7.00A.M. My eyes opened. I trusted nobody. Sound was my second sense to rouse, introducing me to my own carbon emission. My third sense felt the duvet deflate as the bouquet whiffed and wafted its way to my fourth. I kept my mouth firmly closed, not wishing my fifth sense to cause me to retch. I noticed the cat's usually efficient sixth sense hadn't forewarned her of my unintentional 'Dutch oven'.

7.30A.M. Catnap over, I stirred again. The pillow gripped my head at an awkward angle while the mattress conspired to evict me by poking me in the back. The duvet, already displaced by earlier tremors, exposed my toes to the chill of early morning, and to the cat, for easy pickings should she return.

My feet fell heavily onto the rug. And onto something else as well, somewhat unexpected. The newspaper slid, as did I, landing on pages fourteen and fifteen and puke. I felt sick. My wife, at this point, helpfully called up from hell below, well okay the hall, "Watch how you get out of bed love, pudding has been sick." Something in her voice, plus the fact I am not a light slider-on-cat-sick, told me that she was smiling as she said this.

The hop to the bathroom surely contributed to me stubbing my toe, just as my subsequent ablutions endeavoured to mock me with the cold hot water tap and mysterious disappearance of my faithful flannel. I am constantly ridiculed for my old-fashioned use of the flannel, so as if to prove my reliance on old faithful, I promptly poked myself in the eye. If this wasn't painful enough the soap joined in the attack. I gave the razor a miss.

My 'start the day with a dump' campaign was under threat, after I noticed the empty loo roll holder daring me to sit. I told myself I wouldn't fall for that, praising my sharp observational skills as I stepped back into the bedroom and stepped back into the cat-sick. I managed to get re-washed and dressed without further incident, although if I knew what the day ahead had in store I would have returned to my unfriendly bed. Perhaps to dream of hot tubs, face cloths and Labrador pups delivering me loo rolls.

8.00A.M. Breakfast finished, I busied myself with the Saturday post. I held one particular envelope, paused, opened it, pulled out the letter, read the letter, stared at the letter, paused. So much did I pause and stare that my wife paused and stared at me. She asked after a while, with genuine concern in her voice this time, "What's wrong love."

8.30A.M. My understanding wife, wasn't, when it came to surprise tidings of illegitimate eighteen year old sons from overseas. She read the letter, from the woman I had slept with nearly two decades ago, (several years before me and the wife had even met), and proclaimed that it made sense of all the suspicions she had harboured about me over the years. Why didn't I ever fancy a weekend in Amsterdam? Obvious now. What was my problem with Ruud Van Nistelrooy? Plain to see. How come I never wore orange? Explained. I was out of the door before I got blamed for Arnhem.

9.00A.M. Wandering took me to the cemetery. To the bench that offers me a view of the grave that I tell no one about. Not even you. Naturally I had taken the letter with me. Reading the salient parts over and over again. Not surprisingly his name was Johnny. A recent photograph that Eva had enclosed, more than suggested the unlucky bastard was mine. Thick ears, one long eyebrow, boxers nose and chubby cheeks. Yet he smiled, had piercing eyes, a clear complexion and hair in abundance.

The letter warned that Johnny was on his way. Since finding out my identity he had gone on to locate me through Friends Reunited. Some ex-classmate had given me away. I wouldn't mind but I wasn't even a member. Anyhow he was flying to England in a race with the post.

Johnny looked the spitting image of his photograph as he approached me towards the end of the sentence. I proffered a nervous hand. He punched me in the mouth.

9.30A.M. "How did you find me?" My swollen lips asked.
"Jane, she's nice, she collected me from the airport." Mr fist replied.
"I see." I saw. My own flesh and blood had betrayed me. Judas was my own skin and blister. "Did she take you to my house then?" I ventured, wondering if he'd met the wife. "No. Jane just brought me to here." Johnny said in a hushed voice, as if respecting the dead their peace and quiet. He added, as if answering an unasked question, "Jane spoke with your wife Susan while we drove."

10.00A.M. The note on the fridge door read : Obviously I've gone to mothers. P.S. If  you want your flannel, I used it to mop up the cats sick, so you'll find it in the rubbish bin along with our marriage.XX. The kisses at the end made me smile, she couldn't help herself even when she was angry. Still, I usually got three kisses with a P.S.

11.00A.M. We had been drinking for near on an hour. Johnny was slowly beginning to open up. He had travelled for hours to see me, by bus, plane and sistercab, but up until now he hadn't asked me a single question. Then he did.
"Did you love my mother?" He asked with earnest.
I was caught by surprise therefore slow to answer, probably too slow, but I managed an honest, "We knew each other for such a short time. I certainly liked her a lot."
Then the knockout question. The question Johnny had travelled over land and sea to hear the answer to. "Was my mother a prostitute?"

I'm not proud of the answer I gave. I lied.

Evening The day seemed to fly by. We swapped life stories as you would a C.V. Rushing to bring each other up-to-date so that perhaps we might begin our own future reminiscences. I realised Johnny was a man not a boy. We disagreed a lot, agreeing to disagree with the arrival of each new beer. When John Smith finally came off duty, Captain Morgan opened up for the night shift.

Night We helped, or maybe hindered each other up the never-ending flight of stairs. Susan may have given the impression in her note, of a raging wife storming out of the house, however the spare room alluded to the contrary. It was in fact immaculate. A bathrobe, towel, bottle of water and brand new toothbrush were neatly stacked on a chair. My homeless records had been well hidden (hopefully not residing with my flannel) and the air, through the stench of our alcoholic breath, smelled of something fresh. After we were wed, Susan never again lowered her standards.

I said goodnight to Johnny as he slumped fully clothed onto the bed. I wanted to shake his hand or pat his head or something. I did none of these, instead reminded him to take off his shoes. I stumbled into my bedroom and fell head over heals over Led Zeppelin and a hundred other cherished friends.

Sunday Sunday morning I woke up alone. I got up immediately, even though my head throbbed. The spare room was empty. I really was alone. Johnny had flown. It seemed the cat had disappeared too. Pudding had deserted. Sunday stuck in my throat.

Monday The cat came back, absolved my imperfections and was fed. I found myself chatting with the cat on many occasions over the next few days. Conversations usually ending with a saucer of milk or a packet of food or both.

Saturday I thought Susan had left me for real this time, as one night turned into a week of nights.

Now Susan has forgiven me. It's been two months since 'the un-mentionable' day. Neither heard from Johnny or his mum Eva. Johnny and I did swap mobile telephone numbers. Each waiting for the other to phone or text first I imagine. We are more alike than I thought.

Susan sick again this morning. At least I didn't step in it. I've been looking in the mirror a lot lately. The mirror seems to reflect with disdain. I think it's time I grew up.

Note : No face cloth was harmed in the making of this flannel.