She was in ‘that’ mood again. Her ‘Tea with Beckett’ mood, Pinter said Beckett was a ‘remorseless writer’. She imagined him, miserable but lucky enough to have been blessed with Irish humour. Beckett would be perfect company for her.

Her son flew into the garden screaming loudly and twirling a tea towel interrupting her thoughts that verged on morbidity. ‘No wonder I can never find a clean tea towel’, she thought. He ran around excitedly and then threw himself down on the beanbag, it ‘whooshed’ air out. He looked at her and laughed. He lay back striking a cool lad pose twirling the towel and making duck-like noises. She smiled at him thinking ‘if it hadn’t have been a tea towel it would have been a bra and the towel is more respectable’.

“You’re getting very respectable, Jonnie aren’t you?” She said to him. He looked at her and chuckled (as though he understood her words and their meanings).

She went back to her book ‘Creative Writing A workbook with readings’ This O.U. Course was tortuous. She was finding it hard keeping up, not knowing whether the course was too difficult or her situation was getting more dire. Jonnie got up and wandered around, then came over and pressed his cheek hard against her lips, then clasping her face firmly in his two hands pulled her close into his face.

“What do you want, son?”. His look was searching and deep as though he was trying to reach in and pull out every thought and secret she’d ever had.

“You’re a great boy.” Her voice was soothing, he was smiling, but she knew that she was as likely to get a head bang or a bite as a hug or a kiss. They were all ways of making contact to Jonathan, but she didn’t pull away. He giggled and took her right hand pulling her.

“You don’t like to see me sitting down, do you?” She said, setting the book down and letting him lead her into the house.

Their home was functional and by no means clean or healthy. Occasionally, the eau de cologne de bleach wafted through the rooms when she took a cleaning head stagger, which wasn’t often. There were no pictures on the walls, no photographs of family about the place, no keepsakes or ornaments, no mirrors except in the attic room. What ornaments she’d had were done for a long time ago, they’d went the way of the goldfish. Ah, the goldfish. She’d rather not think about them or their fate. No one should feel guilty about something that only has a two second memory, aren’t there enough things in life to cry over? Suffice to say, the idea of goldfish relaxing Jonathan didn’t work. They did not calm him down, not one bit! Their fate traumatised her for days-weeks.