The window was the one redeeming feature of the house that was otherwise a shambles. I cared not at all for the rest of the house.

This was my window, a double height semi circular bay sash window, complete with all the original curved glass, facing due west with immense views along the valley towards the border with Wales. Our predecessors had left white muslin nets floor to ceiling. A broken sash cord meant a 2 inch gap at the top of the upper frame and, with a breeze outside, the light curtains wafted, waved and swirled around. The first time that I saw that happen, I pictured a black and white photo of a woman standing amidst the moving nets. And, although Black and White, the woman would be gazing out at a fading sunset and, don't ask why, I have no idea, stood on one leg like a flamingo, with the leg nearest the camera bent at the knee with a toe just touching the ground. Oh, and in my first vision she was naked. We renewed the muslin nets.

I can't draw or paint - all that therapy at the hospital was wasted on me (I am not a child) - and I can barely take a photo. I don't go around imagining naked women all over the place. I am describing here a picture that came into my mind, not indulging in any sort of wish fulfilment. At least I think that is what is happening. I would understand if you thought otherwise, but I think my mind has always worked properly. As distinct from my brain.

As the years passed, on fine evenings during every mid-autumn, I would wait for a good sunset, open the repaired sash enough to enable the required wafting and ask whatever women were in the house at the time to pose for me in the prescribed manner (excluding, of course, the nudity) and in this way I built up a little collection of similar photos. Eventually, the photos reached a dozen and I framed them myself in a clock pattern, and hung it next to the window, out of direct light. I was pleased with my effort, though thought it rather naive, belonging, perhaps, to an earlier me.

I am not sure how you got here. Your invitation must have come from Mrs P. Not me. I had hoped for, and expected, peace, quiet and a solitary life for a few weeks while she went off to Italy, to the sunshine. I have no idea of her reasoning. Perhaps she just got her dates confused. Perhaps she thought I needed looking after. I don't know. I do know she needed to get away.

I don’t like women. There were hundreds of them, women, in the hospital. All that constant fussing.

Maybe you understand that I am struggling in your company. You remain 'our' rather than 'my' friend, I think. I am not sure how well I know you. I am nervous of being alone in the house with you. We can't talk. No doubt you will be hanging around, with endless cups of wishy-washy tea? Demeaning me with one way baby-talk conversation?

I give you the tour of the house. I know it's totally baffling of course, my babbling on. Don't worry, it sounds the same to me. I know what I want to say, and I do try my best, but it just comes out as nonsense. But I am not in pain or anything, I hear what you hear.

Today, with you, I am pretty quiet. As usual, I end the tour at my window. It is September. The top sash is a little open, the gentle draught moves the nets. After a rainy day the clouds at the end of the valley are gashed open revealing a deep red sunset. It is a small, but dramatic, moment. You glance at my collage and look out at the view, your profile pinked by the setting sun. "Those women" you say, matter of factly, "should be naked. Quick, go and get your camera, quickly before it fades!", undoing your jeans buttons as you speak. I do as instructed, realising the opportunity to get the photo to match my initial vision.

But I am confused. I am about to be alone with a naked woman who is not my wife. You will be perfect. Some of those others, who include Mrs P, are not. I am alarmed, but I understand. I know what you mean and what to do, and I find and return with my camera and take the photos. And you get dressed again, right in front of me. Just matter of factly. Underwear, Tee shirt, jeans, jumper. I know I shouldn't watch, but I do. Perhaps, in my present state, I don't register as a man. I don't feel, though, that ‘anything’ is going on here. My feeling is that you saw the moment, shared - goodness knows how - the vision and acted accordingly. No more, no less. I am content.

I think I ought to phone Mrs P and tell her what you've done. Though, of course, I won't be able to. Some days, good days, I can phone her, and stay quiet, and know that she can see through the silence and knows what I would say if I could. Other times, of course, I can't stop the babble and you, I mean she, understandably, gets very impatient with that.

I've heard them say that it might get better. Never perfect, perhaps, but better.

The really good thing about having you around is that you don't bother me at all. Coffee (not tea!) appears now and then. Or a glass of water, with my tablets. My favourite sandwiches (crayfish and rocket - how do you get hold of those, by the way?) are by my side when I wake from a nap. A nice glass of beer left on the picnic table when I am in the garden. And, you don't fuss. I hardly see you. No constant questioning. "Are you alright?, Can I get you anything?" I do so hate that. And, without it, I begin to feel calmer as the days pass. I like to be quiet. I begin to feel, I don't know, better.

One morning, touring the garden, I notice the weeds amongst the flowers. But, this time, it doesn't make me angry. It doesn't make me shout for you, or Mrs P. Somehow my brain remembers what to do, and I go to the shed, retrieve the key from the ledge above the door where Mrs P has hidden it from me, get the trowel and trug and go and dig up the weeds. Very pleased with myself, I find you on the terrace and show you my trug full of weeds. Of course you don't understand - why should you? - but I know that I have taken a step. I try to tell you about it. Of course it comes out as nonsense. But you listen, and I know, within myself, that I have taken a big step forward. I recognised which plants were weeds, I knew what tools I needed, and where they were.

Over the next few days I repeat the exercise again and again, in the rain, in the cold, sometimes returning trowel and trug to the shed, sometimes not. I teach myself to sweep up leaves with the witch's broom. And I don't feel the need to show you each achievement. One day, I am down by the sundial, and suddenly I realise that I know what it is, and what it's for, as if a curtain opened. This is a sundial, that is the gnomon, and it is for telling the time on sunny days. I try to say the word "Sun" and nearly get it out. I try again and again. But fail, and get frustrated and upset. I know, though, that it is within reach.

The next day, and the day after, I try again. And I do it. I say the exact word I mean to say. The right word comes out of my mouth. "Sun". "Sun, sun, sun ,sun..." And, pacing around at the bottom of the garden, I try some more words, five different words. I practice and practice and practice. It takes days, and, I assume, you, watching me from the house, think I am going madder still.

One morning, soon after breakfast, I see you at my window, and resolve to try. Only it's not you, is it? It is Mrs P. I come down the stairs, and say, in my very well practised, most casual way, "Hi". Mrs P turns to me, and her face goes through a series of comical expressions. And she/you bursts into tears. Which is not what I expected. I know what to do. I hold you, my wife, as gently as I can and try the other words I have been practising. They come out well. "I... am... coming... back!". More tears, many, many more. "I.. am.. coming.. back, I. am. coming. back. I am coming back!" I can't say anything else. And you kiss me, a great big smackaroo, on the lips. The first since... well, for a long, long time.

Almost a year later, we are standing, one evening, at the window. And I have to ask, I still can't remember.

"When did I take that?" pointing at the photo of you, naked, on one leg, wrapped in the muslin hanging at this very window.

"P!" you exclaim "Don't you remember? When we were students. Manfred Mann. Pretty Flamingo. You wanted a pretty flamingo of your own. And then, when we came here, you messed around with your old photos and computer and your camera... I don't know what you did. And the photos of me around it, you take one every year, in September. Try and remember."