On the whole, people are uncomfortable about my affair with The Plumber. Some are vociferous in their disapproval, others simply tilt their nostrils up and eye me through slits like Kenneth Williams.
Their disdain has nothing to do with the memory of M, of course, although they’d like to fool themselves – and me – that it has. It has, I have discovered, more to do with plain, old-fashioned envy – they’d love to be in the midst of a sexual cliché such as this one, where they are shagged senseless on the stairs by a six-foot, tattooed workman once a week, who then returns to fit their sink.
Admitting this though, in these circumstances (the circumstances which must be acknowledged in HUSHED TONES ONLY, if acknowledged at all), would be like pissing on M’s ashes (which are still in my wardrobe by the way), so instead they feign disgust or concern or both because it makes them feel better.
I mentioned I’m adrift in some sort of sea. The waters are violent and unpredictable and I have few buoyancy aids at my disposal. The Plumber is currently one of them. Swim awhile in these waters, bearing the weight I am carrying, and you’ll not make any apologies either.