In a World Gone Mad: Sunday 5th July 2020

Sunday 5 July 2020

We had a karaoke night last night, Andy didn’t join us because he was hung over from the night before when he went to his friend’s house. Covid19 is like a ghost that has been exorcized from the town. We broke the rules again too. Max invited Jane and Dan to join us. It was supposed to be just us, and sexy time was mentioned by him at one point.

I like Jane and Dan and didn’t mind when he asked them to join us and he did ask me if we could. Apart from the Grim Reaper, it was a good night.

We had a laugh earlier in the day and Arthur doesn’t know how close he came to having a difficult protuberance.

Max came into the office.

‘There’s something I need to discuss with you.’

‘Oh hell, what have I done?’

‘Well I notice you opened my tablet box.’

I had no idea what he was talking about. He keeps a wooden box on his dressing table, but I  have no idea what he keeps in it. I thought it was just his nail clippers—and stuff.

‘I haven’t touched your tablet box. I didn’t know you have one.’

‘You haven’t opened a box of tablets  in the cupboard with Dad’s medication? It’s too high for Dad to reach and Andy hasn’t been down.’

‘Oh heck. Are they yours? I’m so sorry I invaded your privacy, I did open them. I thought they were Arthur’s.’

‘You thought the doctor had put my dad on Viagra?’

‘No, I didn’t have my glasses on so couldn’t read the label, I didn’t even try because all we keep in that cupboard are your dad’s pills. I did wonder why there were only four of them, they are exactly the same size and shape as his yellow ones, and I thought they’d changed the dosage and therefore the colour. It’s a bloody good job he still had one left in his packet, because I very nearly gave him one. It was only my medical training that you never give medication to somebody without reading the label that prevented me.  May I suggest Casanova, that you move your happy todger pills to our bedroom?’

We had a laugh about it.

‘You do know you can talk to me about these things—you can talk to me about anything, Max.’

‘I tried that the other week when I told you to walk the dog yourself and you didn’t speak to me for three days.’

‘Good point.’

‘I can talk to you about anything, as long as it’s something you want to hear and there is absolutely no hint of criticism there, you mean?’

‘Um, yes that sounds about right.’

‘I can talk to you about anything—but beware, there may be reprisals?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can talk to you about anything but remove all the knives first?’

‘Okay, you’ve made your point.’

We had a laugh about it, but I still don’t know why he didn’t tell me he’d asked his doctor for Viagra, he doesn’t need it.

He hurt me last night and I don’t know if I’m speaking to him or not. I kind of have to otherwise I prove his point of yesterday. It’s one o’clock I have about an hour to decide. I think I’ll be sweet, kind girlfriend—even if he is a dick.

He put me down a few times but that’s just his sense of humour.

‘Oh God, don’t tell them what your book’s about it’s so depressing. There are only two things that taste of fish and one of them isn’t fish. Do you have to sing again, cats are lining up on the wall. It was just him being him and I am his stooge. I can remember every word of him putting me down in fun—I don’t recall how many times I did it to him. Touché. We’re as bad as each other.

But what hurt me was that only yesterday I told him how much I miss dancing with him. We do a reasonable Salsa and often get complimented on it.  We stumbled on a Northern Soul club in Derby and boy did we show off.  We combined soul dancing—which I’m good at and Max not as good, with our twisty-turning salsa and it worked really well. The DJ and several other people told us we were the best dancers on the floor. Not bad for a pair of old buggers. I’ve had an ankle reconstruction and have half a ton of metal in there and the next day, my ankle was the size of a rugby ball but that’s by the by.

Last night, to appease him, I danced with Arthur. He does a jitter-buggy jive thing and goes into a rage if you forget to let him lead. I’ve been doing it with him for three years so pretty much know what’s coming next. I almost killed him.

A couple of hours later Max put Havana, on, which is, ‘Our Song.’ It’s the one song that we love to dance to. It upset me when he went to Jane, fifteen years my junior, blonde, slim, and lovely and asked her to dance instead of me.

I admit, I was jealous and it’s an ugly emotion.

Jane is a raver and can’t dance and they gave up before the first chorus. If we’d had a dance first, it wouldn’t have bothered me at all—but it was the fact that I’d had the conversation about dancing with him the day before and it was our favourite song.

When Jane sat down—oh bless, he got the consolation prize up.

 Instead of dancing to tempo and being sensual, I led and was aggressive. We danced double time and I threw him all over the living room. It’s the best we’ve danced since the night in Derby. But I’m still hurt.

It’s childish, I know it is. So, he danced with my mate first instead of me boo-hoo. Get over it, woman. We were all having fun and it meant nothing.

But I played it back in the wee small hours. Those demons came for me and got me good. It felt like a groom picking somebody else for the first dance. I was worthless again and very much second best. I know he loves me on some level, we’re a good team. But he doesn’t fancy me. And why would he, I’m old, fat and ugly—and I’ve put on two kilos during lockdown.  But I want my man to fancy me. That’s a big part of what’s wrong with our sex life. He likes young, slim blondes. How can he want me after that?

