I started running more and maybe I was having a mid-life crisis but I felt I could exercise my way out of it. I was officially a Mamil. I knew the meaning of words like wainscoting and I could describe any astronomical phenomena to the children with enthusiasm. I was unstoppable, but I was boring, I was painfully boring. I was boring myself.

I was going through that phase where you wonder what you would do without the other person, your mirrored self, your other you. It wasn’t a comfortable phase. I wondered about longevity and mused about Jenny’s head and how she came about decisions, even small ones like what way to wear her hair, loose and relaxed or tied back. She was always messing with her hair.

And I wondered about the sky and its menacing dark clouds and how its uncertainty could cause a small vibration in my stomach, a tiny flipping sensation of trepidation.

It wasn’t an easy thing, being faced with the certain relief that you could love somebody that much and have children with them and that this would be enough. It was a wonderful feeling to know that this was sufficient to sustain you, I didn’t need anything else.

But I still had the fear.

I kept everything in check, close to my heart – the knowledge that I was capable of hurting somebody else. It was difficult to imagine how events could have gone any other way.

The trouble I got myself into, as a young boy. It was a simple case of hitting a girl across the face, in the swimming pool. She wouldn’t play with me. She was much more interested in the other children. I wanted her attention so much, for her to swim-chase me, to choose me, and she refused to do any of it, and the whole feeling was excruciating. During playtime, I shoved her head under the water; just for a split second. When I let her go she started screaming, so I slapped her, it was a reflex action.

I lay in bed that night and I imagined what it must feel like to drown and I wondered if it was true what people said – that it is a pleasurable way to die. I felt sick about what I had done but I’d get over it.

48. You Can’t Make Tea

That tea was awful, I say to Jenny after Jerome leaves us.

I can’t make tea, she says.

Something in the way that she agrees with her inability is sad. I sense that she is defeated and it appals me that I have contributed to her sadness. It’s even more difficult when you know that you haven’t been faced with a choice.

He’s not a bad person, Des.