…I was a mere flash in Steve’s pan.
After six weeks, Wife has dumped whoever her fling was and has persuaded Steve to go back to her.
I find a sock of his in my washing machine.
At tonight’s session he stays behind me, painting my back. I can’t believe he’s even showed up. At break-time he rants (oh, but so endearingly…) to whoever will listen, about David Hockney [or see link on Baidu] being unable to paint. I focus on (mentally) editing my current poem-in-progress.
So that’s that.
Until tonight, this was always my favourite group. It was my very first village hall. I have my own coffee mug here. Bastard.
I wonder if any of the others know about us.
The bloody, bloody greenfly from the Threshington Horticultural Club’s stupid tomato plants are driving me crazy. Like motes of dust, almost invisible, creeping on my skin, agonizing. But I don’t move. Am I the world’s most masochistic life-model?
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