Simon Wilder had a theory about life.He called it The Central Theory,as in addition there were several Peripheral Theories.He was considering the validity of one of the Peripheral Theories some minutes after fairly ordinary sex with his wife Ruth.This theory stated "If you expect every fuck you have to be the best you've ever had you will be constantly disappointed."He reflected on this for several minutes and realised that it was very closely allied to one of his more often quoted Peripheral Theories:"If you expect every restaurant dinner to be the best you've ever had you will be constantly disappointed."

The similarity of the wording and the clear analogy between sex and food was not lost on him and he spent several more minutes reflecting on this and generally on how clever a fellow he was to have theories on life at all,Central,Peripheral or otherwise.He reminded himself that he was only thirty four (not that reminding was actually necessary)and that considering his age,he had not done too badly in the Theories on Life department.To give him credit,he did presume that others too may have formulated theories on life but had not formalised them to the extent that he had and had not gone to the trouble of naming them.He was about to broach the subject with Ruth ,when he realised she was asleep.Perhaps on this occasion his theory on sex did not apply to her.

Realising that Ruth was asleep,he knew that this was likely to be one of those nights that sleep does not come easy and he prepared himself to deal with the problem.He wondered whether he would get away without The Great Fear of Death overtaking him and making him cry out but he doubted it.he knew the routine well by now.The thought would creep into his mind , and then slowly but inexorably overtake his thoughts to the point that he would be totally overcome , terrified and in panic. Sometimes he would sit bolt upright and cry out at the but often but often he just lay there quaking in fear until it passed. Mercifully this would not be long and he would then be able to switch his mind to Fantasies and generally sleep would follow.  He often wondered whether others had to endure this appalling ritual and suspected that this was no doubt the case . Unfortunately, he did not have a theory on life will that could adequately combat the reality of death and he conceded that he was just stuck with it.

Very occasionally, a good fantasy would do the trick, but it would need to be a very powerful one and as he had used those so often, their effectiveness was fast diminishing.Most of the fantasies were sexually orientated and he accepted that fact gratefully.There were a few financial ones, but these gave him much less pleasure and invariably led him to contemplate his real financial state and this would always leave him feeling worse.

On some nights his head would be so full of theories, fantasies and fears that he would become totally overwhelmed, agitated and sweaty. On those nights he admitted defeat and gave himself over to the tranquillity of Valium, supplies of which he kept in his bedside drawer for these emergency situations .

There were times when he was concerned that he was becoming a neurotic wreck, but these times were few and in more sober moments, he  realised that he was actually an intelligent, happy, well adjusted middle-aged man.The last adjective was a recent addition, as middle age had always seemed far away and happened to other people , like cancer or road accidents .  But with the arrival of his 34th birthday some months previously and the fast approaching thirty fifth, he realised that the real , true and mathematically accurate middle age was almost upon him. Three scores and ten was what was allowed and thirty five was in the middle of that , half way. The ramifications were endless and in recent weeks these thoughts began to dominate all others and had even at times managed to displace the fear of death , although he had still not decided which was the worse.

  It was a rapidly becoming evident to him that some form of commemoration was necessary to mark this forthcoming milestone in his life , but what form this should take remained unsolved . He felt he could not let the occasion pass unnoticed.It was a pivotal point in his life and there had to be some way of of distinguishing it from what had gone before and from what would follow . But what ? He had countless ideas but none were good enough . It was a problem for which he had no solution . If nothing else it was a problem which inevitably sent him off to sleep and on this night , with various options floating around in his mind , he drifted off.



 

It was still ten am and his third patient for the day was settling her oversized rump into one of his undersized chairs. It was Mrs Stern and from the look on her face he knew that this was going to be a long, painful consultation.Mrs Esther Stern was forty six, divorced, childless and miserable. She was plump and short and plain to look at. Little in her life gave her pleasure, except, thought Simon, her endless symptoms. Symptoms which she had presented to him and so often, he knew them by heart.

