pint, and I’m sorry Sid, as the arm reaches back and back, like a parody of a ballet move, his whole body twisted round to strike. Sorry Sid, sorry Tracey. Sorry son, sorry wife. I love you; I’m sorry, good night, good luck.
He just starts to unwind; the end of the chisel just starts to alter course and enter its lethal final trajectory, when a huge black shape flies across my field of vision. One second, I’m well and truly under the chisel. The next, fuck, millisecond, the benevolent yellow glow of the streetlight bathes me in rays again. My head falls to one side. Blood flows from my mouth, onto the street. I inhale through my nose. Then I exhale. Mist forms.
Gradually, my hearing returns.
I suck in another breath. The cold numbs the inside of my nose. It is a wonderful feeling.
“Hold him!” I hear.
“Fucking get his legs!” I hear.
“Stop resisting! STOP RESISTING!” I hear.
I close my eyes. It’s suddenly too much effort to hold them open. I exhale. Another voice, a calmer, kinder voice, close to my ear: “You’re okay mate. You’re okay.”
I do believe I am, I think but do not say. I can still feel the glow of the light, still see it through my eyelids, but it’s fading, becoming distant. That’s okay, I think. The voice turns away, yells something about Victor Charlie Tango. I hear the word "Ambulance", and the word "Urgent", but that too is fading along with the glow. There’s no tunnel of light, only darkness, but that’s okay.
That’s okay. I fall into the dark, and I’m glad of it. It’s good to be alive.
It’s good to be alive.
THE LOVING HUSBAND AND THE FAITHFUL WIFE
1
My wife is a great communicator. Her tone, her word choice (my wife has an extensive vocabulary), her facial expressions, body language and gestures combine in a wonderful symphony of expression. She says what she means. But you have to pay attention.
This morning. She came down the stairs in her silk dressing gown and kissed me on the head. “Morning.” Her voice was a little thick with sleep. The kiss was affectionate but not warm. She will be feeling grumpy. A cup of tea will lighten her mood.
“Tea, darling?” I’m already rising.
She smiles and, this time, when she says, “Thanks, sweetheart,” there is real warmth in her voice and her smile touches her eyes. She is melting. I have read her mood correctly. She approves. She sits down in her customary place while I make the tea.
I look over. “Did you sleep well?”
“Mmm.”
A slight tilt of the head, a non-committal tone. She didn’t sleep well, but she doesn’t want to talk about it. This normally means another bad dream, anxiety-based. She never discusses these dreams because she doesn’t like to worry me or to appear flighty. She worries about so much - her job, me and my health. Never overtly, but it’s all there if you know how to listen, how to see. I feel such a rush of affection in this moment - pure love - at her need to conceal this from me, to be strong for me. I return her weak smile with a strong one, full of emotion: I understand, I love her, I will protect her from anxiety, she has nothing to fear. Her own smile widens, accepting my comfort, my assurance, and the anxiety drains away from her eyes. She is reassured and happy.
You see? Such simple words, simpler gestures, but so very much conveyed, understood, shared. An effort, yes. But was ever effort more surely or faithfully rewarded? Besides, I love her with all my heart and soul and would do anything to keep that smile on her lips and protect what we’ve built together.
2
Five years ago, we decided to fit a conservatory to the rear of our house. The garden had ample space and the patio did not suit us – I’m not much of a barbecue enthusiast and neither is my wife. A sun lounge made much more sense. I’d secured a new contract, promotion, and a not inconsiderable cash bonus. A sun lounge would improve both the value
He just starts to unwind; the end of the chisel just starts to alter course and enter its lethal final trajectory, when a huge black shape flies across my field of vision. One second, I’m well and truly under the chisel. The next, fuck, millisecond, the benevolent yellow glow of the streetlight bathes me in rays again. My head falls to one side. Blood flows from my mouth, onto the street. I inhale through my nose. Then I exhale. Mist forms.
Gradually, my hearing returns.
I suck in another breath. The cold numbs the inside of my nose. It is a wonderful feeling.
“Hold him!” I hear.
“Fucking get his legs!” I hear.
“Stop resisting! STOP RESISTING!” I hear.
I close my eyes. It’s suddenly too much effort to hold them open. I exhale. Another voice, a calmer, kinder voice, close to my ear: “You’re okay mate. You’re okay.”
I do believe I am, I think but do not say. I can still feel the glow of the light, still see it through my eyelids, but it’s fading, becoming distant. That’s okay, I think. The voice turns away, yells something about Victor Charlie Tango. I hear the word "Ambulance", and the word "Urgent", but that too is fading along with the glow. There’s no tunnel of light, only darkness, but that’s okay.
That’s okay. I fall into the dark, and I’m glad of it. It’s good to be alive.
It’s good to be alive.
THE LOVING HUSBAND AND THE FAITHFUL WIFE
1
My wife is a great communicator. Her tone, her word choice (my wife has an extensive vocabulary), her facial expressions, body language and gestures combine in a wonderful symphony of expression. She says what she means. But you have to pay attention.
This morning. She came down the stairs in her silk dressing gown and kissed me on the head. “Morning.” Her voice was a little thick with sleep. The kiss was affectionate but not warm. She will be feeling grumpy. A cup of tea will lighten her mood.
“Tea, darling?” I’m already rising.
She smiles and, this time, when she says, “Thanks, sweetheart,” there is real warmth in her voice and her smile touches her eyes. She is melting. I have read her mood correctly. She approves. She sits down in her customary place while I make the tea.
I look over. “Did you sleep well?”
“Mmm.”
A slight tilt of the head, a non-committal tone. She didn’t sleep well, but she doesn’t want to talk about it. This normally means another bad dream, anxiety-based. She never discusses these dreams because she doesn’t like to worry me or to appear flighty. She worries about so much - her job, me and my health. Never overtly, but it’s all there if you know how to listen, how to see. I feel such a rush of affection in this moment - pure love - at her need to conceal this from me, to be strong for me. I return her weak smile with a strong one, full of emotion: I understand, I love her, I will protect her from anxiety, she has nothing to fear. Her own smile widens, accepting my comfort, my assurance, and the anxiety drains away from her eyes. She is reassured and happy.
You see? Such simple words, simpler gestures, but so very much conveyed, understood, shared. An effort, yes. But was ever effort more surely or faithfully rewarded? Besides, I love her with all my heart and soul and would do anything to keep that smile on her lips and protect what we’ve built together.
2
Five years ago, we decided to fit a conservatory to the rear of our house. The garden had ample space and the patio did not suit us – I’m not much of a barbecue enthusiast and neither is my wife. A sun lounge made much more sense. I’d secured a new contract, promotion, and a not inconsiderable cash bonus. A sun lounge would improve both the value
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