A Note About Angela.

I was doing some more clearing out today and came across this picture of my wife (or to be strictly logical – because even I sometimes like to be strictly logical – the woman who was to become my wife) taken shortly before I met her. It was a picture taken for a feature in the local newspaper when she was doing research for something or other. (It is a matter of eternal shame to me that I don’t remember what the subject of her research was, although I do remember that she liked doing research into things, and I also remember that Admiral Anson was the ancestor of the man who owned the big mansion close to where she lived.)

 

I’m not quite sure why I’m posting it, apart from the fact that I quite like it and because something else I don’t remember is that she was this good looking. I suppose she must have been because she’s the only one of my live-in ladies I actually married.

And we got on, you know. We did. As far as I recall, we never fell out during the whole seven years we were together. I even acted as her roadie when she had a rock band because I was strong enough to carry the big amps around in those days. It could be argued, however, that we did have one sort of falling out. It was the morning when the following conversation took place:

‘Are you having an affair?’ she asked.

‘Erm… yes.’

‘Who is it?’

‘J**** *****’

‘But she’s fat and ugly.’

(She was neither actually, but perception is, after all, the whole of the life experience, which you might have noticed is something I quite like saying.)

But we didn’t really fall out as such. She simply made up a bed in my photographic studio, filled the walls with red things to match the black walls, and then slept in it until she moved out to live with an archaeologist called Cliff. She also took our pet rabbit, Beaumont, to live with them.

And that, dear people, is one of the more normal things I did in my life.