I was reading a new translation of The Second Treatise of Seth when George, seemingly my only friend, called to say he had news and wanted some advice. We tend not to share our bad news anymore and while this is a feature of the middle years it also means, due to our occasional tendency to identify with each other, that we don't get ourselves into misery and horseshit. Equally, I was in no mood to hear his good news, either. I called Rachel. Shall we go to the theatre? Had we ever been anywhere ? To see what, she asked, as if we had. I haven't a clue, I said, dimly aware that perhaps I was trying to create some news of my own. Brilliant, she said.

I got tickets for Beowolf- A Thousand Years of Baggage. I explained to Rachel that it was a devised piece, a fusion of music and performance, part lecture- part romp taking the 9th Century tale out of Academe and back to its bare bones of mothers, sons, war, dick. She asked if I wanted a coffee. I said no. I wanted to to be out on the town, fucking about, holding her hand. ..Why? She smiled, looking as if someone else had said it, someone on her team, perhaps. And confirming this, she said, I have friends I can go to the theatre with.

Blimey fucking Mary. After six months, this was our first argument. The one time I make an effort...After six months of...You always said you wanted more, and now, right now, when we are about to WALK OUT THE DOOR AND DO...MORE !!!!! This is the moment...She was warming to my anger, so I carried on. HELL yes, maybe I do want more from this, don't you..? Not any more, eh? So what am I to you, a fuck-piece? (Had I just invented that word..?) She came towards me, putting her head on my chest. Then, prodding me gently, said, no, you're worth more than that. And so we left her flat with our irony, our selves, intact, and with time to spare. As I drove us to the car park I felt a cloud of dementia fall over me as I explained again we were going to see Beowolf- A Thousand Years of Baggage. It's a devised piece, a fusion....of music and....performance, part lecture-part romp...taking the 9th Century tale out of Academe and back to the bare bones of.....mothers, sons, war....dick. She pinched my knee. I said it was American. The theatre company was American. They are taking this show all over Europe. They are deconstructing our myths because, presumably, they have the clarity to do this, not having a thousand years of their own baggage. She laughed. Having found a space, I pulled up the handbrake.