It has finally happened. My mad
wife has fucked off and left me to go and live in a metal pipe in Cheshire.
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.
