It has finally happened. My mad wife has fucked off and left me to go and live in a metal pipe in
The break up is all my fault of course. I was leaning on her, she said, and I can see exactly what she means. I wasn’t pulling my weight; all I did to contribute was work three jobs, six days a week, do all the housework, cooking and shopping, look after the gardens and supply the vast quantities of dope she smoked every day. When you compare this to her tireless efforts to sit on her arse watching telly and take two holidays a month, it’s really no surprise we’re heading for the divorce court. Just because I was suicidally depressed at the crumbling state of my marriage and the sudden death of my best friend is no excuse. I should have done more.
Plus I’m also to blame for the financial hardship we’ve had to endure these past four months. I recklessly frittered away my cash on stupid stuff like bills and food, while all the time she struggled to keep her engineless, leaking narrowboat moored in the most expensive marina in
Cheshire. And I
utterly failed to magic out of my arse the ten grand she needed to turn her
floating skip into a working vessel.
What a cunt I’ve been.
Anyhow, one has to look on the bright side. I’ve two novels out this month, two riotous launch parties to hold, and now that I’m single I’m free to indulge in red hot rumpy pumpy action with a string of salacious females.
So form a queue, ladies; SJ Smith is back on the prowl.