Ego

It was quite obvious that my marriage was going downhill, more and more we tried to do things apart from each other. The children kept us together in a sort of suffocating prison. There were things planned for doing together a long time before and there was no escaping these. Like the subscription on the theater. My wife had booked some concerts; famous and not so famous bands coming to our city. I booked a few plays, always had been interested in a good story staged by good actors.

This evening we had a very famous female actor doing a monologue. I had been a bit late with booking this and so we ended up in the front row. I never like that too much, especially not with comedians because you will run the risk of being the one they make fun of.

The play was quite gloomy, was about emotional neglect and abuse. Soon I felt it: she started focussing on me. It made me feel guilty on behalf of all the men, but especially I felt guilty of being me, being a man. I tried to look somewhere else, maybe she would take her eyes of me that way. She did not, it felt like she had intruded my guts and my soul. I could not avoid it: I was looking into these very expressive eyes again. There were parts in the play that were so awful that I had crawled under my seat if that had been possible. Leaving my seat was not an option.

I suffered under her verbal lashes for more than an hour. Tears were running over my cheeks at a certain moment, I wiped them away. It felt double: of course I could become emotional, but did not this show how weak I was of mind?
My wife did not notice my distress; I saw her glimpse on her watch from time to time. I felt annoyed by that, saw it as an insult to the actress. I admired her a lot and that evening she made me very aware why.

After the play I had the feeling I had run an emotional marathon, was exhausted and wanted to go home. My wife had a different idea: "Let's have a drink in the foyer".
I agreed, maybe my mind could get to rest before we would cycle back home.
There was only a small queue and soon I could sit with her and sip at my beer.
She wanted to know what I thought of the play, so I told her in a moment of honesty how I had been the focus point of the actress.

She laughed scornfully: "What a rubbish. You silly man! Building your ego again or what?"
Behind her I could see the actress coming into the foyer, looking around, like she was searching for somebody. When she saw me, she headed in our direction. She stopped right behind my wife, talked to me!
"I do hope I didn't cause any distress for you. Making you feel uncomfortable. This is a difficult play to do and my way of doing it, is to find a focal point, somebody I talk to."
I swallowed hard, could utter the words: "No, it's okay. I'm okay."
She nodded: "Thanks anyway." With that she turned around and was gone as quick as she came in.

My wife refused a second drink, not a word was spoken when we went back home.
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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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Spring

Two figures are on the beach, on a sunny spot, shielded from the wind by the flood wall.
They sit close together, the woman with black hair and the one with grey. The black haired one has her legs on top of the other one's, a double cross.
As they are in deep conversation one is drawing doodles in the sand.
Mother and daughter?
No, the grey is a modern colour, becoming more and more popular.

They get up, brush the sand off and walk away. First holding hands, changing this in putting their arms around the other's waist.
The grey haired one puts her head on the shoulder of the black haired, her face against the other's.
A delicate surrender.
After a few steps they stop, to kiss.
It's not a conquering kiss, it's a kiss of acknowledgement.

They walk on, the head resting on the shoulder again.
I watch them until they are disappearing from my sight.
Their spot on the beach has been taken.
A man playing with his dog.
He is holding a wrecked ball in his hands and the dog is trying to pull it out.
The dog is growling in a playful manner, the man laughs very loud.

It's time to walk on.

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Sonja

After being tested as a boy with a very high IQ I when I was 11 years old, I was destined to go to university. The secondary school I had to go after primary school was not one where people of the working class normally would send their children. It was in a posh area of the nearby city and I needed a bicycle to get there from our village.

I did great the first year, scored really high marks and was a very dedicated student. It was always a struggle to find a quiet place in our crowded house, but I managed to do my homework every day. It did bother me a bit that I was such a small boy compared to my classmates. The older students looked like giants to me. That changed in the second year, suddenly I grew like a beanstalk becoming skinnier and skinnier. My clothes were all a bit unfitting, the legs of my trousers too short just like the sleeves of my shirts.

My view of my fellow students changed a lot too, I had only eyes for one girl: Sonja.
She would sit two desks away in front me. I would stare at the back of her head all day, admiring her blond shoulder length hair. At home I could see it, while dreaming away, instead of doing my homework.

One day a teacher asked me something. I didn't have a clue what he was talking about and started stammering. The girl of my dreams had turned around and I could see she was miming something. It took a while but then I realised she was actually giving me the answer. I understood her message, gave the answer and the teacher was satisfied. He did add that he would be pleased if I would try not to sleep during the lessons. I only blushed, not being able to say anything.