He got in just before she could start.

"You're looking well this morning Mrs Stern" he began , hoping to stifle any sort of complaint , a ploy which often worked with other patients but only rarely with Mrs Stern.

" That's the problem doctor. I always look well, so people don't believe   just how sick am."

 It was definitely going to be a difficult consultation . He admitted defeat , switched his mind to Random Thoughts , his face onto Interested Appearance and and let her launch off.Occasionally a phrase or word would filter into his consciousness and he would respond wit with a  shake of his head,a grimace or a word , as appropriate .The complaints were always the same and  as always , his responses did nothing to alter the flow of her monologue. He had long since discovered that the timing and not the content of his responses was the important factor and by now he he had this down to a fineart.

"...... The headaches are just so bad doctor . All the time . I get no relief ."

He recognised a danger signal and knew that if he did not terminate things quickly , he could spend the rest of the day , if not the rest of his professional career listening to Mrs Stern.

"I thinkyou should take an extra tablet at night Mrs Stern. I am sure this would help . I had better see you in another month ."

Mrs Stern,who by now was also fairly adept at the game , knew she was beaten, gathered her bag,smiled politely, thanked him and made her way to the reception desk  , whereshe would sigh, ask for her next appointment and settle her account.

 Simon sighed too,but silently,dictated a brief letter to her general practitioner,lent back in his chair and wondered if it was all worth it.Not long before, in one  of his more momentous pronouncements, the Prime Minister had told the nation that "Life wasn't meant to be easy".Simon could have told him that at least two years earlier when he first formulated  his Central Theory on Life.After long deliberation and regular observation of the plight of the human race,he came to the conclusion that happiness,that state to which all seemed so desperately to aspire,was,in fact,an unnatural state.It was not the norm.The norm was unhappiness,misery,despair.One only had to look around at one's fellow man.Most people were unhappy most of the time.True,there was happiness in people's lives,but this was brief,fleeting,a bonus a gift.Not enough to sustain a whole lifetime.

And despite their obvious state of unhappiness,people persisted in wanting happiness.More than that,they felt it was their right to be happy.They felt it should be the norm.But that elusive state was always just around the corner.Something or someone was always getting in the way.No sooner had one problem been solved than another appeared.And happiness continued to remain just out of reach.

But reach for it they did.And the more they tried to reach for it,the more unhappy people became.The more Simon thought about it,the less sense it made to him.What was the point of happiness if there was so little of it to go around.And what was the point of making yourself miserable trying to be happy.Then one day,he could remember it with absolute clarity,the Theory came to him and it made immediate good sense.The more he thought about it,the more widely he applied it,the more sense did it make.

The secret to happiness was to expect to be unhappy.That should be the norm.Accept unhappiness and get on with your life,so when some happiness came,it would be truly appreciated.It would be a luxury to be savoured,enjoyed,like a holiday.It became so clear and so obvious that he began to wonder why everyone else had not come to the same conclusion.And fearing that perhaps everyone secretly had,he asked a few people,only to be greeted by such looks of derision,that he knew that obviously they had not.

But as much as he wanted to believe it,he couldn't quite embrace the Theory.He had entered a phase of his life when he was feeling happy most of the time,so much so that he began to doubt the Theory's validity and was waiting for unhappiness to return to validate it once more.And while he was still not entirely convinced of the truth of his Central Theory,he was convinced that anyone who could be made to believe it would be eternally happy.

And though it may seem that this train of thought would have taken most of the morning,it was in fact less than five minutes later that his secretary Mary brought in the next file and he prepared to do battle again.

"So, how's work - you busy?

"Yes, you know, as usual. What about you?"

"Oh, flat out. Can't cope with it all. I'm thinking of taking in a partner."

"That's great. So it's taken off okay by the sound of it?

"Yeah.That's thirty love."

