited regularly, rang regularly, and we went out to see her and sent her packages, we didn’t really notice in the first year. In fact we were somehow under the false illusion that nothing had really changed. Actually we’d been somewhat prepared for it. So when the second year came around, and she had more of her own friends now, visited less and called less, it was something of a hammer blow.

That second autumn and winter was simply dreadful. I had never felt so morose in a long time. My wife and I finally came to see that our little chick had flown the nest. On those dark, dark evenings it was impossible not to get depressed, to feel that sense of loss, the loss of youth, of verve; that terrible sense, creeping sadly upon us, that we were no longer needed anymore. The sad, empty house, the lonely dark evenings. My wife and I dispirited, unable almost to face each other, bored by our persons, irritated and annoyed with ourselves, thinking on our daughter. Feeling deep, deep sadness at her absence, almost crying to think just how fond we had been of her, almost as if she’d died; hoping for the telephone to ring; wanting to break down and cry and ask her to please come home, my dear, to fill the awful void of our lives. Thinking how only eighteen months previously, we’d taken her so for granted, as though she’d always be there, wasting our time in rowing and arguing, door banging, moods and teenage nonsense. My wife and I knew it was the beginning of the end.

Some ten years on, I guess it is easier to handle: we long ago accepted our doom. Anyway she’s a vet these days, is J, still as she was, and like her mother when I met her, caring, independent, a force for good. We see her fairly regularly in fact; but it is never enough. We can’t base our lives around her. She is free, independent, we have to prepare our lives without her. Any solution that my wife and I may try to seek, to improve our situation, must, we now realise, be done under the assumption that she no longer needs us, is independent, and that we are on our own. That part of our life is over.

So that then is something of where I came from, my life story. People sometimes ask me if I regret not having children of my own. The answer to that is a definite no. Morose, depressed and moody, somehow I always knew and was happy that I would be the last of my kind off the production-line. Having children, seems to me, to be a way in which people dodge the real problems of life; stealing off and hiding themselves away in the process of child rearing, no longer thinking or philosophizing, or trying to appreciate the purpose of life; smugly passing on the baton to their children; who in turn, are expected to be infinitely grateful to their parents for their grand sacrifice, and prepared to tax their brains, face the misery and depression of life and to cope with the banality of being alive. No, by avoiding all of that, I feel proud and wise. I haven’t lived a lie. The real business of life, the misery, the desire for something more, the hopes and disappointments of reality – I have looked all this directly in the eye. I haven’t looked to avoid it. And with all my problems, my inherent misery and gloom, how could I ever justify bringing a child into the world; how could I answer its questions honestly? No, I am preserved, just as I ever was, proud of my ability to see through the mirage of life and not be fooled by deceitful illusions. I will live out my days always looking for a solution to my problems, and probably never finding one. I will go to my grave, knowing my death heralds the extinction of my line. And that is good. I feel pleased by the thought of it. What on earth would’ve been the point of creating progeny; of siring a mini-version of myself, replete with angst, anger, misery and gloom? How could I ever have faced such a child? It would’ve been like looking in the mirror. My offspring would only have annoyed me. I was lucky to land up with J; for in her, and her buoyant personality, I found escape from the inherent dismal persuasion of my own. She was great, and I have to say, I was fortunate to inherit her when a child; for the debacle of pregnancy, of raising a baby, the nappy-changing, spoon-feeding, up all hours routine of servicing an incontinent vegetable – that would never have been for me.

And in Anna and J I was given access to the world of women, and with that I was satisfied. It was more than enough for me. Without it, I would’ve missed out. My anger may have turned to aggression; I would’ve always felt an outsider in regards the female sex. But with those two, I felt sated and at peace. Even the company of women, the sound of their voice, their smell, the very difference of their nature, every man, I say, needs this in his life, even if just from time to time. Without it he’ll go insane.

