Life is Complicated.
Life is complicated. It's the 11th July, and it's the anniversary of Kelly, my wife's, death. It's also the day that the protestant population of Northern Ireland, where I live, sets fire to enormous bonfires of stolen pallets, draped with flags and whichever community they're currently demonising. This is to celebrate the occasion, some 300 years ago, when a Dutchman fought the Scots/French King of England in an as-yet-all-of-a-piece Ireland. This battle gives them their culture and identity. I can't drive, even at 55, and Kelly is buried in Gulladuff. There are no buses or coaches to Gulladuff. No trains. A taxi would be prohibitively expensive. So Susan drives me. My girlfriend ferrying me to the grave of my wife. Life is complicated and unpredictable, like motorway traffic. Susan hates driving on the motorway. She's not too keen on driving generally, but negotiating four lanes of traffic with no hard shoulder, hemmed in by rotting, rattling trucks and...
