Tuesday, 28 June 2011


For the last week I have been living with a new man. He is called Ian Green and he owns a bed-shop he inherited from his father. He breathes in the aroma of plastic-wrapped mattresses all day while his customers dwindle in number, seduced by the sweeter prices and faster service of the Internet. His sales are insufficient for a profit and he hasn't paid his mortgage for a few months. He's afraid to tell his sour wife and greedy child that they may lose the roof over their heads and their smoked-salmon breakfasts. No wonder he's moved in with me.
I think he should tell his wife everything, but I don't want to force him in that direction. I'm happy to wait on him hand and foot and let him choose whichever path seems natural for him. Besides, it's only been a week. I need to get to know him better before I can give him any advice. I have shared a lot of time and meals and coffees and conversations in the car with him. He had a bowl of cereal with me this morning (or was it that I ate two bowls while listening to him?) and he was vociferous when I was out in the car yesterday. I couldn't shut him up.
But I don't tire of him. He has hidden depths. There is far more to him than pocket-springing or memory-foam. He has an imaginary mistress called Miss Dangerfield and a secret yearning to be a farmer. He takes lentil soup to work in a flask.
I like having him around, but I shall finish with him soon. His connection to me is a solid one, nearly 3000 words have blossomed between us and I shall soon begin to nurture those into a good shape, with plenty of colour and interest. I hope.
Then he has to go. But I shan't forget him. I shall worry about him, knowing already how his future is going to turn out.
But it was fun while it lasted.
Am I still with my husband? Of course. He has a very understanding nature. But Graham and Harry have moved in now and I'm just about to get to know them quite well. And they might be around for quite a few weeks.