Hot bunking

The weather had been hot for the last few days. Not Mediterranean hot, but hot enough for your average Brit to turn a crispy shade of lobster in a blink of naive optimism.

Our spare bedroom is sited in a poorly insulated converted roof space. (You’ll remember, Dear Reader, I chose to move out of the conjugal bed 7 months ago.) Over the winter the room got 3-blankets-cold. As we move into the warmer months it gets bakery-hot. A fleeting comment to this effect at bedtime and

Her: If it gets too hot …
Me: … open a window.

A smat-arse answer on my part, perhaps – churlish even, considering it shows, on her part, a rare awareness of someone else’s situation – but in the 7 months we’ve been sleeping apart, not once has She suggested I move back in. And certainly not because She wanted me to do so.

Maybe I’ve just become bitter.
Or I think more likely …

In the years I have vainly hoped our sex life would take a different trajectory, I have always felt that, not least considering my Wife’s self identification as a control freak and all but ubiquitous rejection of my advances, it is going to take diligence on Her part. You can lead a horse to water … I could throw myself on Her mercy, make all the effort, but if She can’t show some genuine commitment to fixing this broken marriage, what hope can I have that, like so many half hearted attempts (eg scheduling twice weekly sex [FAILED], choosing to see a sex therapist rather than a marriage counsellor [FAILED]) any changes would be fruitful?

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