It’s like talking to a stranger

I had a recurring nightmare as a kid: I’d walk down the hill to our house in Ashbury Street and everything seemed … not quite right. I couldn’t put my finger on it. The house looked the same … but different. My parents looked like mum and dad, but something was out of kilter.

It was a bit like Coraline before it’s time.

One day, I was looking at a photograph of my childhood home and realised what I’d been dreaming about was the house – and my parents – as they’d been years earlier. The house was painted different shades, my parents were slightly younger versions of themselves.

It reminds me of my current situation.

You spend 23 years with someone, half your life, and you think you know them. But you don’t know them at all. One day you look into their eyes and think: “Who the hell are you????”

You can’t be the same man who threw rocks at my window in the middle of the night … and got the wrong window … and woke my irate dad up instead.

You can’t be the same man who, a month into our relationship, said “Let’s go to Thailand together.”

You can’t be the same man who drove to South Australia with me, shared the most orgasmic scallops in soy butter at Bridgewater Mill, ate slow-cooked octopus together at Maggie Beer’s Pheasant Farm, and filled my Mazda 121 with 12 boxes of South Australian wine, like it was a little yellow Tardis.

You can’t be the same man who went down on one knee in the Jardin du Luxembourg in Paris and proposed.

You can’t be the same man who proudly watched as I walked down the aisle as Karma County played “Oleanna” on our wedding day then vowed to love me “for better and for worse … as long as we both shall live”.

You can’t be the same man who called the airline and transferred all your frequent flyer points to sick, pregnant me, so I could fly business class home from London while you travelled economy.

You can’t be the same man who wept as I was wheeled into surgery for an emergency casearean with our first child.

You can’t be the same man who left me a card – for no particular reason – that said:  “I love you and I miss you and I will see you soon. I loved you all bright eyed and energetic when I left this morning. I look forward to loving you more when I get back.”

You can’t be the same man who gave me an iPad just a few Christmasses ago, inscribed: “To my darling wife …”

That man has been replaced by a stranger whose words and actions continue to confound me.

One day I think the anger and resentment I feel towards this stranger who replaced the man I loved will segue into pity.

Because this stranger will never understand or appreciate how much he has lost and how little he has gained.

Song of the day: Hunters & Collectors “Talking to a stranger”