Tuesday .October 17th. 1995. 7.a.m.
hought I may as well adjourn the proceedings just here as my life has taken a rather abrupt, unexpected twist.
Returned from Bucharest Sunday Lunch time.. Seven hours door to door, a brilliant warm day. Cynthia had been none committal the first few days of my stay with her. She had rung Anna.. now firmly entrenched in Poland with her family. Cyn brightly asking her to come to 'Us'. Rather taken with the idea of Anna on the Warsaw.. Bucharest Express ..so Romantic.. so Nineteen Forties.. so Metro Goldwyn Mayer. Knew she would not come, that she was afraid to venture out into the Wide World after her previous traumatic experience. Cynthia knows precisely my feelings regarding this young woman yet she went each step of the way with me.. who else? Cynthia only slightly mentioned that it would cost $800 for the 'Medical' if I wanted to Marry her.. something wrong, on two counts.. Marriage had been on her agenda.. I had simply mulled it over.. willing to let it remain on hold.. Shades of Adelaide... then the price.. $800.. said she was not worth it, as she was second hand.. took that remark very well.. pointless going any further if she had not. Asked how much it would cost to marry a Romanian.. £1.50. conceded it rather a stitch up.. that the State was putting a high price on its Marriageable females.. to foreigners. Evidently Arabs pay up eagerly in their rush to get these buxom, well built ladies into bed. I had never been eager about anything.. Cynthia remained silent on the subject.. only.. until the next day!
ad never underestimated her, but she excelled herself, putting the bit between her teeth, tearing into 'The System'. Simply Thailand all over again, bribe your way in and out of any conceivable situation.. Romanian Officialdom wearing the same suits (not quite so smart) same shirts, collars, ties (undone).. Hardly the same fixed smile as their Far East counterpart. Romanian men, louts, to say the least. Rudeness "in built". I understand the mentality of the Serbs down the road tearing themselves to pieces.. it would take little for the Romanian male to use the machine guns rather than carry them openly about the streets. Admittedly, they have cooled it at the Airport since I have been going there. No longer marching about in uniform waiting for someone to look the wrong way. ************************** For the first time in my life, took the back seat while a woman did the running.. Simply followed.. signed pieces of paper silently, without comment.. while she bribed her way through the system. Dark, decaying, crowded rooms and corridors, whispered words, money surreptitiously changing hands. Obviously, had never realised her own capabilities .. the sense of achievement made her throat parched, the blood rush, exhilarated by the experience. Cynthia managed to reduce her price from $800 to $100. Very pleased with herself but not satisfied, wanted to marry "now"...not later, not some other trip. Only having two more days left on my ticket, assumed myself to be quite safe for the time being, even smiled to myself.. that this new Cynthia could not pull it off ..the requirement being a minimum ten day stay.. after the papers were signed. "Get out of that!" I thought.
My Mothers Birthday, Oct; 12th, auspicious, according to Cyn, superstition endemic. I t turned out a lovely, hot, iridescent afternoon. Sat unobtrusively on the pavement, in the Sun, away from the mad rush, eating grapes. Cynthia again came tearing out from the melee.. looking about, clutching yet another piece of paper, wound fully up like a two bob watch. Put my head down almost as if not wanting she and all her complications to break into my calm atmosphere. It had not been a holiday so far. Not Pattaya, not lounging on the Sea Shore, not idly watching blue waves reflecting yellow, dancing Sunlight. Not having one hand resting on Orwun, her smooth body, cool, soft, damp. No, not a holiday ...not what I was used to. But Cynthia was "something else", never met anyone comparable to her, a dynamo on two legs. Waved languidly from my dusty crevice in the crowded street. She rushed up, paper thrust in front of her. "We are getting Married tomorrow". A statement, a pronouncement. irrefutable. Another North Terrace, another Sunny afternoon. Again bowed my head in acquiescence. The wheel revolved full circle. *********************************
It is Tuesday 21st November.1995. 1.30.a.m. S ilence . Looking at these last words suddenly feel that there is nothing more to say.. can be said.. not already said. Again see my life laid out flat before me.. the past still reaching into the future. But I am tired.. How many more glorious, iridescent days.. How many more afternoons in my Yellow room with the Green entwining entrails of the plants twisting over me... strong shafts of Autumn Sunlight stretching from infinity. How much longer can I sit here in the Silence of the Night, isolated by my own preference? Rather more reluctance at leaving my Wife, last grey, snowy, Sunday morning.. only a very few people in the Airport.. another Tashkent.. only a very few people on the 737. The short flight in the bright light above the Snow clouds, above the White tipped mountain tops.. The imperceptible descent, along the Thames ..along the Piccadilly line.. along the 253 Bus route, packed with myriad, multi coloured people.. Once more to stand on the Common. Nothing had changed.
