“Angela’s mother was as wide as a wheel barrow. She had a gamy leg that refused to heel. Otherwise she was totally unpleasant. The difference between her and her daughter was immeasurable. Yet still I couldn’t avoid the nagging doubt that one day mother and daughter would collide as one as a single living bloated organism. They lived in a little house near Stepney which was well equipped for mother’s special needs. A lift up the stairs, a crane for lowering her into the bath and a wide screen television. She had a special bell which she could ring for help or to drive Angela to distraction. I lived with Angela for seven months before I realised that her matriarchal dependency was always going to end up proving fatal. I did not want to be standing around when the fat cow hit the fan.”

“You must have cared something?”

“No really very little. It’s often a case of them or you and this was plain and simple. I did not want to be the one who fell grasping for the walls as I went. I decided to jump. I’ve never regretted that decision. Not as long as I have lived. I swear.”

I walked out of the marriage guidance councillor’s office, if not with a smile, then with the smug satisfaction that I had her purse in my back pocket. She wouldn’t realise for hours. I walked the streets with an eventual residue of guilt hoping that someone would mug me and together we could share the blame. But no such opportunity arose and eventually I headed home. Angela and me had split our room down the middle. Her half included the door and I had to negotiate for over half an hour in order to be allowed to cross it. Having gained access I smacked her glasses at the wall, and recriminations aside, asked her how her day had commenced.

“Don’t you remember?” she insisted on saying “You walked out of the counselling without saying a word. Totally embarrassed me. I thought we were going to try and make this marriage work. But oh no! You had to go and screw everything up just as you always do.”

“Shut up you bitch!” I called over in a way that insinuated she was improper for communication. “I have taken enough of your crap. First you tell me that you are pregnant, then you tell me that I am the father, how much worse can a man’s day get?”

“That’s right, if it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t have this thing” and she patted her stomach as if it was laden with the mother load and not another selfish sprog about to be unleashed on the world. Just what we need more kids just what we need. “and if you had not insisted on going ‘au naturelle’ then…” but her voice trailed off as I pressed my hands gently around her throat and I caressed her larynx against her spine.

“Don’t get me wrong” I hissed “but never call me ‘you’. That is the second person. I am always to be addressed in the third person. Is that clear? Well?”

I felt her try and nod and as satisfied as a fair man needs to be, I sauntered off into the kitchen to fix myself some blackcurrant flavoured cordial. I was well intent on drowning my sorrows in warm squash. Angela however had other ideas and having not heeded my complaints followed me into the place where I had lovingly hidden myself away to escape reality and embrace fantasy.

“You bastard. I wish I had something to say to you, some kind of word that could emulate what a son of a bitch you are, but I have nothing. No word will do. Absolutely nothing.”

“It’s ok. I forgive you.” I muttered sorely as my fruit drink burnt my lips. Oh and I thought it was tepid! How wrong could I be? Angela vibrated furiously in front of me like a blancmange projected fresh from a blender. Her eyes sank back into her forehead as her mouth expanded with an attempt to emit a word. Which word I could not tell because I had the radio on so loud I could not hear the aeroplanes taking off from the airport behind our house. Angela took care of this.

“Why must we live like this? Why must I live like this? Why do we have to exist constantly on a knife edge where any sudden movement could send us over?”

“Because it’s better than feeling like you are in the bloody ‘Good Life’, isn’t it? Isn’t that what we always said? Better off dead? Well you got what you wanted sweetie, when that baby arrives we’ll both wish we were dead, and then it’s not so hard. We’ll give up trying to kill each other and we’ll turn on ourselves. Like a pack of crazed animals. Hacking and slashing. Baby we won’t know what hit us”

“Makes it seem worthwhile to me.”

“Makes it seem worthwhile. You have no idea what you are talking about. Consider for just one second what a strain this thing will have on me. As a man. As a provider. Things will never be the same”

“And that’s a fucking good job”

“Oh you say that now. And don’t deny it because I just heard you. But in eight months time you’ll be blowing a different tune through the top of your head. Oh baby yeah. You don’t know the meaning of the word pain.”

“Screw you”

“Screw you too baby”

I capitulated. It seemed a good moment. Words make no sense after a certain limit of bombardment just as my grandfather told me shells did in the first world war. I groped my coat on and into place and held my hand out towards my dear wife.

“No. I know what you are thinking. Do not try to stop me because I must go. There is nothing more to be said and if words could mortally wound then yes, yours would have done so. But I am still free. Free to wander as I please. I’ll be back around half eleven.”

Yes I used to be a real prick. So sue me. It’s not like there aren’t a lot of us out there. But if there was one thing I knew, then that is it is better to be different than the same as the rest. So I was a prick but in a way I regarded it as a badge of honour. He who dares. I read that on an advert. Adverts change our lives. I read that in a newspaper. Otherwise I would not have known. If I hadn’t been to school I would not have known anything, so I suppose that is where all knowledge must lie. Although I am not sure. Sirens wailed somewhere in the background.

I go to work everyday and my manager gives me abuse. I take it because I need the job. I need the job because I need the money. I do not mind being called ‘short’ or ‘dopey’ but when the two are combined I sometimes take offence. I suppose the same must apply to my manager. Something must drive him towards me with such contempt. But why can’t we all just get along?

Mulling this thought over I left the house, never to return, and fourteen months later my son ‘Brian’ was born.

….

[sperm bank to follow]