Crisis
‘It was my birthday last week’ I said.
‘I would have bought you champagne and taken you to bed’ he said.
So he did, although it was a week late.
‘You’re having a mid-life crisis’ he said, this whipper-snapper twelve years my junior, after he had dabbed wine onto my nipples and licked it off. ‘No one leaves a grade 2 listed Georgian vicarage in a chocolate box village to live in a two bedroom flat over a closed down restaurant’.
‘I have been having mid-life crises for twenty years’ I told him. ‘This is just the latest. The first was my PhD. I’ve been in crisis ever since’.
After all, what is more fruitful and creative than a crisis?