Wednesday, 22nd. Nov; 4.a.m.
ine p.m. last night, phone ringing into my sleep, it had been another slog of a day.
Anna, speaking from Poland. Suddenly very wide awake, no longer weary, my bones and back no longer ached, my reluctance about life sharply recharged, such is her effect on my being. Full of herself, her problems, her school, her parents. Her political consciousness inflamed at the Communist Victory in the elections.. In fact, full of life as ever.. Bubbled on incessantly as ever. As if we had never been parted from each other, as if Bucharest had all been a dream. She had rung Bucharest, evidently our housekeeper had answered the phone.. saying "No speak English". Momentarily thought of Cynthia's reaction...a question mark clicking up on her interface. She would have been quite aware Anna was looking for me. Aware that my interaction with other female faces had not stopped from the moment of signing the Register .
Yes, Cynthia and I had done just that. Her incessant insistence had paid off. Such was the rush, nothing remembered, everything forgotten, even forgot to invite her mother to the Civil Ceremony. Her wedding dress, the one worn by her grandmother. Her thick, long, curly hair, almost matched the colour of the Red Roses she clutched continuously, refusing to put them down. The woman transformed, radiant. Somehow her gang at work had wind of this rush into matrimony and all turned up. Such a incredibly brilliant, warm Sunny day.. then it could, inconceivably, have been nothing less. For my part, totally unprepared for this event, wore my usual travelling clothes, black leather motor cycle gear, leather boots and leather cap. Cynthia thought it wonderful, holding tightly onto the roses and myself, as if all a dream which could suddenly evaporate into reality.
here were no conventions.. all trooped into a nearby Turkish Restaurant.. All plunked ourselves down after much shuffling about with the tables.. surprise at the Wedding Entourage dropping in unannounced. Sat, fantasized about
the three young waitresses ..they had something about them.. tried to think what.. other than my imagination. Cynthia quite aware as to where my mind had drifted to. Thought about the "Ceremony" how analytical it had been. Quickly in.. quickly rushed through the formal few words.. One of Cynthia's friends having to interpret what I was letting myself in for.... Both bent over and signed the huge, embossed book on the huge desk. She threw herself round me. Cameras flashed.. Quickly out. I had a "Wife" Looked at Cynthia, without doubt ..a result. Far cry from Nit, from Pa, from Orwun. Even throw in Anna, Dear Anna. Unfair, unreasonable to attempt a comparison between Bucharest and Pattaya. Both having so much to offer in different ways. Anna? something else.. a complete fantasy, totally impractical situation ..Maybe.. if we had been thrown together closer in some other time warp.... Cynthia knows precisely my thoughts, climbs into my mind.. understands what other women would put down as "unreasonable" the most common word in the so called "Relationship" dramas. She knows there is no much chance of my attitude towards women changing ... no chance.
