Sticks and Stones

This is a semi-autobiographical novella I wrote about five years ago.

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Because she gives one hundred percent to the children, she expects me to do the same.
Cherry

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January 2006 (Since last writing, we have sold the house we bought near Toulouse and split the proceeds, in her favour, for an amicable separation.) This shows you what an unfeeling reprobate I wa

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I’m thinking of taking the D2H for a nocturnal sortie into town. There are few cars passing by below and Andorra seems to be the most lawful place on earth considering there’s no tax here.

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By midnight, the crowd were back and happy to see us. Those who had concerns as to why we were there began to relax, so I brought out the whisky and lagers and turned up the ghetto-blaster.

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Suzie is sure that if I was to make that brave step into the unknown, my writing would flourish with the new order in my life.

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I got drunk last night and discovered that beer mats don’t do their job any more.

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The next day was a nightmare.

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This is part of what I wrote; ‘How many times have I bought one of these little kiddy notebooks and sat alone in a bar trying to evaluate a new predicament with words, beers and cigarettes?

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Griff had told me he loved me and Maddy looked me in the eye for at least a second before I floated out to my car, while Clara, the matchmaker that she is, pulled my face towards that of her mother to

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I’m now back at my mother’s flat in Shalford waiting for Suzie to call. I feel like a complete moron, having blown the best part of £500 on horses, fruit-machines and booze yesterday.

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I picked Clara and Griff up at lunchtime today and whipped them into Lavaur for Clara’s dance class at two.

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I haven’t picked up from where I left off for some weeks, in which plenty has happened.

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I set up the system and kicked off the evening with Johnny Cash’s ‘A boy named Sue’ and Hawkwind’s ‘Orgone Accumulator’.

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It’s now Saturday. The kittens were put in the garage this morning. The trail of runny shit that followed Princess around Griff’s bedroom was the final straw.

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It’s Monday morning now. Suzie’s been on the phone. She spoke to the school without going in to see them because Griff’s caught a cold.

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It’s now Thursday morning.

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Christina, the masseuse, was olive-skinned and beautiful with a rounded but sleek face full of Latin fun and mischief.

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If I suggest a new way of doing things, Suzie will go out of her way to stick to her system. There’s no telling her. She’s as dogged as a staunch Tory on Election Day.

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After a few more at Les Americains, I drove the back way to Toulouse, which was a mistake. Everyone coming from the other direction seemed to have their full beam on or they had wonky low beams.