Insecure?

My wife and I admired a painting in an art gallery, regretted it already had a red dot next to it. The price was very reasonable and we both liked it a lot, but it was sold. We still discussed it when two men came up and remained standing in front of it too. They were both about our age, very grey, but both were very slim.
My wife could not help whispering to me: "Do you think they have been ballet dancers or such too? I would dare to bet that they are gay. They are great looking guys."
I nodded.

"You're not from around here, I think. Am I right?" My wife had to find out, of course curiosity won.
"No, you heard that very well. We're from Dallas, Texas. Had a great holiday on your lovely island, but we have to fly back tomorrow", the slimmest of the two answered.
"But you are not from here either", he added, pointing at me. (Even after years in the UK, I can't conceal my Dutch origins.)
I admitted that I was from the Netherlands and he was delighted, had been in Amsterdam twice in the seventies. And I could add to our connection that I had visited Texas, had been in Dallas once.

It resulted in a nice conversation between us, while the other man first listened to what we were talking about, later seemed to get bored and eventually started to look like he was irritated.
It was not my problem.
The slim guy and I went on a bit longer until the other man said: "We should go; we don't want to miss the ferry, don't we?"
"You are right. Of course you are right!", was the reaction with a big smile.

He patted me on my shoulder, shook hands with me and said goodbye: "It has been very nice talking to you." I agreed on this, I had the same feeling and wished him a safe journey home. He thanked me and followed his partner.
My wife asked me if I had observed the other guy. He had been really irritated.
We both thought he showed a bit that he had a controlling character, was very insecure in this relationship. If you are already feeling like this when your partner talks to a straight man, how will it be when he gets in contact with a nice gay person? Not exactly a guarantee for a long life together.
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Uncle

My father's older brother was a bit different. As young children we already were aware he was not considered to be a normal person. He lived in an institute near the house of a sister of my father. Often he would visit and bring things from his allotment, like green beans. He would bring bicycle bags full of them or other vegetables and my aunt would be embarrassed. She would thank him, but after he would be gone, she would complain to us. She had no idea what to do with these vast amounts.

Once he came over to my family. It was not clear to me if he was invited or came spontaneously. He was chatting a bit with my parents, but often disappeared to the bathroom. He came back with wet hands and red eyes. He constantly had the need to clean his hands and his eyes, because they were dirty according to himself. When we were sitting together and had our evening meal, he hid his hands under the table and knocked.

"They are here already! They are coming for me!", he moaned full of fear. We whispered to another that it was himself who was knocking. My father went to the door, opened it wide.
"Nobody! You see!"
Uncle nodded, but the same scene was done again during the meal. My father showed again that there was nobody.
He started moaning that they were observing him through the windows. (The curtains were closed.)
My parents started talking about other things and distracted him from his fears.

The man went to bed even before I went and my parents talked about him.
"We can't do this with the children...", I heard my father say.
I was sent to bed, just like my oldest sister. Way before our normal time to go upstairs.
The next morning I woke up because of a van driving up to our house.
Two men in white nurse outfits came out and I ran downstairs, because I was curious.
The men came to collect my uncle; meekly he went along with them.
"I know, I know, I have to serve my life sentence. Will I ever be released?"
My father seemed to be on the brink of tears when uncle was put in the van.

Years later it became clear to me what was wrong with him.
During the Second World War the Germans wanted to build a defence line along the Belgian and French coast: the Atlantik Wall. From all over Europe people were put to work on it and my uncle had been one of them. Work was hard, food was bad, treatment was also bad. People died during the building and it was not even finished when the Germans lost the war. During the fighting workers were killed as the Allies attacked the defence line while the building and repairing went on.
When finally the fighting was over, the workers were allowed to go home.

Because there was no organised transportation my uncle had to walk most of the way between the North of France and the Netherlands. Maybe once in a while he got a ride from a farmer; how he got his food while on his way is not clear either.
He must have seen awful things and must have been forced to do awful things in the North of France. That is why he constantly wanted to clean his hands and his eyes. So sad that he never was able to talk about it.
I can still hear his words: "When will my sentence be done, when will I be released?"
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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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