Middle Ages

An air of depression hangs over our houses.

My 40th birthday has come and gone. Being forty is no fun at all. It's bad enough in the months leading up to being forty. It occupies your thoughts, clouds your judgements, pops into your head as you're trying to be charming to sales assistants. But the time after being 40 is the worst. You realise that life hasn't come to an end, that you have more of the same old shit to deal with, that with every day that goes by you're just another step closer to 50. Half a century.

Jonny has kept a low profile for a spell. The LTLP has been ordering him around - she at least has bounced back well from her near-death experience. Some months have passed since the bodged attempt on her life. Jonny has been unwell. Whether he has been simply feigning sickness, or whether he has actually been ill, I do not know.

Tonight I found him in his bathroom covered in his own puke. He was half-crazed on mesc or crack or whatever it is the cool kids are taking these days. Was this an attempt on his own life? Again, I neither know nor care. I stood over him, one part of me in disgust at what has become of him. But there was another part, a not insignificant part, that just wanted to lay down next to him, close my eyes, and swallow the bottle of pills that were on the sink.

I am at a low.

I strip Jonny naked and hose him down in the shower. Then I pull him into the bedroom and lift him onto the bed. I think he might just get through this one.

Me?

I'm not so sure.