At 10.22 this morning an ambulance cruised slowly down the road and came to stop right outside my flat. I was out in the front garden amongst the bin bags in the suit I had worn to my fathers funeral. My hair was brushed and flattened down with spit and I was wearing my dark shades. I watched intently as the back doors of the ambulance swung open and a steel platform slowly emerged and extended out, a foot above the ground. From out the ambulance, onto the platform, was pushed a man in a wheelchair. He was wearing light cricket trousers and his feet were strapped into foot rests. His face was young and slender and his hair was dark. His Elvis Costello type glasses were staring forward. The man raised an arm, gave a 'thumbs up' and the tail-lift descended to the ground. With strenuous effort the paraplegic worked the wheels of his chair and manoeuvred forward a couple of metres. “That'll do!” he shouted “I'll be fine from here.” The tail-lift rose and disappeared. A fat paramedic poked his head out the ambulance and glanced over at me. I nodded and held up my hand like an Indian chief. With that, the ambulance doors were pulled shut, then it started up, moved off and was gone – I didn't even have to sign for the goods. Out in the street, sitting absolutely motionless and facing the direction of the shops was John. With a smart manoeuvring of his chair he spun around, facing me. Then he broke into a large smile and stretched his arms out. “I'm back” he cried, laughing “I'm home!”

For one day I thought “Fuck the neighbours!” I rushed out into the street and threw myself across John's chest, crushing him with my own embrace and holding on for dear life. I squashed my face in between his neck and shoulder, breathed in a nose full of his skin, hair product and perfume, then blinked a few tears down his back. “Yes you're home, My darling, you're fucking home!”

For a moment I remained there like that. I felt light and giddy, but in a real way. I brailed the contours of John's firm back, his ribcage and shoulder blades. “Oh God, John, I've missed you so much!” And then, kind of in a trance, I untangled myself from my man, went to the back of the chair and started pushing. Up the curb, past the gate, the binbags and tomato plants. Like the groom carrying the bride to bed, I wheeled My Sweetheart home.


  1. 'Like the groom carrying the bride to bed, I wheeled My Sweetheart home. '

    !how romantic!

    good luck with the sex marathons. they can still happen, promise.


  2. Clearly Part 2 is going to be even more dignified than Part 1.

    I look forward to yet more evidence to supply to my Clinics.

    The simple message:

    This is your sordid future if you don't mend your ways.

    All the Nerds can talk about is whether Part 2 will have 65 segments too. And what is 65 a metaphor for.

    Jesus Wept.

  3. Can't wait for Part 2! And I've never commented before, but I wanted to say that "Waiting for John" has been the climax of my daily life over the past few weeks. So, THANK YOU!

  4. @ Abigail Winthrope (Mrs):

    Poor Jesus.

    Someone aught to get him a box of tissues.

  5. My nephew has just used up a box of tissues over Jesus.

    He shut himself away in the cinema room watching poor troubled Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ.

    'All that blood! All that violence! All that whipping!'

    I think he is finally seeing things my way.

  6. Thank YOU all for following part 1 of WFJ.

    Excuse the lack of individual replies these last few posts but I got a little behind with it all.

    if part 1 kept you reading, part 2 will keep you praying...

    Tristram spencer is a fated man.



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