During the next break I wanted to thank her. She was together with the big girl with the funny glasses. I waited till that girl would get away, did not dare to go to her. I just stood there and watched. The big girl went to the toilet and Sonja was on her own. I wanted to go to her, but remained where I was, sort of paralized. I made a decision: I would speak with Sonja at the big school party at the end of the week.

During lunch break I went to a nearby park and sat at a bench with my sandwiches and self hate. A few old ladies walked over and looked at me. I was very aware that they would think that I was a weird boy and felt ashamed. I got up, the old ladies sat down on the bench and I walked towards another one. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. Again I decided: Friday night would be my finest hour, I would talk to Sonja. Maybe we could become friends?

Friday evening I cycled to school, much to the surprise of my parents. "You? To a party?" I had mumbled as a reaction and just went. There would be a famous dixieland band playing.
The party people were mostly the older students. I felt out of place with my short legged trousers being not elegant like theirs; it seemed to be fashion to wear blazers and not a stupid coat like mine.
I was as tall as most of them, but I was very aware how skinny I was. Some of the boys were quite muscular. The girls were wearing colourful dresses, they all looked so mature. Yet none was as nice as Sonja. But she obviously was not there.

Yet a couple of the boys asked me if I liked to come along. They had a stash of beer hidden. This was only meant for the oldest students and the teachers, but they said they had nicked some.
I drank three bottles of beer and felt a bit more at ease, talked more in an hour than in the last year.
Not being used to drinking I started to feel ill and I told my new friends I had to go home.
I found my bicycle and hurried away from school, had to stop after a few mile because I had to vomit. I felt very sorry for myself and very stupid: of course Sonja was not at that party. I cried for miles on my bicycle.

The torture of my being so shy went on for the rest of the year. I failed horribly and had to change schools. Never saw Sonja again.

Years later I became a member of a website "Old Classmates". I found an old picture of the old class, saw my skinny old self standing at the back of the group. In the foreground sat my first idol: Sonja.
I even got in contact with her and we chatted for some time. She told me that she had been a very unhappy teenager, certain that she was very ugly and unattractive. None of the boys would ever speak to her and most of the girls were treating her bad. I told her of my secret love for her and she admitted that she had always hoped I would come to talk to her. She was too shy to get to me, never dared.
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Thank you

On alternating Mondays our bin is being emptied; one week it's rubbish, the next it's recycling waste. We all have put the house number on our bins, so not to become confused and to be able to trace them back when the garbage men leave them in the next street. In our little corner of the street we managed to become a bit social about this. Whenever a neighbour is not there, another will bring the bin back to the house. It's to prevent them to get all over the street or blocking the pavement. Often there is a lot of wind and an empty one can be blown quite far. Sometimes we have to search for them.
Because I'm a pensioner, it's often me who will do it; even for one neighbour who is home.
She is a little old lady, older than 80. I never asked her her age. She had a busy life as a midwife and is now enjoying her old age.

One day I noticed that the black insert of her recycle bin was seriously damaged. I told her so and advised her to get in contact with the island council. It is very easy to get a replacement.
Normally she is very clear in her words, but not this time. She mumbled a bit and it was obvious that she could not be bothered. Two weeks later I told her again what she should do. She is living on her own, very independent, so very capable to take of things herself. It's not nice to patronise elderly, that is why I did not want to do it for her. She mumbled again. I left it with that.

This Monday I was not there when the garbage men came, had to visit the dentist. When I returned, I noticed my bin had been put back to it's spot next to the house. My old neighbour had also taken care of the other neighbour's bin. She was busy putting her own back and I shouted a "Thank You" across the street. She gave me two thumbs up and I went into the house, complaining about the misery of my mouth to my wife.

An hour later I had to throw some tins in the bin and I noticed a black insert in my recycle bin without a number on it, heavily damaged. I knew that insert and it was definitely not mine. The little old lady had solved her problem, she now had a decent insert in her bin.
I had a bit of a laugh, tried to order a new one through the website of the island council. After five tries I realised something was wrong and phoned the number that was mentioned on the site. It took almost half an hour before I got a person on the line. She confirmed that the website was not working. "It has been reported." I will get a new insert for my bin within ten working days. I already have a plastic sticker with the house number for it.

I told the woman on the phone what happened and she had a good laugh: "How cheeky!"
A bit naughty indeed. I thanked the lady and ended the call.
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