Promise Lost

I was taken aback. I’d made a girl pregnant and it wasn’t my wife. I was filled with an immediate sense of dread and the horrible thought of having to admit the fact to my wife. It wasn’t a good move. My reaction did not endear itself to Rhonda and was something I regretted immediately. The ultimate cause of the way I acted was the shame of what I had done, not shame borne of my own conscience, but that created by social consideration – what would people think of me? For the first time in my marriage I also considered, really considered, life beyond Christine.
It would take a few days to find my voice on Rhondas pregnancy, to become comfortable with it enough to say as much to her. It still wasn’t, looking back, a complete realisation that a life had been created and a baby would be the result. Perhaps I didn’t really believe it would happen or maybe even felt the foreshadow of what was to come. Continue reading

Munich – Part One

January 2003

The story of Munich began in Lisbon or probably even before that. Christine had relented to going to counselling or rather she decided we needed to go for reasons unspoken despite the fact that I had suggested the same course of action two years prior. I decided to be petulant at first – to make the point that it was rather presumptuous to decide what “we” needed especially since I had made suggestion of the same a couple of years back and had been dismissed out of hand. I don’t think she took it too well but I relented, relieved that she had come round to the idea. Continue reading

The Silence And Science Of Giving Up

Giving up is a quiet affair. You don’t fight anymore because it doesn’t matter. You wash your hands of consequence because there is nothing left to fear, change is no longer unwelcome, only the acceptance that what has gone before will never again be. In a marriage giving up heralds the end of intimacy, not just of a physical nature, but of the mind. Continue reading

Colyton & Seaton

Christines aged parents lived in Colyton near Seaton in the north east of Devon. Not Devon proper but that curious outpost that ought to be Wiltshire that is to the east of Exeter. We spent many ‘relaxing’ weekends there where we became, for a day and a half, honorary pensioners. Pensioners are by nature a dying breed and so it was that I felt that a small part of me died with every visit. Continue reading