The ‘Artist-Formerly-Known-As-My-Wife’ and I agreed that ordering the beef balls was probably a bad decision.
“Like our marriage.” Hindsight and a slight sense of bitterness has imagined her saying. “Let’s get divorced.”
Of course, that’s not actually how it happened and the truth of the situation was far more congenial and pleasant.
We had agreed to separate a few weeks prior to that auspicious Yum Cha meal, but it was there that she had casually mentioned that she thought a divorce might be a prudent move and I, with my best George Clooney manner on, had casually agreed.
We talked of how dating again would be ‘an adventure’ and whilst she thought of that ‘adventure’ as being somewhat in the mould of an Indiana Jones or a modern day Emmanuel, i pictured mine more in the ilk of Inspector Clouseau or, alternatively, a tall, gittish Welsh chap having needles slowly inserted into his behind, which was far closer to the truth.
I was only vaguely aware of what I was casually saying at the time (in a George Clooney style) as all I could actually hear was a Yoko Ono song in my ear. It was not a song she had ever actually written or sung, but a composition of my own, my frantic and addled imagination simply borrowing her highly original and piercing tones for the piece. They seemed suitable.
I was getting divorced. I was thirty nine and I was getting divorced.
I ate another beef ball and wished I’d never ordered them.