…and Another Lost Weekend.

This last weekend passed by in something of a drunken blur.

Adam and Sam came over on Saturday and we all got stupidly drunk. I kept flirting with Sam as I always do; Adam kept flirting with Tanya as he always does. I remember laughing a lot, but I can’t recall why. I DO remember my laughter feeling somewhat hollow. I’ve often fantasized about getting Sam into bed, but I like Adam too much to destroy his family for him. I already stole one girlfriend off him, years ago.

Sunday it was my mother’s birthday, and to celebrate she took us all out to the pub for a meal. I dealt with the hangover from the previous night by drinking as much cider as I could in the couple of hours we were in there. I wasn’t embarrassing or brash or anything; im seasoned enough now to be able to get completely wasted while appearing stone cold sober. I’m very good at it these days. I don’t even need to make an effort. Some of the other customers in the pub were giving me strange looks but I don’t know why. Fuck them anyway.

Then when we got home after the pub I slept it off for a little while, but then Tanya woke me up to remind me that she was supposed to be going out for a meal with some workmates. They went for an Indian at a new place that just opened on the main road in town. We looked in there once but it was dead so we didn’t go in. Never a good sign. We finished a bottle of wine left over from Saturday night before she went out, and I got another to have to myself.

I put the girls to bed, read Ellen a story , and made her cry by talking about how one day she would find someone who loves her and she would marry and move away. I asked her to promise she would never forget about me. She said she wouldn’t. We cuddled for a long time, both of us crying softly.

When Tanya came hoe drunk at one AM, I was in bed, drunk, and angry about something which I can’t recall. We had a short, intense, but then ended up fucking like drunken animals until four in the morning.

I went to work the next day feeling…like everything was dead. My eyes are getting worse, and I’ve started to hear voices in my head. I think it’s a combination of the booze and lack of sleep. I’ll see how I feel as the week goes on.

Nothing more from Astrid. Nothing from Ulrika. I feel very lonely.

Lost in the Supermarket

so fucking tense and angry. Tanya asking me what’s up every five minutes,the kids bickering constantly I wish they would all just shut up and fuck off. 

in the supermarket women’s underwear.

I’m tense, partially at least, because i can’t stop thinking about Ulrika. She’s the first woman I had an affair with, and so I guess she will always be precious to me. I almost left Tanya and the girls for her, though Tanya didn’t know the real reason I was leaving. I had one foot out of the door…but couldn’t do it. It’s the girls. They are the only reason I’m still here. I’m sure that, in time, things will come to their natural conclusion here. But in the meantime I have to stay here and be a father to my kids, even if I can’t stand the sight of my wife.

We’re in the supermarket, shopping for dinner but I keep finding my eyes drawn to the women’s underwear section. Some of the panties and bras the mannequins are wearing make me ache so bad. I want to see a woman, a pretty young woman in her underwear right now. It’s all I can think of. I want Astrid in her underwear…the thought of it drives me crazy. 

We have Adam and his wife, Sam coming over tonight. It should be fun…

Eleven Minutes

I keep getting blurred vision, little bouts of it. Its not my eyes though, I’m pretty sure of that, I’ve been to get them tested and apparently my vision is spot on. I can only put it down to exhaustion from all the late nights, or to the fact that on almost every day now I’m either working alcohol out of my system, or putting it in again. Another alternative is that I’m so disinterested in life that I go around in a permanent world of my own, my eyes constantly glazed like they are when Tanya starts going on about what happened at work or what jobs need to be done around the house, or the state of her mother’s fucking knee.

I’m thinking about blurred vision and Tanya going on about stuff as I walk to pick up the car from the store again after I finish work.

If you remember, I mentioned that I rarely have any time, or the necessary peace and quiet to actually THINK about anything, and the other day I was inspired to time my reflective moments, and I discovered that they are broken down into segments of exactly eleven minutes, give or take a few seconds. I groaned aloud when I learned this. It’s just another headfuck I could do without. I made notes…

Home – Work (08:30 – walking) = eleven minutes.

