Oh well, it’s all over now, isn’t it? All over before it even began, which is the best way, and I’m really pleased. Of course in a different world, on another planet, it might have been nice to… No! I mustn’t think that way, it’s pointless and shameful. Carl has shown me the way with his dignified restraint.

But how amazing. I do believe he’s actually got a crush on me.

Dear Sam

Lucy had her laparoscopy today. Superb material. I feel awful writing this because obviously it wasn’t much fun for her but really, this script is going to write itself. I’ve never felt so motivated. I do wish I could share this sense of purpose with Lucy because it’s just what she’s always been wanting for me, but for obvious reasons I must keep my own counsel.

We got up at five-thirty. Lucy was not allowed to even have a cup of tea because of the operation. The drive was a nightmare, of course. Rush-hour starts at about three in the morning these days. I’ll definitely be voting Green next time. The frustrating thing is that transport is the only area where we all collectively agree to ignore the evidence of our eyes and believe instead in the myth. I’m worse than anyone. I mean, let’s face it, the propaganda that the car industry puts out would give Goebbels and Stalin a run for their money in terms of pure Utopian disinformation. They always advertise cars by showing some smug smoothie driving at speed along a gorgeous empty road, with not another car in sight. When in the real world did anyone ever drive along an empty road? I don’t think that I’ve once been in that position in twenty years of driving. They always tell you what the make of the car is. I don’t give a toss what the car is. Why don’t they tell me where the road is? Just once in my life I’d like to drive on a road like that.

It really was a near-surreal experience, sitting there in fifteen thousand pounds’ worth of machinery, machinery that was supposed to liberate mankind, crawling along at a walking pace, hating every other car owner on earth. That’s what we were all doing. Every single person for miles and miles and miles sitting in a steaming metal box hating every single other person. Every morning in every town in Britain virtually every adult gets into his or her tin box and starts hating. Then, having taken all day to calm down, we get back into our boxes and start hating all over again. Yet when asked the question “Why not get on a bus?” I’m the first person to say, “No way, they’re horrible.”

Dear Penny

I’m writing this while sitting alone in a depressing, plain little hospital room waiting to be done over like a kipper.

Sam drove me to the clinic this morning, which was nice except for the fact that he insisted on doing his “This traffic is insane,” rant as if somehow we weren’t as guilty as everyone else. Not easy to stomach without so much as a cup of tea inside me. On the other hand he was solicitous about my forthcoming ordeal, asking lots of questions which I thought was good of him since I know he hates the whole ghastly business. As indeed do I, but as I say, I appreciate him showing an interest.

I took the opportunity of the traffic jams to get some background detail out of Lucy regarding the laparoscopy. I must say it sounds absolutely dreadful, but not without its comic possibilities.

I know what happens backwards from the eight million books about fertility I’ve read in the last year or two. Sam was fascinated; he even jotted one or two things down when the car was stopped in traffic. First they feed a tube into your tummy and pump you full of gas so that they can see your insides better, then they make another hole just above your pubic triangle, or map of Tasmania as Sir Les Patterson would say (I can’t believe I’m writing this), and they shove a probe in to move things about a bit so that they can take their pictures. They also pump in a lot of dye which apparently will bring out the finer features. Sam actually laughed at this, but I think it was just because he was nervous.

It’s amazing what women have to go through, so weird. I wonder if it would be funny to have a scene where the doctor (possibly gay) offers the woman a choice of colour dyes to see which one would go nicest with the shade of her intestines. Maybe a bit over the top. I’ll have to think quite carefully about the tone of this script. I mean, is it mainly funny with a bit of emotion, or mainly emotion with a bit of funny? Somewhere in between, I think.

Anyway, once they’ve got everything pumped up and dyed and prodded into position they make a hole just under your belly-button and put a long fibre optic telescope through with a camera on the end. God, what a thought. As I was telling Sam, I was actually beginning to feel sicker and sicker. It was lucky that I didn’t have anything in my stomach to throw up as we’ve just had the car valeted. One strange thing was that as I was telling Sam the gory details I suddenly remembered that I’d meant to have my bikini line done and I was really annoyed that I hadn’t. I mean why would I worry about that? It’s absurd. I never worry about a bit of escaper normally, not for smear tests and all that, sometimes don’t even bother for the beach. But for some reason today I just felt like looking my best. I can’t imagine why. Perhaps this whole business makes me feel less like a woman and I wanted to reassert my softness and my femininity.

One brilliant thing Lucy told me was that she had wanted to have her bikini line waxed! Superb stuff! I improvised a line there and then… I said, “Blimey, Lucy, it’s a laparoscopy, not lap dancing,” which I think cheered her up and I’ll certainly keep it for the script.

Sam just made stupid jokes, which was a bit irritating, although I know he meant well. The thing is that I don’t think he really understands how demeaning and dehumanizing the whole process is. You’re not a woman any more, you’re just a thing under a microscope, like in biology at school. I shan’t write any more now because I can hear a trolley clanking in the corridor and I fear my hour has come.

Lucy was pretty zonked out when I picked her up this afternoon, so I couldn’t get much out of her on the journey home. The doctor said it had all gone fine, anyway, and that they would give us the results in a few days, “When we’ve got the photos back from the chemist,” he said. I hate doctors who crack glib little jokes like that. I mean, that’s my wife’s internal organs he’s talking about! I think I’ll use him in the movie, though. Stephen Fry would play him brilliantly.

The trip home was even worse than in the morning. What are we doing to the world? Actually, more to the point, what are we doing to ourselves? At one stage I spent twenty-five minutes in a virtually stationary battle to prevent a bloke getting in front of me from out of a side street. Every inch of road that became available I filled, in order to prevent him from edging in, never once allowing myself to catch his eye. Why? Why did I do that? It’s something about cars. They shrink our souls. If I met the same man on foot I’d say, “Oh, excuse me,” and make way. Instead I spent twenty minutes of my life, when I could have been relaxing, obsessed with stopping a bloke getting two feet in front of me in a stationary queue. I really am pathetic.

When we got home Lucy went straight to bed. I’d intended to spend the evening doing some more work on my script but somehow I don’t feel like it. What with Lucy in a drugged sleep upstairs, I’m feeling a bit cheap. Guilty conscience, I’m afraid. I do hope I’m not weakening. I must see this through. It’s the first thing I’ve felt genuinely excited about in years.