The dole ran out, basically. They told him they'd been overpaying him despite him declaring all earnings, and suddenly, they cut it off with no warning. Terrifying. Kai got the first job he thought he could do, and it gave him a bit of a thrill of civic pride to declare he was going to be a milkman.
Of course everyone laughed and imagined he would be finished with it in less than a month. In fact, it turned in to six months. Six months of prolonged misery and wasted bloody time. I'm amazed we made it through that summer. Here is the span of an average week, about five weeks in to this awful trial:
Monday: Wake up 3am as Kai gets up to go to work. Get up late and go to work for 10am. Anguished phone call at 2 or 3pm from a phone box (the phone had been cut off because of Emma). Kai doesn't want to go home, but he's shattered so he must. The kittens need looking after for one thing. I go home to Westbourne Park in the evening and recover.
(repeat until Friday)
Friday: leave work reasonably early. Have about an hour with Kai before he has to go to bed. Sit with the sound turned low on the TV, creep to bed at some point trying not to wake him up.
Saturday: Page Kai and he phones me in the morning. Arrange to meet up. Spend two or three hours helping him with the round. Begin to think, at some point, "This is one of my only two days off. I really don't want to be doing this rubbish with my time". Carry on helping him because I know I'll only get to see him for a few hours all weekend. Go home, Kai has bath (smells of stinking milk and sweat. What a delightful combination). We attempt to go out in evening, but usually have to leave at about 10pm because Kai is falling to sleep on his feet.
Sunday: Kai wakes ludicrously early. We have what amounts to a day with each other. Of course, we can't arrange to do anything with anyone else because we don't have a phone. He is mortally depressed, hates his life, hates every fucking thing. Filled with remorse and shame for the fact that he can't have a life with me. I used to end up getting angry with him for apologising all the damn time about every bloody thing. Drove me up the wall. He would go to bed at about 9.30, or maybe a bit later, because he could have a nap in the afternoon after the round.
Monday…
As I say, how we survived it at all God only knows. Six fucking months of misery. I felt like I was in prison every weekend. A week of work, then in to a zone of death with absolutely no contact from the outside world allowed, because of the no phones thing. I ended up begging Danny and people to arrange meetings on Sundays because I just couldn't take it on my own.