Will be chatting them up the day I die.. Nothing a woman likes better than to be talked to.. to have their brain fucked.. If they were to admit the truth, sex, as such, something of a has been.. They would so much rather talk slowly round it. If it involves having a few clothes, almost imperceptibly removed, having their bodies gently touched, caressed, in the process.. in the dim light.. in the silence, so much the better. The orgasms, greater. With Nit .. the others... there had never been any depth. Impossible, no communication.. who can whisper in Thai? Their main interest, almost incontrovertibly, was my Visa Card. Say this with respect to these ladies. Their position profound.. the only way out for them, via a man with money and a white skin, which immediately places them open to exploitation. Unfortunately, with the best intentions possible, this situation cannot be changed, not in the foreseeable future. Regardless of the splurges of Do Gooders and so called "Charities", who's only real concern, in my book, is where the next Gin and Tonic is coming from.
ad returned here.. within two days of the marriage. Rapidly absorbed in scratching the streets for money.
Cynthia had not said anything more.. knew she was doing quite a lot of connivering behind the scenes, by now had become aware of the way she looked, expressionless, without saying anything.. letting me make a idiot of myself... knew she was biding her time.. that the civil ceremony was only a foretaste of her real desire. My sister asked, "If I really was going back for more" incredulous of my fall, finally into matrimony. For reasons not fully able to explain, decided to take her to Bucharest with me. This met with some astonishment, the furthest ever taking her before being Southend. Besides she "Had no Passport" dubious about flying, not done it before.. she was throwing up a smoke screen, implying not really wanting to go to the Land of werewolves and Vampires.. to Transylvania. Curiosity overcame her fears, naturally wanting to take her husband ..explained that my budget would not stretch to him.. gradually going quite broke, commuting to Bucharest. Another pause, more hesitation. The thought of travelling with me anywhere being fraught. Could, as she was fully aware, leave her without hesitation, if the mood so took me.. Saw her point, no doubt her imagination stretched to the limit regarding Romania, visualising a mountainous, tree covered, dark, snowy Country, being dumped there ...Still not too sure about the Vampires, whether they did exist. Were they simply just a Hollywood get up!?
ot dark at the gathering, Stanstead Airport, brilliant afternoon, saw her a long way off, down the high glass
gallery, moving heavily towards me, waving.. her husband trailing behind with the trolley. She was impressed, stepping into the Twenty First Century. Another life ago, other, more ominous airplanes. My carrying her to the Air Raid Shelters, mother up the pub, old man always at work, never have any recollection of him once taking us to the shelters, of being with us. The Sirens, starting up, very low key. Far off, distant, heavy approaching drone stamped unforgettably for all time in our heads. The usual opening chorus from the Guns on the Marshes, all purely psychological, little chance of them ever hitting anything, but the cacophony and searchlights weaving through the flame tinted darkness were 'good for moral'.
Possibly more people killed by the guns, showering red hot shrapnel from the enraged skies, than those killed by bombs.
arely a wave between my sister and her husband as we disappeared into the other world. A world of space, steel, glass, concrete, silence. Silent, driverless trains, mysteriously stopping at all the right places. The closer we were to take off the less she said .. only when we reached six miles high, flying straight and level, did she start talking again. Dark.. Doris still peering out on the window.. nudged me "I can see snow down there". Obviously her imagination running at a low temperature...Snow! Cyn would have mentioned this on the phone.. or would she? She is so fucking devious.. afraid I may have turned my nose up at Marrying her or the so called "Princess Diana" if it meant getting cold.. leant over, looked down at Planet Earth.. what could be seen of it ..red remains of a fiery Sunset on the horizon, beneath us, faint white streaks which I dismissed as clouds.
All piled out of the Plane into the buses.. deep snow. The sudden intense cold reaching right into my body. Swore quite audibly, if I could just get my hand on Dear Mrs. Devious...
