My wife left me. Three years, five months ago today. Sure it sounds like a lot of time, but this is the sort of thing that fucks you up, you know? What, am I meant to just turn around and say ‘hey these things happen right?' Well, they don't. Not to everyone, not even to most; just the few unlucky enough to get stuck with a bitch like her. You might think this is the bit when I tell you it all began on our third anniversary when Graham came out for that dinner or I start spouting emotional bullshit about how times were simpler when we were fucking our way through boxes of condoms at university? Well you're wrong. I'm not going to give you that satisfaction. I'm going to tell you about my herbs see. Listen, I'm no Ophelia (Hamlet, prick), I like my herbs: I look after them, they carry on living; it's a relationship of convenience. It's my fucking art.

A herb planter is not as simple as it looks. You can't just bung the thing up with any old greens in any old order. There's a method. It's not putting shit in and hoping. Soil moisture? Light? Acidity? You better hope you're clued or else it'll all die. Maintainence? Its not like your first house pot plant from B&Q. You can't go dowsing this shit like a fireman. Do that and it dies. Gone.

I'll give you three examples, maybe then you'll understand. One, basil; not enough light, it dies. Two, rosemary; pastel colours make it a bitch aesthetically. Apparently.

Three, mint. Ahh mint. It took me a good while to realise that stuff chokes the goddamn life out of everything. I loved its taste though; it was sharp, new, refreshing. So I grew it, put my efforts into culturing the stuff. I learnt to tame it, to control it. But it fades. What can you even use the stuff for? On new potatoes with a bit of butter? An addition to some fucking chocolate cake? It's shallow, it's transparent, it fades.

But what does any of this matter? What does it all fucking mean? Nothing. None of this shit matters because my wife left me.