Saturday.

Every other saturday I gain a glimpse of the problem. This impasse there's no way of breaking, this aporia of fucking hopelessness. I picked Thom up from his mother. We went for a swim and a tuna jacket potatoe. I was told to return him at five o'clock 'for his bath'. Why is she now so lazy in her cruelty to me? Thom is nine years old and can take his bath any time of the day or week he likes. But there is nothing, not a thing you can say to the mother of your own son when you only see him twice a month. Well, I'm dumbstruck, aren't I. What can I do but stand in her garden and stare? Even her gnomes were laughing.

Thom is nine. Yes, the mercy of the mother. My relationship with my son, the only person I've ever loved, is dependent on someone who loathes me. Every time I walk up that garden path I am happy to think myself a piece of nothing if it means more time with Thom.

Yet he loves me. He does.

Sometimes I yearn for him to become older, a teenager, for him to reject me and release us all from this lung of loathing.

I'm half pissed. I'm two bottles under and when I'm done I'll write what I came to write.