One a.m. Thursday Seventh. December. 95.
now thawing on Clapton Common.. still the cars rushing incessantly along between the trees. A difficult, long day on the streets.. the clamour for Xmas gathering momentum. Have been thinking, as always, Cynthia's remark to me in her letter regarding Aurora.. that she was a "Energy Vampire" evidently, also, something of a masochist as she lets her elderly, ridiculous husband, beat her.. keeps her almost a prisoner.. Him so Ugly and she a thirty eight year old attractive female.. A geography teacher.. Cynthia is right about her.. then I am beginning to realise she, like Bernie, is never far wrong when it comes to weighing people up. Have given a Aurora a few pulls...she always giving out the impression ..that impression. When it actually came to it, as it did on the night or my wedding "reception" she bottled out. Half way through in the darkened room, suddenly pulling back, asked if she could light a cigarette ..asked also why I wanted to Fuck her. Remarked on this to Cynthia...a strange question ..one to which there is no possible answer, if there were, the World would doubtlessly be a different place. All very pleasant, polite ..she straightened her clothes, finished her cigarette, we had another drink and went into the other part of the flat which was complete madness.. No one remarked on our absence.. Cynthia dragging me straight into the middle of the room dancing ..so much for Cynthia...so much for Aurora............
imply, this is all getting round to Anna.. I have had thoughts.. She precisely the same.. Quite willing to let me go so far.. in doing so absorbing my energy.. always felt
depleted, exhausted when she left this room.. Cynthia crystallized this aspect of women for me, also coming up with the idea of our "Adopting Anna" not in the sense usually associated ..more that Anna would live with us and produce a child....Visions of Anna, what a cow she could be if crossed.. if she did not get all her own way.. never giving anything ..always absorbing, always taking.. another Susan, another Jennifer, Nit, Pa, another so many female faces. Cynthia giving everything ..which is why I married her, have no intention of prolonging her 'agony?' over bloody Anna, all she ever gave, a Teddy Bear last Xmas, which still sits beside my bed.. She demanded and took plenty. No intention of letting Anna attempting to run our lives ... a unwanted wedge between myself and my…. wife. As said very early on, there is little difference between her perception and any Thai lady necessarily on the make. Nevertheless.. my feelings about her well known to anyone who has persevered with this long, perhaps complex, narrative. Will make the most terrible remark.. which I hope to be forgiven ...'Love is blind' Marrying Cynthia opened my eyes, to many things. Possibly a strange comment from someone who always considered he had seen it all, done it all, having the 'T' shirt to prove it. *********************
Saturday December 9th. 6.p.m. minus six degrees.
till tempted to dawdle by the wayside.. Cynthia just rang ..long conversation about very little ..Always squeeze my piece in.. just to wynd her up, to start her off. It could be said she is the most sexually aware woman I have ever met. Have seen her attempt to screw a tram, or smooth round bits of it, such is the state she gets herself into when I am near.. Never cease to be amazed at her insatiable appetite for sex.. with it she throws in incantations, the complete package. Three's up she is supreme, going into a hypnotic frenzy... Very quietly reminding her of this, becomes coy, drops her eyes saying she "doesn't like it at all.. only doing it for me" Little else she could say to preserve some modesty.. some "decorum" a favourite word of my Father.... My words to her this time gently undulating about Aurora.. intention being to start where I left off.. next 'Visit'.. Cynthia laughed, said Aurora actually quite willing, her hang up being afraid of causing any friction.. jealousy, a very timid, gentle person, unable to understand that she could be loved by two people at such a tangent to Society.. that she could be loved.........at all.