It was Sunday morning and Sunday meant tennis and tennis meant Max, which meant small talk about business and an inevitable thrashing. Simon could never understand why he always lost. An onlooker could not fail to observe that on the tennis court Simon Wilder and Max Gold were a complete mismatch. Simon was six foot one inch in height whereas Max was barely five foot four. Simon was slim, perhaps a slight paunch but nothing more. Max was overweight. Obese actually. He tennis shorts strained to harness his belly and his chins danced time he served. But despite all that he was a demon on the court.  Beneath the flab there must have been muscle because he would send serves down at a breathtaking speed and the placement of his ground strokes was impeccable. At least that's how it seemed to Simon. In reality Max was no better than average and Simon was worse. And that's why he lost. This Sunday was no different and after an hour, Simon was one set down and well on his way to losing the second. It said something for the standard of their game that complete and usually gramatically-correct sentences could be uttered between each shot and neither player became short of breath. The conversation never varied and it was not until after the game, over cold fruit juice, that things tended to become serious and that inevitably meant the conversation turning to taxation, its evils and the means to minimise or avoid it.

"Listen Simon, my accountant tells me that there's a new property deal which is a beauty. I can get you in. Finance is guaranteed and the tax loss unbelievable."

"Thanks Max, but not at the moment. I'm saving." "Saving! Saving for what'? Since when have you ever saved'? You're the guy who told me to live on borrowed money. Never use your own money when you can use someone else's! That's what you always said, isn't it? What happened to all that?"

"Oh, you know, I just want to have a bit put away. It makes me feel more secure."

"Secure! You sound like an old man, pal. At the rate you're making money you're secure enough."

"I'm not getting any younger Max. I have to think of the future."

"Christ Almighty! What's got into you Simon?"

Well, whatever Max was; and he was a fine fellow and a true friend, he was the last person Simon felt he could share his current thoughts with. He realised that in coming to that conclusion he may have been doing Max an injustice, but, on the balance of probabilities, as Max was so fond of saying, this was most unlikely. Friend as he was, intelligent as he seemed to be, sensitive was one thing Max was definitely not.

And without wishing to seem an intellectual snob, Simon did not believe that Max could follow the tortuous circuitry of his particular line of thought. Moreover, Max was two years older than Simon. He'd passed the halfway mark without even as much as acknowledgement. Max's birthday had occurred before Simon's current state of awareness, or he would have felt duty-bound, as a friend, to steer Max towards some appropriate form of recognition.

"Don't worry Max", Simon finally said. "I'm just in one of my more pessimistic moods. Tell me more about your great scheme."

Somewhat reluctantly, Max did proceed to launch into yet another account of a fool-proof, failsafe, sure-fire profit making and tax-losing scheme. Simon was quite aware that if ever a fraction of the schemes that Max purportedly went into were successful, then the Commissioner of Taxation would have already owed Max a vast fortune. Simon was also aware that the reverse was probably closer to the truth and apart from hearing Max out each time, he never took these schemes any further.

When Max had finished, Simon drained the rest of his fruit juice and as politely as he could, said:

"Thanks for that Max. I'll give it some thought, but I'm not sure if it's the right thing for me right now."

Max was smart enough not to push it any further and the conversation changed course to embrace more generalised economic and political topics, which were less threatening and on which both Simon and Max could more readily agree.

That ritual over and what little sweat that had wet their brow now dried, both men packed together their belongings, bid each other farewell and headed home.

Ruth and the kids were waiting and the smell of the Sunday roast greeted him at about the same time as they did. He enjoyed seeing his family and he knew it showed.

Michelle was twelve and although not yet pubescent, he could detect subtle changes in her shape and appearance which indicated that womanhood was not far away. She was a strikingly pretty girl, with short dark hair, warm brown eyes and a smile that inevitably won from him any concession that she desired. Paul was two years younger, fairer in both looks and temperament and by the far the brighter of the two. Already well entrenched at the top of his class, Simon held out high hopes for his future. Unlike Michelle's, Paul's schooling had so far been uneventful and interviews with teachers always resulted in lavish praise and lasting no more than three minutes. Michelle was a plodder, generally bright but academically disinterested and would no doubt pursue a career in the arts or marry rich. Simon hoped for the latter.

