We were happy, by jove.
Remember our honeymoon?
Cottage overlooking Kirrin Cove.
Bun-filled days and fizzy nights
that ended all too soon.
I blame the children. Not ours,
but Julian, Dick, Anne and George
appearing out of nowhere in search of adventure.
And you were happy to oblige,
packing them off to an island in a rowing boat.
They had a super time by all accounts,
and demanded more. Even Timmy
wagged his tail, waiting for you
to throw him another story to fetch.
Which you did. Smugglers, wasn’t it?
We saw less and less of each other.
All day you spent alone on the beach
skimming words across the waves like pebbles,
before locking yourself in the study
with dog biscuits and bottles of ginger beer.
Each night in bed, I felt for your body
only to feel the felt of Noddy,
or the rough serge of PC Plod.
The fear of separation, the domestic friction.
On my knees I prayed to the God of Fiction.
May they be asphyxiated in an underground tunnel.
Run over by a ghost train. George, no longer the tomboy,
molested by Julian. Let there be gore.
Let smugglers bury them alive. The boat overturn.
Let five famous skeletons be washed up on a distant shore.
But my prayers came to naught. So, one morning
while you were building a haunted castle at your desk,
I packed a suitcase and walked out. The sound of jeering
made me turn, and there they were on the porch.
Four smoking Woodbines, one pissing against my bicycle.