Tag Archives: marriage

love is a crutch/love makes life bearable

to my thoughts about Love I add this:

Last weekend I cleared some things up with special k – one of the effects of which is, I’m not going to mother him anymore. I decided I quite like the idea of us both being grown-ups who can deal with the world when we can and ask for help when we can’t.

And I like still feeling like me – and still being curious about him, because I don’t assume I actually know him at all.

I think when you’re in a long-term relationship with someone the easiest thing in the world is to get lazy – to sag in towards them and the comfort they provide. You start pre-empting each other and you wear grooves into certain familiar conversations.

It’s comfortable and easy, but it leeches personal initiative like nobody’s business.

But then today, when I felt like I was dying of pain (women’s business, probably best not to ask), the only thing in the world that could make me feel better was speaking to special k. I had taken too many painkillers: nothing. I had tried hot water bottle, sleeping, curtains drawn: nothing.

There was not a single safe harbour for me in the world but him. As soon as I heard his voice I could relax, and after speaking to him for ten minutes I passed out.

There’s a strong case for being independent – for still being the responsible, causative, joyful thing that generates your life. I’ve also always been a bit afraid of what would happen if special k died before me, and I didn’t know how to be without him.

But there’s definitely some equation in our society that goes: dependence = bad. Like you shouldn’t grow leaning towards anyone else.

When it’s as obvious to me as it was today that special k is something to me that nothing else on earth can be, I will gladly break my heart every day without him, if that’s what it takes to have this.


when I was about ten I was called to my older sister’s side because she was inconsolable.

“She read your diary,” Mum told me, “and now she thinks you want to die.”

After looking in a kind of despairing wonder at my sister’s red and crying face, the penny finally dropped. I had written I hope that I die peacefully in my sleep. Meaning, of course, when I die, far, far off in the future. I explained matters to my sister.

A couple of days later she smiled smugly at me and teased me about Francis Simmons, who I’d written about in my diary.

I am lying in bed beside special k (facing me this time, his book fallen against my arm, his sleeping fingers holding the page) and just wanted to write a goodnight message. The first thing to come to mind were those lines from Romeo and Juliet:

eyes look your last!

arms, take your last embrace!

but I thought that without the above anecdote some confusion might arise from the sentiment.

a great kiss needs great coincidence

I kissed special k goodbye this morning – the kind of fond, slightly melting kiss of the long-committed. And I suddenly got the fear you get when you almost have a grisly accident on your bike and it leaves you shaking even though you’re technically unscathed.

I looked into his close-up, kissing face, with the smiley eyes and the textured lips (does the same quantum theory apply to lips that applies to coastlines?) and I realised how many things have to agree and come into confluence for a kiss like that to happen. Just an ordinary, morning kiss.

There stands a whole separate person to me, with a whole separate set of needs/wills/desires/have tos, and here I am with all my needs/wills/desires/have tos, but somehow, in this moment, all that personal impetus has brought us both, separately, to this.

How easily that could have not happened! What are the chances that I love him and he loves me and we meet in the corridor at the lips?

do gangsters get a free pass?

so we’re watching The Sopranos as per usual, and Tony’s just started having another affair. You’re kind of drawn in by the idea of him falling in love, until you remember his wife.

“What a dick!” I say, when this pertinent penny drops.

“Why?” says special k. “He’s the boss.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” I say, pausing just long enough for a nod of affirmation, even though it wasn’t a question, “so why should he?”

“He’s a gangster,” says special k, as though it’s all terribly obvious. “He’s not exactly morally sound.”

Which reminds me of something else I’ve thought a bit about:

Does love depend on morality? By which I mean, if the person you love – let’s say your spouse – came home and told you they’d committed a murder, would you still feel ok about loving them? Does the feeling depend on believing in the moral integrity of the person you love? And if so, is it really love?

And to finish the quiz, does Tony like his orange juice

a) with pulp,

b) without pulp

c) with some pulp