Work – Home (12:30 – walking) = eleven minutes.

Home – Work (13:15 – walking) = eleven minutes.

Work – Store: collecting car from Tanya (17:00 – walking) = eleven minutes.

Store – Tanya’s parent’s to get the kids (17:03 – driving) = eleven minutes.

Tanya’s parent’s – home (17:20 – driving (with kids)) = eleven minutes. It should be noted that this does not count as thinking time; the girls bickering and bombarding me with loud chunks of information like they were hurling grenades at me from the back seat distracts me so much that I can barely concentrate on what’s happening on the road in front of me, let alone what’s going on inside my head.

These are just some examples and I’m sure there are more. It’s fascinating and a little scary. I’m going to do some more work on it, to try and make sense of it all. What’s the significance?? Now I think about it, I’ve not seen a seagull for days.

—

Writing this in the eleven minutes it takes me to walk to Charlie’s to pick up Lizzie. She’s full of attitude at the moment and almost every word she says is uttered with such venom towards me and Tanya it makes me want to give her a clip round the ear, or to put her over my knee and give her a good hiding like I’d have been on the receiving end of if I spoke to my parents the way she speaks to me. It makes me want to fucking scream sometimes.

I’m pissed off with myself for looking at photos of Ulrika. It does hurt, but I know that it’s for the best that we’re not in touch. Good news though: I heard from Astrid today!

Checkmate

Back at work. It’s Tuesday, bright, cold, and with some unusual pink cloud formations rolling across the sky to the south.

Passing people on the street on my way to the office, the same people I see every day, all lost in our own little worlds. I’m thinking about Ulrika and how, sadly, it feels like it’s really over. We’ve not communicated since my snotty email to her on Saturday. It’s the longest we’ve not spoken without having officially ‘ended it’, which we have done dozens of times but always found the pain too much and have been back in touch within a week. This time it doesn’t hurt, and I mean really, physically hurt like it’s done before, this time I just feel…regret, I guess. No news from Astrid either, but I’m not too worried about her; she said from the beginning that she wouldn’t be in touch every day because of her workload. I wonder if she’s waiting for me to surprise her one night like I said I would. Maybe that’s it! Her not contacting me could all be part of the game. I’ll have to think about that.

I know what I SHOULD do: I should try to fix my marriage; pay attention to the relationship I’m supposed to be committed to instead of lamenting the ones that I shouldn’t even have been involved in anyway. But I’m not that kind of guy. I know exactly what will happen. I will continue to have quick, sordid little sexual episodes with girls I don’t even know, one or two of them might develop into something more. I’ll get hurt, or I’ll be the one to do the hurting, it will all fail again like it did with Ulrika, and I’ll be right back here, the whole thing will start again and I’ll go round and round until the inevitable day when Tanya finds out about what her husband is really like. Then the family will explode, and I will have the excuse I need to finally destroy myself.

Spent about three hours helping Ellen with her homework when I came back from work. She’s learning about UK landmarks. She was copying and pasting loads of facts from the internet but not paying attention to what they were. I helped by testing her on a couple of facts for each landmark. It was fun, until Mari needed help with her maths too. Juggling them both, while getting progressively drunk, took a lot of skill, patience, and coordination, and produced in the the same adrenaline levels as those experienced by a Base Jumper. I’m Superdad, me.

Later James came over for a couple of joints and a game of chess. By this time Tanya had come back from work with a bottle of wine. When James showed up I’d had three litres of cheap cider and two large glasses of red. I had to try to act sober all night. After Tanya and the kids had gone to bed James and I rolled a couple of joints and smoked them on the bench under the lean to in the back garden. Needless to say he completely kicked my ass at chess. All the pieces seemed to be moving on their own.
Nothing from Ulrika. Nothing from Astrid. I’m giving up I think.

