Is he taking the P? - Part 5 (where the title finally makes sense)

Part 4 of this series has been posted but, as it took so many attempts to complete it's hidden, shamefaced with tardiness, in the sidebar. You might like to have a look there and catch up before reading this, the final instalment. Or not. You could be the type that reads the last page of a book first and who am I to judge you for that? No judgements here, beloved reader, just options.

Sunday evening in my house is a whirl of school uniform laundering, homework encouragement and intensive teatree nit-repellent applications. All done whilst trying to model calmness to three children that have been fed sugary snacks washed down with fizzy drinks all day courtesy of their father. Nice then that this particular evening of madness is punctuated by texts from P that make me roll my eyes and smile with their banal normality. I remind him that the Royle family is on later and wonder if he, as others have done in the past, will notice my passing likeness to Caroline Ahearn. I'm bloody glad he doesn't when the show starts and my phone displays 'Shit, don't she look old!?'. We text idly through the next couple of hours till the ritual goodnight message and plan that I'll bunk off teaching with A the following evening and pop round for an hour.

Monday passes with the usual texts and calls till the time comes for me to teach kicking and punching to a bunch of small people in masks whilst personally dressed, somewhat unconvincingly according to my students, as a witch's cat. Obviously this isn't traditional martial arts attire but I like to have fun at Halloween. And Christmas. And Easter. Fuck it, I just like dressing up! My unusual lack of real effort in the costume department is quickly forgiven when I hand out the sweets, fickle creatures that children are. Towards the end of the second lesson my phone rings with A's tune. I glare at it ferociously, thinking that if he has another silly little man-germ he can damn well find a different mug to take his class for him. Nothing will stop me seeing my man tonight, oh no. I'm going to be strong, you just watch.

Resolutely, I answer the call and hear him ask 'do you really need me there tonight?' between sobs. He's actually crying! Shit, shit, shit! This is unexpected but I gather myself enough to learn that his car has broken down and it's the final straw after another stressful weekend dealing with his ex. Knowing that he's two steps into a major depression I decide that tough love is a better idea than hating myself for feeling like a total mug whilst enabling his descent into the void so tell him to get himself to class by bus and I'll take him home afterwards. Fussy I may be but I'm not a completely heartless bitch, despite what I've been told in the past.

I text P to explain that I'm soft in the face of others mental crises so won't be making it round tonight after all, he's understanding and asks that I let him know when I'm done and update him. A turns up, in gorgeous body if not mind, so instead of seeing a man about a snog I simultaneously engage the adult class in a challenging, made-up-on-the-spot kick based lesson, crack jokes to help them forget how much their legs hurt, deal with the paperwork and hold A up emotionally. It's times like this that hormones, bleeding one week in four and the fanny-ripping agonies of childbirth seem a small price to pay for such useful multi-tasking skills (though I still think blokes got the better deal with multi-asking abilities). I get home at last, say a proper hello to No 1 Son and snatch mouthfuls of manky salad leaves as I take a call from K, my lovely karate mate. Afterwards a quick, apologetic goodnight text to P tells him I'm home safe and will let him know the ins and outs when we speak the next day.

Tuesday starts with the normal 'good morning, sweetheart' text and the, also normal, sound of children arguing over bathroom rights. We text and talk through the day, him catching up on what went on the night before and both of us lamenting that I simply won't pop in for an hour on a tuesday cos it's training night and I'm not fit to be seen after a session with my Sensei. I text him when I'm home and he calls straight back so once again I try and chew quietly as I chat about how A ignored my call offering a lift to training then rang me while I was there to make an excuse and pour some more woe down my ear, knowing full fucking well I'd be in the middle of a big group of our mutual mates at the time. P tells me he's done precisely nothing all evening, confirms our plans to go out for Saturdays indian-that-wasn't on Weds and we say goodnight, looking forward to actually seeing each other again rather than just talking. Words are great but arms they ain't...

In addition to the usual texting, the early part of Wednesday is broken up by at least four calls from him organising which resturaunt, what time, confirming both then changing things completely and asking if I'd prefer to try the new place on the High St rather than a curry amongst the general chatter about his day. Each time I flip the phone shut I look at it and laugh a little at just how keen he is and how open he is about it. It's a nice, warm laugh and reminds me how long it's been since it last happened, I'm glad to have it back.

At three o clock he calls yet again and I pick up, wondering with a wry smile what else he wants to change to improve the evening. He's on his way home early but it's not to get ready, it's because he's ill. Yes, the deadly man-flu has struck again and he needs to cancel. Externally I make suitably sympathetic noises, internally my bitch is screaming 'for fucks sake just take a fucking lemsip and stop fucking whinging, it's not fucking cancer!'. He says he'll call me later after a shower and some sleep and I settle in for the usual wednesday evening routine of shopping and snuggling with the kids, pointing and laughing at the people who can't clean then parade their homes on telly while two mad women chuck bicarbonate of vinegar round and count bacteria.

He calls as promised, speaking to the kids before me as the phone is passed along the sofa. Full of apologies again he asks if we can make it the next night. I tell him I can't, remind him that I teach on thursdays and this one is specially important cos I'm training four, young brown belts for a seminar display this weekend. I can't decide if the reaction I get is an 'I'm poorly' sniff or an 'I'm miffed' sniff but either way I'm not into being sniffed at down the phone so tell him we'll aim to get together on Friday and say goodnight sweetly.

No text on thursday morning, there's a first. Still, it's a busy day and quite nice to get on with planning tonights lesson without interruption being that I can't quite wake up properly even with workmen banging and crashing in the road outside. That done and two washloads battled with, I text him to say hi and hope he feels better before throwing myself into loud music and more boring but neccessary chores. After a couple of hours it dawns on me that he hasn't replied so I think he's copped the arse over my not being available tonight and decide to go for the humourous approach to ice breaking, sending 'If it wasn't for the fact that i'm annoying the workmen by singing along loudly with dido i'd think i was deaf cos my phone hasn't rung all day! Hope you're ok honey, missing you loads xxx'

Another couple of hours and there's still no reply. I now start to feel guilty, wondering if he really is ill and, rather than being petulant, he's actually lying helpless in his flat, suffering horribly and unable to get to the phone for help, tormented by the sound of my messages arriving. I have a dark image of 'I told you I was ill, bitch' on a headstone and do something I have rarely, if ever done. I call him. It rings twice and goes to voicemail which I find a bit strange but still I leave a message saying I'm now officially a bit worried about him and could he please let me know if he's ok, I have to go to a school meeting but will put the phone silent rather than off so a text would be great.

I check the phone subtly throughout the meeting about No 1 Son's ICT work and there's still nothing so I decide that I'll pop round on the way home and just rush getting ready for class. Pulling out of the car park I hear his ringtone and carefully try to read his text whilst negotiating traffic (yes I know but this was an emergency). I can't make sense of it and there is /*missing txt*/ at the end to make matters more confusing so I pull over, it rings again and this time I get the full message.

Hi Angie, sorry I haven't been in touch, I feel dreadful and didn't feel like chatting much At the moment!...I have realised that I don't want 2 have a relationship at the moment!...the awful one that I had before is still affecting me, I think u r a wonderful girl Angie, but I just need 2 be on my own 4 a while!...u have done nothing wrong and there is no other motive...take care x

The full message, indeed.