Letter to the ex

I never asked you to visit me; you wanted to see my new cats.
I never asked you to have sex with me; you wanted to see the house, we ended in the bedroom.
I never asked you to move out your parents house; you just showed up at my pleace with your things.
I never asked you to find a job; it was obvious my salary was not enough for two.
I never asked you to have children with me; after a year of pleading, I gave in.
I never asked you to quit your job to care for the children; the other choices were: both with half a job and not enough money to live on OR me quitting my job and starvation for all of us.
I never asked you to estrange my friends from me; after some years I saw that all my friends were replaced by new friends, your friends.
I never asked you to cry so much; there was always a reason: parents, brother, addicted prostitute who was a friend.
I never asked you to listen to hear about my problems; there were only your problems that mattered.
I never asked you to be miserable during our holidays with the children; you made it look like it was me.
I never asked you to be sneaky and have chat sessions on the pc while I entertained the children.
I never asked for a divorce nor was it a joint decision to have one; you wanted it and later told everybody it was me.
I never asked you to take everything away from me; I have to admit I gave you every chance while having our property estimated by the wife of your brother and going along with a ridiculous evaluation of everything in the house.
I never asked you why you wanted my cat; even after three months of not seeing me, he recognised my voice, jumped in my arms. I was in tears when I left your flat.
I never asked you to take the car; you said you needed it and within a fortnight it was replaced by another leaving me with nothing.
I never asked you to tell stories about me to the children; it was very effective: now they are your's only.
I never asked for your sympathy, but it is strange that while my problems are visible and I need continuous medical care, you tell people that I simulate my pain.
I never asked you to spread lies around about me; it was certainly not me who has cheated while we were married, but you got what you wanted: your friends are just that, your friends.

I would never ask for you to be unhappy for the rest of your life: you deserve it, but I could not be bothered thinking about that.
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Meeting my chum

In the days that I was a lot on my own I spent a lot of time on the net. I started a group for people with the same name on MySpace. (MySpace used to be a popular thing in these days.) I named it Planet AL and was pleasantly surprised how many Albert, Alfreds and Allen joined my silly thing. There were even some celebrities getting in, I remember a trumpet player and a violinist. But above all it was great to get a blues and jazz crooner on board: Albert Cooper.

Soon we talked a bit more and we became sort of befriended. There was a quarrell on his page with the lady who quite soon became my wife. I managed to soothe it and Mr.Cooper asked me to visit one of his gigs when I was around. Almost a year later I was going over to my wife in Norwich; for five years we were not able to really live together. We travelled to each other's place in England and the Netherlands whenever we could to be together.

Norwich was also the city where Albert Cooper lived. Almost a year later he got word that I would be in Norwich for a few day and he invited my wife and me to a gig he was going to do in Poringland. First I misheard the name and asked my wife where Boringland was. She had a good laugh, but we did end up at the gig. Albert Cooper seemed to be a great guy, we had a talk, he named me his chum and he even gave me a goody bag in which I found a t-shirt and a few CDs.

The concert was quite entertaining, Albert was a real showman, singing jazz standards and the audience was very enthusiastic. He kept himself going with a former jamjar filled with brandy.
After the show he immediately got surrounded by female fans, who obviously were not letting him go in a short time. My wife had a short discussion, we decided not to wait till Albert Cooper was available again. We phoned a taxi and were ready to quietly leave the venue.

My wife's walking was not great, so she had to walk with a stick and often had to steady herself. On our way out she almost fell, but could get hold of a table. It was loaded with an amazing amount of empty glasses and bottles and had one bad leg. The table collapsed with a thunderous sound and we were surrounded by broken glass. I could catch my wife before she got into this. A few of the staff came over and apologised, I should not worry about paying for damage. We got out and got home safely.

A few months later Albert Cooper had blocked my wife everywhere on the net, he remained friendly towards me. That changed later, I still don't have a clue why. My wife assured me that this was the way he always acted: there were loads of former friends to be found in Norfolk.
A few years later we were shopping in the inner city of Norwich and saw him walking towards us on the street. I was already starting to offer him my hand when he suddenly turned around and walked away, even straightening himself like a haughty peacock. We had a good laugh, I hope he heard it.
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Monkey nuts

In the good old days my parents were amazing at keeping us all fed and clothed, even when my father's salary was not very high and they had six children. Shops were a bit different in these days and so were drinks and snacks. Our lemonade was most of the times tap water, but on Saturday evening my eldest sister and me sometimes got a treat: we would have a bit of syrup topped up with water.

In these days chips and other snacks did not exist. If we would become peckish, there would be a slice of bread. Saturday evenings definitely were different. We would have that special drink and with a bit of luck this would become even more enjoyable. My mother would put a newspaper on the dining table and put a load of monkey nuts, like we called them on the table. The monkey nuts you would have to crack open to get to the peanuts, the shells would be thrown on the newspaper. Afterwards the newspaper and the shells would be thrown in the coal stove to be burned.

My mother died last year - not unexpectedly - aged 94, but even then, she is missed.
Last week I was shopping in our supermarket and saw a bag of monkey nuts. That name was even on the bag. So I could not resist and bought a bag. One evening I wanted to try them and they were very disappointing. My wife had a laugh: "These are raw, not roasted. You got the wrong bag."
We noticed that the birds love these nuts when you mash them, so they will be eaten anyway.

And the other day I bought a bag of roasted monkey nuts. The right stuff! So I now only have to wait for a suitable Saturday evening. I have the nuts, I have a newspaper. There will be a difference: I will use a bowl for the nuts. Maybe I will read the newspaper while eating the nuts and think of my mother.
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