Hair

 

 

I’m walking home for lunch. It’s a bright, cold day, but when the wind dies from time to time I feel the sun through my trouser legs, pleasant and warm. I take in a deep breath of city air. It’s cold and stings my nostrils, and with it comes the sweet smell of tobacco from people smoking as they walk along, and the grey, cancerous tang of exhaust fumes. I look up and see two seagulls in the blue sky. How do I feel about it? I’m not sure. I think I should feel it heartening in some way but really, like most other things, it leaves me cold.

I’m feeling bitter because there’s a guy at work, almost half my age, with a better job than me. He’s good looking, his family are of Italian origin, and dresses sharply, too sharply if you ask me. I want to tell him he’s not on a catwalk in fucking Milan, he’s in sales for Christ’s sake. I’d like to tell him this but his father is one of the directors and I know, I just know that if I did I’d end up being fired for it. It doesn’t matter how good I am at my job, that’s just how things work at our place. He’s a smarmy, greasy motherfucker, and I’m toying with the idea of sabotaging his car when he leaves it at the office overnight, which he sometimes does. My dad told me about mixing petrol with washing up liquid, and taping it to the exhaust pipe under the car or something. When it gets hot enough it ignites and gets very sticky, like napalm. I’ll ask him again when I speak to him this weekend. He’s great, my dad. I’ll tell you all about him sometime. He’s my hero.

Viktoria and I broke up last night. I went out to the pub for a couple of drinks and met a girl with an unidentifiable but clearly eastern European accent. She seemed nice at first but there was something about her that I didn’t trust. She kept asking if I was single. I kept telling her that id broken up with my girlfriend, which is true. It was difficult to talk to her though. She didn’t say much. She seemed interested but there was something…’blocking’ our communication, like there was a wall between us, as if I kept going suddenly deaf. All the time we were sitting together I had my eye on the door, hoping Astrid would walk in, but she didn’t. I looked at her picture on my phone, and sent her a couple of texts, but there was no response. I understand though, i know she has a lot of work to do. I’m still trying not to think of Ulrika. I have to swallow very hard every time I see her name, and torture myself by looking at her photo. She still means so much to me. It really hurts…

Now the day is over and i’m at home again. It’s dark, cold and pouring with rain outside. I’m so glad it’s Friday; I’m totally ready for the weekend, especially since I have Monday off too. I’m sitting in the kitchen, having just eaten a bowl of nice Mediterranean Tomato soup and a cheese sandwich. I have drunk a litre of cheap, shitty, but strong white cider and now I’m hitting the red wine while I listen to the news on the radio. It’s 18:18 as I look at the clock. I wonder if this is another sign. The kids are around the place; Lizzie watching LA Ink in the living room, Ellen on the computer in the dining room, Mari upstairs reading and watching a film in her room. For the first time in a while I can hear myself think, but this won’t last long as Lizzie’s ‘boyfriend’ Charlie is coming over soon, and the place always erupts into chaos when he’s here. He’s a good kid; a quiet, handsome, pleasant young man, but his presence seems to make my kids turn into a bunch of wild, and very noisy, animals.

I drain a glass of wine, refill it and head upstairs to clip my hair and get a shower. I stand on the landing and look at my reflection as I drag the electric clippers over my scalp. I have been balding for a few years now, and thought it best to do the dignified thing and keep what hair I have left very short. I am a ‘zero’ all over, but I have stopped short of wet-shaving it. For some reason I think that would be a step too far. In order to balance my head I let the stubble on my face grow; it is dark and has an increasing number of grey flecks in it. I also drag the clippers across my face, so that with the exception of my eyebrows, all the hair on my entire head stays at roughly the same length.

