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Happier Times

Dear Diary,

Today I went to walk in the rain but I still couldn’t feel anything. They said it would help, but nothing does. Nothing ever helps. It’s been three long years since she walked out and I think about her every day. All I got was a letter stuck to the fridge. Now I keep it in my wallet.

I’m talking about Camilla of course. We were perfect for each other. I’ve told you this story before, diary, but let me tell you again.

It was 2004 and I was struggling with a painkiller addiction. That fucking 3210 had done my ankle in during a five-a-side game and life was tough. I’d only known Camilla a few weeks and she saw me at my worst. She saw me popping pills just to get through the day, breaking down in tears whenever I heard Cat Stevens, I once even swore at my dog. But she supported me, she became my rock. And I needed her more than ever when I hit rock bottom. It was the day big Iwan was told he wasn’t coming up to the Premier League with us. Iwan had been in to see the gaffer and afterwards he came into my office. He didn’t have to say anything. It was written all over his face.

I gave Iwan the longest hug I’ve ever given a person, but it felt like he was hugging me. I was devastated. We’d made it to the promised land and he ended up at Gillingham. Where’s the justice? I screamed at the walls and put my wing through the computer. Neil Doncaster tried to console me but he just made things worse. He always makes things worse.

I don’t know how long I was on the floor for. Minutes, hours, days. I don’t remember when Camilla arrived, but she got me through. I just remember her whispering in my ear, “it’s not your fault.” It’s not my fault. She said it over and over again, and the haze began to clear from my eyes. “It’s ok,” she said. “He’ll be ok. He’ll get a good media job and spend his weekends getting drunk with Paul McVeigh.” It was all I needed to hear. From that day on I tried to clean myself up. Camilla was at my side and she was always strong. She was the Grant Holt to my Chris Martin.

But it’s all in the past. She’s been gone and now it’s me drinking Super Tennents in the day, in my office. I lock the door so Splat can’t get in sometimes. He tells me I need to move on, but what does he know? He touches himself in the shower. He isn’t going to bring her back, he isn’t going to replace the void that she left behind. I don’t know where to go from here. It all feels just meaningless, like the johnstone’s paint trophy. When I stand in the rain it looks like I’m crying, but I’m not.

With love, diary.

C.C xx

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