I don’t swear very often. I never swear out loud. I’d like to swear out loud. Now. But I won’t. I’ll just write SHIT on this page. What the SHIT! Elena’s in bed. I’m in a The Refectory Café drinking latte and looking at a slice of carrot cake I have no appetite for. Nina’s in a police cell. Daddy’s girl. (Elena’s term not mine). 

I joked sarcastically, when Elena collapsed getting out of bed. “It wasn’t that good,” I said. She looked so ill when I helped her up. Shock? Is it normal that you fuck after hearing your daughter has been arrested for murder. Fuck is also my wife’s term.

An argument some time ago: “Is it love making? As an editor I’d suggest you call it fucking. Or resetting your psyche. It’s about joining genes. It’s about emptying your cache.”

Nina says that love is made when we see the other for who we are. She was fifteen when she said that – I’ve probably told you that before. You? There’s a small crowd of YOU now. I have an ever-growing pile of assorted notebooks and a small crowd of imaginary readers. You’re all female. Except Tom.

Back to the SHIT!

2019 has not started well. The café is busy. According to the two policemen who came to the house yesterday afternoon, Nina pushed her boyfriend off a cliff near St Bees. She’d sent me some pictures of early morning frost that had decorated the garden at the cottage where they’ve been staying. There was one lovely picture of gull-prints and a piece of bread. Apparently a couple saw them walking close to the edge when Nina supposedly turned to Michael, shouted and pushed him over the edge.

Her temper changes so fast.

Elena hasn’t been feeling well for a while. Christmas was muted. I haven’t actually  calculated this but I have the feeling that there are, at least, 100 days between each of our love-making sessions. When they happen they don’t last for long. “Marriage isn’t about sex, it’s about sharing a life.” I agree. I AGREE. I do.

Pragma. Love without the extras.

I need to get back to her. Dr Grey is coming this afternoon. Elena’s angry. “Go to the café.” Nina sent me a short video of a blackbird singing last night. She loves nature so much. I hate to think of her in a cell. Elena loves doing things. I hate to think of her ill in bed. Emilia is meeting me at the café. I hate to think what she’ll have to say.