I just about recognise the guy in the mirror today. Sometimes I haven’t a clue who he is. He has strong, dark eyebrows over a pair of hazel-green eyes which he has been told are a very nice shape and colour. He used to have the nickname ‘Maybelline’ because it looks like he wears eye makeup. His eyes have long, thick ashes and, lately, a pair of dark circles hanging beneath them. His face used to be beautiful, and now it is very handsome (the words of others, he would be excruciatingly embarrassed to use these words about himself). His face is symmetrical, with an average nose and full lips on a mouth that doesn’t smile much anymore. When it did, it was a bright, laughing smile that revealed a set of even teeth about which he wasn’t happy because all the wine and coffee had dulled them a little. He has an average build, is not fat but he has a little bit of a pot belly these days, and is 5’ 11” in height. He has a piano player’s hands with a large span and long, slender fingers. He has an angry patch of eczema which has begun to develop under his wedding ring, and this, he is absolutely certain, is another sign. Tonight the guy in the mirror is still in his work clothes: a dark blue sweater, a lighter blue shirt, a pair of grey trousers – the ones which he feels flatters his ass – and black shoes.

I take another gulp out of my wine. I can hear raised voices downstairs; it’s nothing to get angry about though, they are just calling to each other from their different rooms, not arguing. There is a knock at the door: it’s Charlie. I sigh at the guy in the mirror, finish clipping my hair, then take my wine to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

Best Friend

For some reason, maybe seagulls, maybe thunder, I’m sending a text to my best friend. I haven’t been in touch with him since his birthday a couple of weeks ago, and even then we didn’t speak, just made vague arrangements to meet up which then, conveniently for both parties, were subject to ‘unforeseen circumstances’. I’ve invited him to come over for a game of chess next week. Hopefully he’ll bring some weed with him. We were both best man at each other’s wedding, and are still officially best friends, though both of us hang out, and would rather spend time with, other people. We both know it, but we don’t admit it to each other. It’s like, by communicating, we’re fulfilling some kind of duty; an obligation.

My official best friend’s name is James; my unofficial best friend’s name is Adam; my REAL best friend’s name is Ulrika. I can’t talk about her. It hurts too much.

Best friends are supposed to share things, but I never heard about James’s affair until it was in its death throes. He doesn’t know about any of mine. He and his wife like to paint themselves as the perfect couple; professional, affluent, one, blonde haired little girl called May who is spoiled to the point that she runs their whole fucking house. They’re nothing like us; their house is spotless, prim, sterile, everything in its place, we live in constant, complete chaos.

James’s wife’s parents are very successful, with her father running a big hospital down in London. Her dad would kill him if he knew about the affair. They always thought that he wasn’t good enough for their daughter, so he’s spent the last eighteen-odd years trying to live up to their standards. In the process he’s become a completely different person to the guy I used to get stoned with when I was younger. I’ve matured, sure, but I’m still the same person inside; at least I think I am. He’s been bodysnatched, I’m sure of it.

I’m writing all this from the floor of the bathroom. The shower is on. It’s hot and steamy, like a sauna. Ulrika is a Swedish Finn (or is it a Finnish Swede?), and her mother has a sauna at her home. But here, in grimy north west England, I can hear the kids arguing downstairs, the rush of the water almost drowning out the noise. I like it here. It feels like I’m back in the womb or something. In a minute I’ll get in the shower and toss off, while I watch online porn videos on my phone. I hope the steam doesn’t damage it too much.

I don’t know when I started behaving like this. It feels like it was long, long ago.

Reflection Time

It occurs to me that the only times I get to think properly are when I’m out walking or in the last few minutes before I go to sleep. The rest of the time, whether I’m at work or at home, there is too much noise, too much stress, too many problems caused by other people that I have to fix for them, there is just TOO much going on for me to even get a grip on ME, on who I am. Its probably not such a bad thing. In those rare moments when I DO catch myself listening to what’s going on in my head, I become increasingly convinced I’m turning into a fucking psycho. It feels like my body is hollow and my soul, if I ever had one, has long since gone. It’s like any day now, something is going to happen that will send me over the edge. I’ve been to the brink a few times, but have always managed to pull myself back. I can’t see that happening again. I’m too far gone already.

