Bad Feeling

I’d told Diana I’d go with her to court at Lavender Hill. I told John I’d be going and to come home early for me to go early to bed. He came home drunk and after ten isn’t early. When I reapprised him of my getting up to accompany Diana, he said he’d a bad feeling about it. By the time he’d stopped farting about it was nearly one. I probably wouldn’t have slept much anyway. He woke me about half seven to say the alarm’d gone off and I did what I usually do when in a rush to be ready for something: put the radio to hear while I make tea and toast, shave, dress etc and had decided beforehand about the radio. I’d no intention of pussy-footing around out of consideration for him when I’d something to do.

A row developed I conducted while doing everything else. He accused me of putting on the radio to wake him up. I didn’t think so. He assumes everything’s to do with him. He called me an obnoxious cunt and to fuck off, fuck off, fuck off. I said he was saying that because I was fucking off anyway. While accusing me of doing what I was doing to attract the police, he was himself inconsistently banging about, or aggravating what he thought would attract them. He threatened to go out as soon as I left to shoplift and take smack. “We’d go to jail together.” “What’s the point of that?” I replied, “You always threaten me with that.”

As I was going through the room door, I said something like, “I don’t know why I put up with you. Yes I do. You wanted me. This is part of the me you wanted.”

He was smoking in the room because I was in the bathroom. “Go into the kitchen then. You’re not polluting the room.” What quietened him into not talking was my saying he’d dumped himself on me and I wouldn’t have put myself in jeopardy and worked out a way to solve the problem with his agreement if I didn’t care, if I didn’t love him. I asked for a cuddle, kiss and good luck wish, “and wish Diana good luck,” before I left.

She refused to go to court. She gave a litany of woes for not going: she couldn’t move her head, she couldn’t get on a bus – I said I’d lift her on – she couldn’t afford a taxi, the doctor’s letter she’d handed over wasn’t evidently there, the solicitor had said she hadn’t signed a form, wouldn’t be there therefore and she should apply to a Miss Ollie at court one, two or three who’d apprise herself of her case, one of many, on the hoof. I said the court, which was inefficient and incompetent, wouldn’t care. She said it should. The decision was hers and might work for her.

I went back to bed where John and I had sex. “Come on me,” he said. “Say you love me.” “You idiot,” I commented, “Anybody can say that.”

We had another row in the morning over his toast. He was complaining the bread was broken. “It doesn’t have gluten in it. Toast it anyway.” His OCD put doing that out of the question and me back into a bad mood. He refused to eat the toasted fruit bread and drink the coffee I’d made for him. “But you didn’t refuse the heat and the shower.” I was called an evil old man for that observation. He ate the toast though but refused the lunch because he didn’t like the lamb casserole. He said for breaking bail a warrant would be sent out to arrest Diana who’d go to Holloway.

Diana refused to talk to us. John said I’d upset him. “You did your bit too. There’ll be upsets.” He had a bad feeling about today, that he’ll be picked up by the police. “Then don’t go; watch television.” “You’ll moan about the picture.” “No I won’t.” “Believe me, you will,” he smiled.

I haven’t even mentioned Tina’s knocking to ask would the wine she was taking as a present be off. Or leaping out of a dream about a wine delivery that wasn’t twelve bottles, or the cash machine saying my pin was incorrect when it wasn’t.

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About johnbrucecairns

I'm a retired history teacher who's written for most of his life with a book readied for publication.
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