The wife with the golden nib
In parts of the polygamy belt of West Africa, a wife helps her husband find a new wife. The incumbent then becomes the “senior” wife. Her status rises. She has a lighter workload, wider kinship ties and gains from any material improvements in the family’s circumstances.
A similar system operates here in Surrey. When the man reaches middle age his wife, instead of a new spouse, allows him a set of golf clubs. Or a flashy sports car. Or membership of a private gentlemen’s club. Anything to stop him getting under her feet.
So when the wife brought you home to me 12 years ago I didn’t know what to think. Were you to mark a poignant marital transition or was I overthinking it? Limited edition she called you. From sunny Italy to leafy Surrey. An exquisite silver and ebony beauty with a golden tip. Thrilled with you, I wrote so fast you had to stop for ink. But I soon learned the right moves. You rewarded me with sensuous soughs and sighs as you slalomed across the snowy sheets.
The senior wife was not impressed. You spend too much time upstairs with her. Ink all over you, like a teenager. If she had her time again she would have got me a crooked walking stick she says, shaking her head.
She doesn’t get it. Does she launch head first into bottles of dark fluid for my sake? Does she wash my graffiti mind onto the blank and forbidding page? If words elude me, does senior wife place her cheek against me and lead me into a trance? To words I didn’t know I knew arranged in ways I could never have thought of? Of course not.
And I wouldn’t dream of asking her to. She is only human.
My dear, forgive me. I knew the risks but still chose to multitask in the garden. One sunny summer afternoon I had one eye on the squirrel’s covetous prancing under the bird feeder. The opposite ear on the radio. Then came a sickening crack. You’d rolled off the slanting writing board and on to the concrete patio. I wailed, engulfed in shame, Sola why are you always doing this? Hiding from the wife, bandaged you up, I did, and rushed you back to Bassano del Grappa. Mama mia they said, what has he done to you now? Look de nib and, eh, de fins in the feed de is broken.
During Covid they kept you for 6 whole months. You had the best plastic surgery money could buy. Meanwhile, I had to make do with poor imitations. Love the one you’re with sang the Isley brothers in the 1970s, but writing without you was not fun. When Kevin the postman brought you back one Wednesday afternoon I danced before him in the front door. If you don’t believe me ask Theodore. He was only 4. Kevin’s since been off sick but thank the NHS stars he’s better now. This one was his first week back.
My dear woman from del Grappa, many, including the senior wife, have tried to part us. Or plan to seize you when I pop my clogs. As I’ve invited my patients to my funeral there is going to be one ungodly yet almighty scramble for you at the crematorium. Don’t fall for it if the senior wife claims she’s tucked you into my pocket. I’m going naked. Anyway, she won’t want you anywhere near her, even as soot. I think she plans to flog you to the highest bidder. Then spend the dosh on a juicy joint from Abel and Cole.
Kids? We’ve had a few. Of every temperament and hue, blue black, black, green, grey and navy blue. But we have to admit that we’ve not been the best parents. We murdered our darlings to give flight to a few favourites. The runt, A Quest for Solace, is only a few weeks old. Poor thing had the most difficult gestation, remember? After Covid, we couldn’t quite make up our minds whether to have another one. Because each time we thought we’d made up our minds something weird happened to throw us off our strokes. Like Boris’s Partygate or Putin’s invasions.
For all that I’d still like another one. What should we call it? A work of fun in progress? A progressive work of fun? Or, as the missus will no doubt say, rubbish fit only for turning into barbecue fuel or cavity insulation.
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