Gimme Shelter

 

The title to this post purely because I have the Stones in my earphones as I’m walking to the office again, thinking about  my kids. There are three of them; all girls: Lizzie, Mari and Ellen. Lizzie is the eldest, she’s not going in to school today and for once it’s not because of the bullying; she’s genuinely sick.

I try to get her to talk to me, I always have. So does her mother, but she refuses to open up to us. She has good friends, she’s into what I used to call Goth-rock, but it’s probably called something totally different now. She’s very pretty, stylish in her own, dark way and, as far as I know, is generally quite popular. Then a couple of weeks ago we heard from one of the other kids that they’d heard from someone else that Lizzie was cutting herself because she was being bullied at school. I confronted her about it and made her show me her wrists. They were covered with angry red welts. I went crazy. There was a lot of shouting and even more tears. I was furious at first because I thought she had some kind of romantic idea about being ‘dark’ and ‘troubled’, that it was all part of her image. Then she showed me the text messages she’d been receiving.

They came from a boy who I remember liked her some time before, they ‘went out together’ in the way that eleven-twelve year old kids do. I doubt they kissed; they probably never even held hands. Eventually she grew tired of him and dumped him, and not long after that the abuse started. He would push her around at school and encourage his friends to do the same. Then came the texts; nasty, spiteful little texts telling her to kill herself, that she’s fat and she should starve herself to death, that he was going to bring a knife into school so she could slash her wrists. Little motherfucker. No wonder the girl was stressed. I just wish she could have spoken to me before it became so bad that the only option was for her to cut herself to release the pain. Her mother and I went into the school to talk to the teachers about it. I told them I had a short fuse and was close to doing something I might end up regretting. The teachers were glad we came in. They’re keeping an eye on the situation and having regular meetings with Lizzie to make sure she’s okay, and things seem better now. Lizzie is still frustrating, selfish and as moody as ever, but now I think this is just down to her hormones rather than anything I really need to worry about. Sometimes she drives me crazy, but that’s kids I guess. Sometimes I don’t like her much at all, but I’ll always love her. She and her sisters are the only things that remind me I’m capable of loving at all.

I’m acting calm about it all, now things seem to be better for Lizzie, but just between us, I’m really flooded with a kind of rage. When I visualise it, I see it as boiling oil, like they would pour over the walls of a castle to fend off invaders. This kid had better pray I never meet him. He came to the house once, looking for Lizzie, before all the trouble. I lied and told him she wasn’t home. If he came round now, I would drag him down the alleyway that runs down the side of our house, close the alley gates behind me, and stamp on his face until even his mother wouldn’t recognise him. Then I would find out where he lived and burn his house to the ground, preferably with his family inside it. No-one treats my daughter like that. No-one.

I walk home at lunchtime. The house is empty because my wife is working. Lizzie is at her grandmother’s because she’s sick; the other two girls are at school.  As soon as I’m through the door I Skype Viktoria, my Russian girlfriend. She makes me video myself while I lie on the bed and masturbate. She tells me to fix clothes pegs to my balls and twist them. It hurts, but its a sweet pain. I love it. She then makes me take my leather belt and whip my cock with it until I cum. I say goodbye, lie that I love her, get cleaned up and head back to work after emailing her the video. I don’t eat anything.

At work, two huge generators are being installed outside the office. This is so that our boss doesn’t have to lose any money if there is a power cut. All afternoon I get emails from Viktoria telling me how worthless I am, that the video I sent was a piece of shit. I mail her back over and over again, telling her I will try to do better next time.

I find out that work starts on my boss’s FOURTH house today. It’s somewhere in Scotland; Gleneagles I think. He’s a big golfer so that would make sense. I’m doing okay at work and have saved the company more than fifty grand this year alone, probably more like seventy. As I walk home I’m thinking about all this money. It reminds me I need to call my mother this evening to borrow some money for food shopping. The pay we get at our place is shit. The air is getting warmer now that winter is on its way out and I’m getting buffeted about by the wind as I walk along. It makes my eyes sting and fill with tears. I can’t seem to shake the feeling that someone is going to die soon.