J has had many suitors. She’s had to reject many of them. Sensitive men seem especially attracted to her – men who by and large dislike women in general. Intellects, other vets and doctors, self-made business men. It’s funny that, sensitive girl though she is, she treats most of these suitors fairly harshly. Naturally I see it from the male perspective; but I never go against J or point out to her, her apparent lack of feeling; on the contrary I support her and attempt to understand her viewpoint, agreeing that she was right in her actions. This is one of the ironies of life; on another day, in other circumstances, I could’ve been one of those downcast, upset, heartbroken men, denied access to J’s life, considered weird and strange. Yet with her I’m persona gratis, invited into the very heart of her world. Her mother and herself accepted and loved me – with that I am bought off. Some abstract, general sense of viewing the world, tells me to stick up for my fellow man, to chastise my women; but selfishness prevails, my ego is the thing, the tight knit bonds between myself and J and Anna outweigh, by a million fold, any abstract love of A.N.Others. And so it should be. Ultimately we’re all alone in this world, designed to compete against each other. When I was down and dispirited as a young man, no one stepped in to help me, save Anna and J. In return they get my loyalty. Life is not made up of a general love for all. It is made up of small and meaningful bonds to a handful of individuals; individuals chosen at random, so that one hundred girls may reject you without rhyme or reason and the next one consider you perfect.

I want to finally say something on love. Like I say, I did genuinely fall in love. True love. Yet it is so spliced, cut and laced with other feelings that it is impossible not to consider the notion of love with at least a crumb of contempt. Physical attraction plays its part. I loved Anna’s personality yes; but also she was comely. Would my love for her have been the same if she’d been plainer? And now, looking at how she’s changed, could I really fall in love with that ageing woman? Hasn’t my love for her diminished precisely as her looks have faded? Yet having said all that I am not convinced: love always fades even if looks don’t, and I could never have fallen in love with many a beautiful woman.
Love is I believe, as someone once said, a psychosis that lasts for six months. After that, a lasting bond is formed; but in everyday life, both partners become neutral with one another, accustomed to their presence. Yes, love is magical when it illuminates you: it is a burning flame. And gradually that flame diminishes, as its energy, its heat, is used to cement and form, a stable, boring, yet useful bond. Love is like a volcanic eruption; what follows when it cools is the enduring union and hegemony, the formed, cool and collected mountain range, strong, sturdy and inert.

That love is relative seems true to me. I always felt more at ease when with Anna and J alone; for then I was free to love them and be natural, true to myself. In the presence of others my behaviour was affected. Almost as if it’s a competition, yet it mattered to me, for the world to see me with the lovely Anna and J, and to reconsider my status as a man. Such things were petty I know, and trounced on those purer, nobler feelings of love that befell me. Yet all the same it is how we are programmed: to show off. By the same token, as Anna’s looks faded, I have often found myself in company, often at weddings, feeling dispirited on account of my old and dowdy wife; sad that she can no longer lift my status, but rather only confirm my role as a loser. Such things are trifling and unimportant in theory but irritating and depressing in reality. And in the company of others, especially those you don’t know or like – such as at weddings which I loathe whole heartedly – these feelings arise.

Even my own wedding, I spent in the end feeling gloomy and dispirited. I somehow had to be the centre of attention, the chief male for the day. It wasn’t natural that my brothers say, so much more manly than I, should pretend to play second fiddle for the day, whilst I sat in pole position, captain of the table. The role ill-suited me. No, the genuinely meant, yet patronising back slapping and hand shaking of my brothers, welcoming me into the world of men; the talk of all the women, looking at me with renewed eyes, their opinions of me reassessed, false looks of pretended interest in me thrown my way, the acknowledgement that I had landed a pretty little wife; the view of my family that I was somehow normal now, just like they, thank God; the whole evolutionary, primitive-animal dynamic of the wedding day, with relatives and friends gathered, most of whom you don’t really like, all ogling and judging each other, how pretty, how beautiful, how strong, the feeling that my love for Anna, our love, had to be tainted, corrupted, by the tacky views of onlookers; that sense of hierarchy, of alpha males and lesser males, alpha females and lesser females; all of that taints love, and shows me, I think, that we should look on love with suspicious eyes; and see it cynically, as just another time-worn ritual, heretofore a million-times played out, employed by evolution to keep the species going. For all that though, there is something magical in falling in love, something esoteric. And for he or she who never felt it, I can only express sympathy.