T he faded Yellow trams of Bucharest, are very tired. Slowly they rumble, clank, grind, meander their melancholy way along their curving cracked bands of dull steel which encircle, bisect and grip tight the City of Trees. ********************************* As we had left the Registry Office it struck me the that it would necessary to take Cynthia somewhere for the "Honeymoon" ..at least one convention. After all, had never bought the poor cow a wedding cake, never occurred to me and she never said anything, as usual. Thought of Pattaya... only thought... Then decided could hardly be bothered with all the rigmarole. Had done enough travelling, unfortunate for Cynthia ..that she had not, but having me is all she ever wanted.. so she keeps saying. Decided somehow that a ride about town on a tram would keep the lower decks amused... especially if it were full of Jerry Cans of wine (so it turned out, everyone, including the driver, falling about). A long line of trams shunted up behind our drunken progress.. Romanians stood, looked in some amazement, at this innovation from the "Rich World" West of the Mountains. Cynthia ordered a tram ..on the Barclay Card. Amazing the things which can be done with that piece of plastic. *********************************
The morning finally arrived, "The" morning, so far as Cynthia was concerned, the one she had waited through all past eternity for. A great deal of activity... in Protopopescu Str. No 9. Not allowed to see bride.. people rushing in every direction.. not quite Harrods on a Friday evening. My sister, a couple of Cynthia's children, myself, bundled in a Taxi to the Church.. still snowing. Commotion at the church.. Evidently was or had been a funeral in progress.. A great deal of shouting and consternation ..definitely the bride to be allowed no where near .. had to wait when she finally did arrive with her entourage, wait a hundred yards away, outside the gates.. in the soft snow... while the dead were, to the accompaniment of loud claxons and wailing, slowly carted off.
oticed a huge Pink monster slowly come to a halt beyond the distant gates. At first thinking an advertising hoard on wheels.. Then realised it was "The Tram" such a splendid thing, a resurrection, complete with Balloons and "Just Married".. in English.. fluttering all over it. No further time, a crowd slowly walking down the long path towards the Church, Cynthia in full flowing bridal dress, not her Grandmothers this time, flanked by her sister and a young boy, each carrying the most enormous candle I had ever seen, the candles wreathed in bright flowers.. For a moment wondered if in the right department. Bernie's wedding in Northern Thailand had not been anything like .. such splendour, surely, could not have anything to do with me.. Cynthia looked so different.
From no where I had hit the front.. everyone pushing me forward whispering the S.P.. to approach Cynthia and kiss her...such a crush ..so many people...
Obviously, on my travels had slipped, fallen into another time, another dimension, unlike anything ever previously known.
Could never visualise my kissing any woman in public.. or at all.. Here in this surrealism.. Fallen into a white Hole, a dream, a white dream, everything a flowing white. Could see my sister ..smiling, a face amongst all the other white faces.. Slowly pushed inside the dark Church, an atmosphere like those I had the temerity to visit on previous occasions. in my other life... a candle lit, incense laden, heaviness.. Carmen.. Naples, the tiny, silent, deserted Church, hidden in the crevices of Capri.. not the stiff formalism attached to the English version of Christianity.
A quire, somewhere singing as if their lives depended upon it. The priest, Father, whatever, obviously enjoying himself in his Golden robes, placed a crown upon Cynthia's head and mine.. quite definitely asleep.. nevertheless, after a hour of Kissing Cynthia, kissing the walls, kissing the books, Crossing myself, drinking wine from the proffered cup.. really wanted to go home, to my Yellow room with the Green tendrils entwined about me, could see Doris reading my thoughts.. her face agitated.
Had not the power to walk away from that situation, so remote, so unreal... So far from Hackney. #############
o my knowledge Susan and I never spent one night at "Bridge Court"
She was hesitant, nervous about it.. obviously not really wishing to commit herself to a place so far removed from the comfort and sanctuary of Bishops Stortford and Sixty Nine.. Really, no worse, much better than many Inner City homes... I had doubts because it being on the ground floor.. although she did have the choice of going up... refused ..something about getting the pusher down the stairs. Again, there is now a blank as to the sequence of events, so much has happened since then.. so much to overshadow this sad story of two people and their child. Also now in a far greater hurry, time firmly against me. Last night wrote over eight hundred words, a record. Such an amount would take me several days, maybe stretched over weeks. There is a sense of urgency in my life now.. so very much too do, working harder than ever before at existing. Yes, I am living to work, at sixty six. Please yourself. The precise, exact moment of our long descent, however, is known to me. A Sunday lunch time at the pub, five hundred yards down Lea Bridge road from the flat. Very busy, Susan apparently quite happy.. we talked about the sticks of furniture she was getting together. All fixed very clearly in my head, such a grotty place.. the pub.. money flowing freely over the Bar.. the usual loud whispers.. beer spilled on rickety tables, the occasional ribald shout...the cigarette smoke.. conglomerate music from the machine.. In fact, a pub anywhere in England.
