A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH?

Some people become happy drunks, and some people morose drunks. I usually become a “fast asleep in the corner” drunk. The night Vicky left I couldn’t seem to get drunk at all, the shock I guess just kept me wide awake just drunk enough to go through the conversation a hundred times without being able to figure out what I had said wrong. I felt I had said something wrong and not done something wrong.
My one sentence in the whole conversation had been, “how did you find out?” As if that mattered, as if I was planning to do something similar in the near future and wanted tips on how to cover my tracks a bit better. It was a crap thing to say but I wasn’t thinking straight at the time. To tell the truth I don’t think I’ve been thinking straight for some weeks now. When she was walking out to the car all I could think was, she’s not got many cloths with her so she’ll have to come back soon.
When I woke up I felt like I’d died but , like David Niven in that film A Matter of Life and Death, been missed by the angel of death in the fog. I looked at the clock and realised I should already have taken the kids to school, only Vicky had the kids with her. I was also supposed to be working today. I tried to think of an excuse to tell them on the phone: My car’s steering wheel fell off and now it only turns left – “I’ve been trying to come to see you honestly but I just end up going round in circles,” or perhaps I’d use the old I got held up by Jehovah Witnesses, or my dog died in a freak landslide perhaps a landslide of freaks. In the end I phoned them and told them the truth; I got pissed because my wife walked out on me after discovering I’ve been screwing my lesbian next door neighbour. “Good job she doesn’t know about the other one,” I joke “or I’d really be in the shit.” There was silence for a while then he simply says, “good one,” in admiring tones. See, honesty is the best policy – if only I could apply it to the rest of my life I’d be ok.
In the evening I went to the pub with Hairy, Fats, B and Little John. They try hard to cheer me up by listing things, the best five albumns of all time, the best five bands they have ever seen live, and which distillery makes the best Malt. Half the conversation is quoting lines from Monty Python and the Godfather. It’s not very deep but by the end of the evening I knew they had done their best and was grateful.
When I got home the light was flashing on the answer machine, I tried to play the message but pressed the wrong button and deleted it instead. I wish my life had rewind and erase buttons. The rest of the night I spent tossing and turning wondering who had phoned. Perhaps it was Vicky to forgive me and ask to come home, maybe Penni or even Liz . The thing is I don't know who I want it to be.
I get drunk again so I can sleep without having to dream. It doesn’t work, I dream the dream of that David Niven film , I’m on trial for my life and have to prove I’m a worthwhile person. I wake up with the jury still out. I guess it’s the best result I could hope for.