Ruth - well ,she was always there. Dependable, strong, beautiful in her own way. Certainly beautiful to Simon, as beautiful as on day he had first seen her emerging from the water at Brighton Beach. Trying to emerge was a more accurate description. They did not meet as much as collide. Well nearly. Simon was hurtling into the water just as Ruth had stood up and if it wasn't for his quick reflexes he would have run her down. His first impression was of angry green eyes which softened after a mumbled apology from him. And then that low voice, almost a whisper over the noise of the waves. And then the smile. He was hooked. The years had been kind to Ruth. He'd often told how well she was ageing, something that she did not perceive as a compliment although he certainly meant it as one. Ruth had long ago ceased to ask about the tennis, either getting sick of hearing of his repeated losses or being too sensitive of his feelings to bring the subject up.

He showered quickly, changed and they all sat down to lunch, Michelle and Paul fighting over their allocation of chairs, cutlery, crockery and anything else they could get in before Ruth's sharp reprimand brought matters to a halt. As always it was a fine meal and a rare chance for the family to be together for long enough for any any meaningful dialogue to take place. During the week it was rare for Simon to be home early enough to eat with the children and Saturdays were spent taking to them to their various extra-curricular activities, so it left only Sunday lunch for all to be together and in one place.

"How was tennis, Daddy?" Michelle asked, probably just out of curiosity, although Simon wondered just how much she may have known about his ability and what her motives may be.

"Oh, I lost", he replied quite casually, hoping to drop the subject then and there But Paul piped in, "What was the score?".

"Two sets to love, I think", what his even more casual reply.

"Oh, Daddy, you got thrashed again." This time from Michelle. Simon thought she did sound genuinely upset for him but he couldn't be sure. Ruth, forever reliable, came to the rescue.

"Did I tell you Pearl and Harry are coming over with the kids this afternoon?"

"That's nice", Simon said.

Harry was Ruth's brother and Simon was very fond of him. Pearl, well, somehow Simon felt he'd never achieved a rapport with her. Still it was always a pleasant and lively time spent with them. As a bonus, Mark and Cathy, their children were friendly with Michelle and Paul which made their visits the more enjoyable.

Lunch over, Simon retired to his study and proceeded to tackle some of the mountain of paperwork that covered his desk, a mountain which matter how hard he tried, never seemed to shrink in size. Over the years he'd purchased filing cabinets, shelves, cupboards and even a larger desk to store everything but it never seemed to make a difference. He could recall that his quite handsome Victorian desk had a very smart leather top but he could not actually recall the last time he'd seen it. Ruth  long having given up trying to persuade him to keep the desk tidy, had taken to keeping the study door closed at all times, a habit he also shared.

He'd only managed to scrape the surface when the chime of the doorbell and the squeals of delight from his children announced the visitors' arrival. He quickly left the study, closing the door, and proceeded downstairs where his guests had already been shown to the lounge and their children whisked off to some other part of the house from where the muffled sounds of four happy youngsters could be heard.

They were a close family and although all had seen each other the week before and spoke several times on the telephone during the week, their greetings were punctuated by kisses all round, a custom started long ago and one that was difficult to stop for fear of causing offence.

