Open Writing

'The trouble with you,' I said, 'is that you can't take yes for an answer.'

It was always the same. She would ask if I loved her and I would say, 'Of course I do.'

Then she would say, 'You're only saying it, you don't mean it.'

And I would say, 'I've said yes, I do love you. So what more can I say? I love you, I love you, I love you.'

Then she would say, 'They're just words to you, empty nothings, aren't they? You're the most insincere man I've ever met and to think that I left Norman for you. I must have been out of my mind.'

It didn't help when I told her that 'empty nothings' verged on the tautological. (Actually, more than verged}.

'There you go,' she snapped, 'joking at a time like this.'

'What do you mean, a time like this?'

'A time when I'm leaving . . . I'm going to live in Godalming.'

'Godalming? You don't even know where it is.'

'I'll find it... I'm going to live with Freda.'

'And who the hell's Freda?'

'You know who Freda is. She's my cousin.'

'Ah, your long-lost cousin . . .'

'No, she's never been lost. Not that I know of, anyway.'