Listen to me

I feel unsteady

I feel unready

Why has everything gone hazy?

Is that my love?

Or am I going crazy?¹

The window, as far as I was concerned anyway, was the one, the only redeeming feature of the house which was otherwise a shambles; a hotch-potch of styles and extensions, many of which were pretty appalling and presumably erected and appended without assistance of architect or building control. The only remaining feature of the original Georgian rectory was this landing on the main staircase, with a double-height semicircular bay sash window, complete with all the original curved glass, facing due west with immense views along the valley towards the border with Wales.

This was my window. I cared not at all for the rest of the house. Our predecessors in the house 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 immediately 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 am not some sort of artistic type. 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, 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-spring and 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 had them framed 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 to the house came 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 find myself surrounded by women. It's making me become something of a misogynist. There must have been thousands of them, women, in the hospital. That's what made me dislike them, all that constant fussing. Maybe you understand that I am struggling in your company, I am happy to amuse and entertain when I can and when so required to do. But 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. Will you 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 try my best, but it just comes out as nonsense

Today, though, 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 say so. I do as I am 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 I find and return with my camera. I take the photos. And you get dressed again, right in front of me. Just matter-of-factly. Tee shirt, jumper, jeans, necessary underwear. Not in that order of course. 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 that is what 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 that 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 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 normal, 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 from Pret's - 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 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 (why are you talking Polish on the phone?) 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, without success, to tell you about it. But 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.

It takes me a little while, a few days perhaps, to comprehend what I have done. Of course, 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. 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. It takes days, and, I assume, you, watching me from the house, think I am going madder still. One morning, though, 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 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, and try the other words I have been practising. They come out well. "I... am... coming... back!". More tears, many more. "I.. am.. coming.. back, I. am. coming. back. I am coming back!" I can't really say anything else. And you kiss me, a great big smackaroo, on the lips. The first since... well, for as long as I can remember.

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."