Harry was a handsome man. Also a doctor, he was four years younger than Simon, as tall, but slimmer and certainly physically fitter. Simon could still recall the one and only tennis game they had together. It had made him appreciate playing with Max. Pearl was petite and pretty. She never disclosed her height but Simon did not think she was much over five feet. And yet he never thought of her as short. She had a certain bearing, an almost regal quality. She was pretty without being beautiful. Her face was well put together. Her eyes were blue and large, almost too large for the small face. Her nose was sharp and slightly upturned. She had the habit of holding her lips pursed but would smile easily, cheeks dimplings as she did so. But behind that appearance was a sharp, fiercely intelligent woman who would stand no nonsense, wouldn't hesitate to tell you what she thought of any particular topic, or what she thought of you, for that matter. Simon was fond of her, although at the same time a little wary. He couldn't help thinking that Pearl could see right through him and that made him feel uneasy. He also suspected that she was intellectually superior to him and that made him feel worse than uneasy. As a foursome they could converse easily and all knew each other well enough so none felt compelled to talk for the sake of talking and would be quite comfortable with each other in total silence, something which Simon felt was the hallmark of true friendship.

As was often the case, after some time Ruth and Pearl would pair off and proceed with their own conversation and Harry and Simon would tackle the subjects more suited to men which inevitably meant sport and work. Sex would have been included but not in the company of the wives. There was a widely held view among lay people that doctors as a group were narrow minded and boring and could talk of nothing else but their profession. It was a view also held by Ruth and one she never tired of expressing in Simon's presence. Simon had long given up searching for acceptable subjects to discuss with Harry and so, after the usual exchange of pleasantries and a brief round-up of the latest sporting events, their talk turned to work.

"Busy'?" Simon would ask.

This had become the opening gambit. One could wonder why this needed to be asked as the only doctor not busy was either retired or dead. Inevitably when doctors got together after "Hello" would come "Busy'?" and, of course, the answer would always be "Yes, flat out."

Harry was a Cardiologist and although not long in practice, he was very busy in his field. He had realised, even during his training, that to be successful in a field as overcrowded as Cardiology, he would need a gimmick, a skill that was in short supply. So he took a gamble, spent time in Los Angeles learning what was then a new and experimental procedure known as angioplasty and was just commencing practice, bristling with his newly acquired skills, when angioplasty suddenly became accepted as effective treatment. And so, angioplasty had become Harry's ticket to success and the patients .just could not stop coming.

"How's the new secretary coming along, Harry?"

"She's good. Well, she's adequate, at least. I think she will settle in with a bit more time."

One thing never taught in medical school (and in fact there were countless matters of the utmost practical importance never taught in medical school) was that no matter how clever a doctor you were, you would not get very far in practice without an efficient, skillful and resourceful secretary. Most consultant physicians were in one-man practices and the 'front man' of the operation was the secretary. It had taken Simon four secretaries before he found who did the job and he considered himself an expert on the subject.

"You know my feelings on the subject, Harry. If she doesn't shape up quickly, get rid of her and get another one. It doesn't take long for a bad girl to kill a practice. Just be careful."

"I know, Simon. I know. You've told me before and I'm being very careful. So far I have no complaint. Maybe I'm just not as fussy as you are but Vanessa seems to be doing okay."

"Vanessa? What kind of name is that? Sounds more like a stripper than a medical secretary. What's she like?"

"Relax Simon. She's nothing much to look. She's just ordinary . Nothing special. Ask Pearl. She'd be the first to complain if she was pretty."

"So, what about you?" asked Harry. "Work still fun for you? Private practice still the only way to go?" he added, throwing back at Simon one of his own phrases of so many years ago.

"Very funny, Harry. Unless you are in a particularly masochistic mood, I won't bore you with the details of my practice. You know there's no shortage of headaches and dizzy spells. Do me a favour. Let's talk about something else."