e were standing in the back bar, began to notice a almost imperceptible change in Susan.. like a old, wynd up gramophone player running down.. she was running down, her words blurring one into the other, until they stopped. My thought initially being it was little more than my own neurosis, my own imagination playing me up, a right 'Win Double' Susan and I. Time hesitated, stood quite still. We became broken away from life about us, as if in a glass bowl, looking out. Could still hear the murmurs... the undertow of noise, yet, separate from us.. Susan no longer saying anything at all, could see no handle with which to wynd her back up. She simply stood, motionless, holding her glass.. thick black curly hair surrounding her small white expressionless face ....a rag doll in a toy shop. Took the glass from her hand.. put it down. She was gone, no longer in my World, had made her exit, as had done on other occasions when life became more than she could or wanted to handle. This I was to discover some considerable time afterwards. Susan had given no warning, no message, simply left me. Peter, alone again.. I simply "knew" what had happened, what she had done...Knew it no good shaking her, shouting at her.. She could be propelled along anywhere, in any direction, stand her up or sit her down, do whatever was indicated for her to do. Speak.. never. Looking back to that day is not doing me any good. Why should I, with a new Wife.. a new Life, put myself through it all again?. .not a matter of being a masochist.. not "Therapeutic" as some nutters have remarked.. it is something that has to be written.. do not know why, another equation without a answer.
t was her complete loss of communication, almost unnerving, she never sneezed, coughed, scratched, blinked never moved her arms or eyes, someone who had gone into a deep trance, someone mesmerised. Gathered up her few bits and pieces, the shoes I had bought her, that summer so long ago, the long white dress. "I love life" emblazoned on it. She had been so "happy", in the Sunlight, in the Street, so acquiescent, "Yes Peter" .."No Peter".. "If you like Peter". Now, now only this wreck of a woman remained.
The M.11 stretched out tight before the old Cab. As always, went into deep thought while the wheels wound their way North, Susan upright, unmoved in the middle of the back seat. Looking directly at her through the mirror evoked no response, the very many women I had done this to over the long years had always reacted in which ever direction suited.
No reaction from Susan, just another bag of wheat. The Mother unimpressed with her daughter, sitting silent, motionless, impassive, cigarette hanging from between her fingers in front of her son. A child that bounced and wanted his mother to play, to no avail. The boy also needed feeding, looking after.. a twenty four hour procedure.. Her Mother looked to me, I looked out of the window onto the garden, having had some quite happy moments there with the child, with Susan, in the Sunlight, on the small lawn.. "The tea, the cakes, the ices." Yes.. the moment now "forced to a crisis" inevitable I should come up with that line. The Mother appeared to have shrunk back into herself with this repeat drama in her daughter's life. No longer dominating the situation, no longer expecting the Queen to any moment to knock on the door. Agitated, twisting her hands, felt sorry for her, for the whole fiasco. She, happy with her Grandson. Now, an impasse, everything crumbled so suddenly, to nothing.
iving in the Country, in the Middle Class belt of England.. a simple procedure for the Mother to pick up the phone.. a few words.. help arriving. Unlike Hackney, where people fade, die, alone, isolated, perhaps weeks before their emaciated bodies are found. Help arrived, a Social worker quite quickly on the scene. She knew Susan of old, knew her form.. her exits from Society.. her uncertain, wavering history. Whispered words while I bounced the boy. Vague as to the immediate outcome of this conversation. The first consideration being the child. I, as always, as ever, completely overlooked.. nothing said to or asked of ..will not go strong and say, ignored. A Rank Outsider, then I have always been simply, that. Vague, long journeys to Broadstairs where Susan had a Aunt in a huge rambling house beside the Seaside. Not sure of the combination, whether we left Susan down there or the child. Feel it was the Mother and I would attempt to mind the child jointly. Whichever way, it hardly worked, Susan showed not the slightest improvement with the passage of time. Next thing, Susan and child in a Psychiatric Hospital, Shenley... just up from Mill Hill. Not quite so far as Broadstairs. Thank God !