I dressed up for him last week in a silk nightie and negligee dressing gown thing—size  18. I had my big blue velvet dressing gown over the top because Arthur and Andy were in, but I kept giving him a flash. I’d looked at myself in the mirror and was about as attractive as Syphilis. I looked ridiculous. I was aiming for sexy; and achieved Fatty Patty the blow-up doll. But I went along with it without him asking because I know he likes women dressing up for him.

And because I have this need for him to fancy me, it’s made me think.

Do I fancy him—do I?

Does he give me butterflies?—never, not since the early days.

Would I prefer him to be ten years younger—definitely.

How is our sex life?—seldom and staid.

In the last three years his bald patch has grown and where did that paunch come from? On a bad day he looks nine months pregnant.

But when we’re sitting on the sofa and he looks at me and smiles, I don’t get butterflies, but I do feel warm inside.

Max does a lot for other people, he does a hell of a lot and puts himself out massively. Sometimes he’ll do an act of kindness and I think, that’s my man.

He always dresses well. When I’m in my leggings and T around the house, he will be in pressed jeans and a nice  top—even his track suit is designer. He looks damned good for his age and as well as telling him almost every day that he looks nice, I think it. I appreciate his grooming and the way he looks after himself.

And when he’s gigging and plays a good set, I’m proud of him. I’m proud to be his girlfriend.

I’m just proud of him in general.

In three years, I have never once looked at another man. There is nobody else in the world that I want to be with, and I have never fancied anybody else.

He makes me happy far more than he doesn’t make me happy.

Does that mean I fancy him? –I think it does. It’s not bells and whistles and, wow, but I think I fancy him. I don’t know.

I’m more certain that he doesn’t fancy me.

Arthur was like the Grim Reaper last night. Max asked him to go to his room to watch television so that we could have an evening with our friends. We’ve made it more like a bedsit for him with an armchair and table and his bookcases, telly, and radio. I thought it was harsh, but I do think we’re entitled to a life of our own too. He shouldn’t have to be involved in every minute of every day. I made him up a plate of nice nibbles and a jug of fruit juice and broke my rule of not liking him eating in his room. I laid it nice for him on his table with a small vase of flowers from the garden and we put a film on for him. The living room is far enough away from his bedroom—and he’s pretty deaf so if he went to bed we wouldn’t disturb him. I felt bad when Max explained to him that we’d like an evening on our own.

At eight he shambled into the living room.

‘Hi Dad, What’s up?’

‘Nothing Boy, I just want to come and see what’s going on and what I’m missing.’

And he sat. He sat on the sofa from eight until half past three in the morning. He kept falling asleep and when he snored his teeth fell from his mouth and clacked out onto his lip. He was no trouble, he didn’t kick off, it was no biggie—but he was there, and it was a bring down presence.

I made the most of it and we had no choice but to include him. Early on I danced with him and Jackie tried but he got frustrated with her because she didn’t understand his moves—the only reason I do is that I’ve learned them.

At nine Dan and Max went to the shop for tobacco and were gone about twenty minutes. I gave Arthur his own little set and we sang together. He can’t manage a song on his own but with somebody singing with him he gets most of the words.  We sang: We’ll meet again, White Cliffs of Dover, Roll out the Barrell, The Lambeth Walk and Leaning on a Lamppost.

Something else that was sad is that we can never allow Arthur to dance again. He loves it as much as I do. He’s eighty-seven years old and last night made him ill. I thought he was going to die.  His dance is energetic. Jane said his feet left the floor more than they touched it and he jumps and hops all the way through. Thank God the song didn’t have another verse. When he sat down he almost passed out and I honestly thought he was going to have a heart attack. His chest was heaving. He couldn’t speak. He went as white as a sheet and couldn’t even raise his arm to take a drink of water from me. I thought I’d killed him.

Arthur will want to dance, and he’ll ask people to dance with him—but I said to Max that we’re going to have to stop it which will make him unhappy. The first time he asked me to dance last night, I said no, and he sulked like a little boy. To be fair, when I did agree to dance with him the second time he asked, it got the party going—good old Arthur. Max said that it would be a good way for him to go. And it would. There would be two ideal ways for Arthur to die one would be in the middle of a dance and the other would be sitting in the garden in the sunshine. They are two things he loves doing. But our objective—as much as it pains me—is to keep him safe and alive.

By ten he was done. He was tired and withdrawn. I think he felt poorly after dancing and he just sat like a big black cloud on the sofa for the rest of the night. Even when other people were dancing he didn’t ask to dance again—I think he knew that he’d almost killed himself and it frightened him. Every time he woke from a doze, we asked him if he’d be more comfortable in bed, but he was determined to sit it out to the bitter end—and he did.

It’s two o’clock I am going to take my boyfriend breakfast in bed. He’s back to work tomorrow and didn’t come up until after seven this morning. He’s bound to be tired and I feel guilty for being jealous last night—even if he didn’t know about it.