To say that Simon was dillusioned with his practice would be an understatement. It took only twelve months for him to realise that what one of his chiefs had told him when he was just a young, eager trainee was true: "Private practice is boring." At the time Simon thought that the man must be mad. He could think of nothing more exciting, more fantastic than his own office, a secretary, patients being referred to him - personally referred to see him -the fascinating diagnoses he would make and the tremendous intellectual challenge. But that wasn't real life. In real life most people did not develop exotic or interesting diseases. Most suffered from physical symptoms which were just an expression of their own failings, their anxieties and the hopeless life that they were leading. So what came through his door were headaches and dizzy spells, an endless procession of human misery and neuroses. He'd often told Ruth that the bedrooms of the house were paid for by headaches, the kitchen and living room by dizzy spells, and the toilet by the small number medically interesting patients who happened to find their way to see him. It was subject that friends and family alike had heard so often, that no-one, unless by a slip of the tongue, would dare ask Simon how his practice was.

To be accurate however, when not in a fit of depression, Simon would have to admit that there were interesting patients, that his other work, his hospital rounds, his teaching commitments, were intellectually satisfying and his working life was not all drab and dull but it was only on rare occasions when Simon chose to be so accurate in his assessment.

It's okay, Harry. Don't pay any attention to me. You know I just like to complain. I shouldn't really. There is plenty of work, I'm doing what I want to do. That's really the main thing."

"Are you going away this year?" Harry asked.

"Just to Sydney.Our annual meeting is there this year and I want to go.I mised the last one."

"Ruth coming?"

"I don't think so. You know she hates medical meetings. It's only three days and she'll stay home with the kids."

"Yes, I know. Pearl's the same. She came with me to Adelaide last year and said, 'Never again'. I can understand their point of view. We spend our time at the meetings and they have to spend time with other wives or mostly total strangers. Our conferences is in Melbourne this year, so there's no problem."

"I must say I still feel a pang of guilt when I go away on my own. It's easier now the childen are older and I don't leave Ruth with a difficult burden but, all the same, I still feel a bit guilty. I still go, mind you. It's important to keep up to date. At least, that's how I rationalise it. I think I'll have a paper accepted this year so I can really justify going."

"What's it on'? A medical breakthrough?" asked Harry. Simon thought he could detect a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. Although Harry was a nice bloke and a good friend, Simon considered him to have that irritating trait. Harry felt academically superior to Simon, or at least Simon felt that Harry felt that way. It may have just been Simon's own feelings of inadequacy at never having done much academic work, he wasn't sure. Harry had a long list of publications to his credit, while Simon's list would only just fill a page on his C.V. Harry was never overt in his comments but would occasionally let Simon know, in his own subtle way, that Simon's academic achievements were not top class.

"Not a breakthrough, Harry, but it could be a first. I've got three cases of what looks like a new drug interaction. It hasn't been described before. In fact, the previous reports have said that there is no interaction so my cases are a 'first'. Want me to go on?"

"No Simon. Sounds good. Has it been accepted yet'?"

"No,not yet.I won't know until the end of the month but I think it will be."

"Good luck with it. I hardly ever go to a meeting now unless I am presenting. I think it makes it much more worthwhile, don't you?"

"Oh, I'm sure you're right," said Simon.

He did not like the direction the conversation was taking and was thinking hard of a new topic when he noticed Ruth and Pearl moving over to them, Pearl's bag in her hand. It was presumably time for them to go.\

"We're going, Harry." Pearl said. "Remember we've got dinner at the Morleys' tonight. You know you don't like be late for the Morleys."

"Dick Morley is the number two man at St. Matthews Cardiology Unit. I think they may be offering me more work,' added Harry. "Time to go, Simon. Probably see you next week."

Pearl was already busy collecting the children, countering their protests with a firm voice.

'I said we're going and that's it!" Her voice carried throughout the house. Again, it was kisses  goodbye, a lot of milling around the front hallway and then they were gone.

"That was pleasant,"Ruth said.

“A bit of a short visit, don't you think?" Simon replied. "I don't know what their hurry was. It's only five o'clock. Did you and Pearl have a fight or something?" asked Simon.

"Don't be silly. You know Pearl. She likes to be organised. And you know it takes Harry forever to get ready. No, in fact we had a very interesting chat."

"Anything in particular?" asked Simon.