daily occurrence, my ride up the A.1. Visit mother and child, winter approaching. Other mothers there with their child. Evidently quite a common malfunction on the part of females to collapse out of Society. Other mothers talked to their children, to each other, Susan said nothing to no one. Simply sat bent, crouched, staring into space, inevitably a cigarette dangling from her fingers. I, starting to crack up with this performance ... wanted to so much put my clock back .... to not have stepped, so rashly in ... fed up with myself, my attraction to cripples and the disenchanted. After a month, the staff turned to me. Called into one of their meetings "Did I have a solution for Susan?" They certainly did not. Reminiscent of so very long ago. Finola, another one no one had a solution for... To them she was deaf, blind and stupid, a easy way to dispose of her. Given to me, the first thing I did, to throw her hearing aid in the sea, out beyond the waves washing languidly on the warm, soft, sandy shore ... total consternation from them all. Next had her sight tested.. not blind, not deaf. She too had opted out ... for her own reasons ... far from stupid. Finally she could read and write, a pleasant girl of fourteen... the process, along with all the other children and their problems sucked me dry. Had no intention of being sucked dry again. The group round the table waited uncertainly for my answer to the poised question. Another Sunny morning, light streaming through windows, bright light on white faces. Could hardly help it.... simply slipped out, so much as I tried to stop it, so much knowing it could be put more softly, more appropriately ... more gently. But at the end, tired ... "She needs a good kick up the arse"...true , then the truth, always unpalatable, brutal. I have always been guilty of it.
inter gripped tight the trees, the sorrow, silence and desolation surrounding the encampment at Shenley. Only the children, smiling, laughing, oblivious to the strange behaviour of their Mothers. Children cared for by anxious, large nursing ladies, who looked at me with some uncertainty. By now, Susan and I meeting alone, she always standing expressionless, still silent in the centre of the small room, arms at her sides, early evening darkness creeping down long, polished corridors. Had given up trying to say anything at all to her, given up shouting as if attempting, in desperation, to wake the dead. She on a downhill slope, becoming increasingly apparent that nothing was going to save her this time. Talk of adoption for the boy, incarceration for her. Again myself, unmentioned, no consideration ...out of question ... only the Father, someone to do the running, to try to hold it together, best able. Xmas approached. English Xmas ... silent, White shrouded, country lanes, softness stretched over the landscape. Someone, somewhere once wrote "... and leaves the World to darkness and to me" which about summed up my feelings.
it here now, four o'clock, a warm, wet January morning, alone as always, as ever. A certain sadness engulfs me,
so many female faces strewn across my life. Without exception, all demanded the intangible. All demanded more than I have ever been capable of giving, without exception, none ever gave me anything or offered anything in return, other than the obvious, maybe, even this, a reluctance. Cynthia certainly raised my hopes, anticipating, apparently, my every thought, my every move, never able to do enough for me, but she, unable to sustain the fabrication, inevitably crashing out under the pressure. My refusal to be as other men ... my lack of acquiescence. I had warned her, she knew this manuscript off by heart, never really wanted to listen ... too intent on her own objectives. The 'Marriage' had lasted Eight Weeks, twenty days altogether.1
Peter and Cyn are still together - March 7, 2008
Find myself looking towards Pattaya once more ... Never been very far from my mind, although knowing every facet, every crack in the pavement, every smell on the street ... The exotic bird singing to me each morning in the clear azure warm skies ... The small bunch of bright flowers each morning, my offering to Buddha. Right at the very back of all this present turmoil, always, perhaps, have the notion of one day, may pack my bits and pieces... disappear, lose myself in the obscurity, mystery, of Thailand.