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Stagnation
There was not much fun for either of us two years ago.
I was twenty-three, married and totally isolated. Although only 5’2” tall, a lifelong dancer and, until confinement and guilt attacked me, a neatish size 8, I now found myself, to my disgust, a squat and waddling size 22.
I lived in a small terraced detached house in Slough
, one of London’s first ‘dormitory’ towns - and a torpid, stinking dormitory it is, enlivened only by the occasional burp, fart, convulsive violent twitch or wet dream moan.Some female swingers were brought up in military establishments, married so soon as they left school and only recognised in their thirties or forties that they had missed out on reckless youth and experimentation. I have no such excuse.My parents were academic and considered progressive. I was given my head at an early age.
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Although I was shifted from school to school due to a ramshackle lifestyle, I was a compulsive reader and did reasonably well academically, travelled a bit, dabbled with drugs without ill effect, and, having discovered the joys of sex, did all the usual things. I fell in drooling, impractical love. I developed rebellious passions for impossible men. I played around with the odd girl but never quite dared to have a female lover. I had a spell or two of careless, up-yours-and-mostly-up-mine promiscuity.
I had had just nineteen lovers by the time that I met Tony. Not a blushing maiden’s score, but not that of a prodigious record-breaker either. Just, in this age of contraception and nuclear families, a medium to high average. We married for the silliest of all reasons: we were in love. We were also, rather more intelligently, good friends. In broader terms, we married because we wanted to put an end to the confused tales of our lives to that date.
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