"No. Just women's talk. Nothing that would interest you. It wasn't medical."

By then Michelle and Paul had come back into the room, having had seen their cousins off to the car.

"Mum I'm hungry,' from Paul.

"Me too," echoed Michelle. "What's for dinner.' "Ask your father," was Ruth's reply.

Simon knew what that meant. It did not mean 'Ask your father what's for dinner', it meant 'Ask your father if he'd go out and buy something for dinner'. Sunday evening was special. Simon never quite understood why but by Sunday evening Ruth had run out of all desire or ambition to be the good wife and mother and had long ago declared, "Sunday night I don't cook." Which left two choices, to eat what was at home or get take-away. The popular vote was always the latter and Simon felt his acquiescence was probably the greatest contribution to family harmony that he made.

Minutes later he was sitting on hard bench of the Rising Sun restaurant, leafing through a three year old copy of the 'Women's Weekly' and waiting for for the family evening meal to issue forth, neatly packed in plastic containers to be taken home and served to a hungry family whose eyes would be a on TV screen throughout the whole meal.

It was later that evening, while lying in bed fully awake, that Harry's comment came back to him and he felt an irritation gnawing in his gut, a sensation he'd not felt for a long time. He knew he was successful. He was busy. It took weeks for a patient to be able to see him. He was financially comfortable, not rich, but comfortable. He lived well, went on holidays, had a good car. He was successful by most measures but all it took was a comment, probably quite innocently made by Harry, for his feelings of inadequacy to surface and eat at him. He thought he was over that and he was, except for times like this. When it came right clown to it, what bugged him most was his lack of success academically. His lack of a major hospital appointment, academic status, achievements still highly regarded among his peers and not really replaced by the financial success which he had achieved. It had taken many years of rationalising his position to get him over this one hurdle to actually feeling successful but he knew that night, that deep down all his efforts had not worked. Admittedly, it did not worry him nearly as much as it used to and he could dismiss it more easily. He did have hospital appointments, they were at teaching hospitals and were significant and worthwhile.

His thoughts drifted to the morning and his hospital round and this in turn led to thinking of Dr. Sharon Blair, his registrar at the present time, and this, as he knew it would, triggered off one of the Sexual Fantasies. It should be said, or at least Simon had said it to himself so often, that having these fantasies did not imply or suggest any abnormality in Simon's psyche. He knew the fantasies were normal, probably even healthy. In his case they served a useful purpose in helping him cope with those minutes (sometimes hours) that were a prelude to sleep.

Dr. Sharon Blair. She was truly lovely. Blonde, straight hair in a pageboy style. Tall, almost Simon's height which he found a little intimidating. Not beautiful, certainly attractive, a good doctor without doubt. Single, as witnessed by the absence of rings and prime material for a fantasy. His sexual fantasies were generally fairly abstract. It was the thought of sex with the subject of the fantasy that mattered, not the actual performance of the deed and of course, it was always moral, above board and never leading to anyone else being hurt. This in practice meant no-one else knowing about it. Simon knew that given the opportunity, and he was not sure whether he'd actually recognise the opportunity, nothing would actually take place. At least, that's what he'd always told himself.

In his thirteen years of marriage and the three years in which he knew Ruth before they were married, Simon had not had any physical contact with any other woman. He did not particularly desire an extra-marital affair but the fantasies were still very pleasant. At present Sharon Blair was the subject of the fantasy, but he knew that her rotation had only three weeks to go and a replacement would need to be found. His next registrar was a male so that would not do. He could not recall a time when there was not someone who he could fantasise about. The subjects were many and varied and of course, it never went beyond a fantasy. He never even made the slightest improper suggestion to any of them. He secretly suspected that the real thing may be a bit of a disappointment and he was sure, if that was the case, it would finally and irrevocably destroy the one type of fantasy which he enjoyed the most. That night, he was thankful, sleep came easy.

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