One year on from finishing The Waiting Room I am celebrating the anniversary by uploading the first chapter for free. I finished this book in the summer of last year but have been slack with promoting it as I have been busy with my second book, which isn’t any more finished than it was last summer, I have no excuses.

I hope you enjoy what you read here.

THE WAITING ROOM by r.s.barrington

It’s dark in the room. The curtains are thick to block out the council placed street light which    makes the night time day. I have asked for it to be moved countless times. Petitioned and written numerous letters. Apparently it is not an urgent matter and will be dealt with when there are sufficient funds. I have even broken the bulb which lights up my dreams. When we first moved into the house I threw stones at it from the bedroom window. The council were pretty savvy at fixing it the very next day. How urgent it must have been. Where do my taxes go I had asked? I had been sent a detailed letter from a certain Mrs. Downsvall accounting for my every penny that I pay into the council’s purse. My own purse paying out for thick curtains that tell me it’s night time.

The only light in the room creeps in from under the bedroom door, illuminating the washing basket at the end of the bed, it’s over flowing contents have started encroaching into the room. I never liked the basket with its woven wicker snake charming lid. I have learnt to not mention it. I can tickle it with my toes when I stretch out. When we make love it is often knocked over, it being a tale of innocence in the morning. I pick it up wondering if it was watching, listening. Looking shamefully away it holds its head low. No love making tonight.

I’m in bed. The brown duvet is thick and heavy, I need to be cold to sleep, and opening the window with these thick curtains doesn’t help. I’m not allowed a fan to cool myself down. I’m a grown adult. I hang one leg over the edge of the bed, the cool floorboards trick my brain into thinking I’m cold. My other leg searches the bed for a lesser hot space. I have to keep turning the pillow for the cool side.

I close my eyes and try to sleep.

I’m lying on my back after another argument with my wife Susan. She has gone off to see our youngest. Jessie has just turned two and has been screaming for ten minutes, and this was exactly what we had been talking about, loudly.

Why was it always Susan, Sue, Suse?

“Me not you Paul who tends to OUR children”?

I hadn’t always wanted children. Knowing how selfish and hurtful they can be I had always thought I would be a lonely grumpy old man, living alone in sheltered housing. Susan had wanted them. I made my point clear. Thomas was an accident. I would never tell him that. I have two children. Now I want them. I love them.

Susan had repeated her question, repeated her arguments attack line. “Me not you Paul who has to get up and deal with OUR screaming children.”

I couldn’t answer that question, not at this moment. “It’s always me. Admit it,” she had stated throwing her side of the heavy duvet over me. With a sigh she climbs out of bed.

I didn’t admit it. I didn’t have the energy. I just lied there.

This was all I needed. Tomorrow was ‘my day’ at the office. After all these months work and research I had only a twenty minute presentation to take to the shareholders at tomorrow’s meeting. And a lousy presentation at that, I hadn’t even had time to talk it over with my colleagues. It was all my own doing, or rather all my own undoing, as far as I could see.

I had not slept for three days and the one time I do join my wife in our marital bed, I have to get up and deal with a child.

As I got into bed I could tell Susan wasn’t asleep, she had said the night before.

“Paul come to bed, I can’t sleep when you are not there.” So now she pretends. Jessie has been crying all the time I was finishing up downstairs, whilst I used the bathroom, getting changed out of my sweat in-crusted suit. She had been crying this whole time, and I hadn’t heard it. I had been reading and re-reading the script in my head. What sense did it make? It doesn’t make sense to me now as I lie here, and now I have to explain myself to my wife.

My caring wife, Susan

“We are all behind you on this Paul,” many months ago now. All I want to do is sleep and get some rest before sweating all again tomorrow.

The bedroom door slams shut and heavy footprints cross the wooden floored landing to the children’s room.

Thomas, our oldest child could sleep through a bomb going off at his bedside. He doesn’t react to the tantrum Susan is playing out. I had tried to wake Thomas up one morning but he had taken so long to come round I started to panic. Gently slapping his face and pinching him, he woke up screaming and crying.

Now he sleeps soundly whilst Susan picks up Jessie and rocks her to sleep. Little Jessie has been having a bout of nightmares, she screams and shouts, using words she doesn’t even know, all without opening her beautiful green eyes. She waits for the cuddle to protect her, to reset her balance, and she’s away again, dancing with the fairies.

Maybe she screams for me. Maybe she can see my future. Maybe tomorrow she’ll sleep soundly through the night. Maybe tomorrow night I’ll be able to eat something solid and keep it down. Maybe I’ll be able to rock Jessie to sleep and read Thomas a story as he fades out from a day on earth. This is on my mind as I faintly hear Susan creep across our floor and climb into bed. She takes my leg in hers tightly, naked. I’m wearing a pair of boxer shorts. She reaches her arm across my chest.

“I’m sorry Paul.” Lips on my cheek. She sleeps on my shoulder. It’s uncomfortable but I leave it alone. I can’t sleep.

I think about my childhood.

It was never my father that tendered to us as children. My mother, as not having to get up early for work would deal with our screams. In today’s world women want equal rights, and with that equal responsibilities should too be shared. Equal opportunities and equal wages. Open the door, pay for the bill, and resign your seat to a lady. Equal rights when it suits them. I know I should be a better husband, father. But I can’t tonight, not tonight and not my father.

I never met Susan’s father. He had died when she had been young. Susan would tell me about what she could remember, of the thirteen years they had had together.

Story time at night, how his stories would make her too scared to sleep, of Easter egg hunts where he would hide the eggs in the garden but never in his prized flowerbeds, always in the long winter grass amongst the weeds and decaying leaves.

How he would tell her stories about planes flying up to America and down to Australia. To the point where Susan thought the world was in layers. It was an embarrassing school lesson that had taught her otherwise. She had hated her father for making her believe the myth he had bestowed upon her. She told it me through laughs of pain, through gritted teeth of guilt at being that selfish young girl. He had gifted Susan a light-up globe as an apology. She still believed the world was in layers and the teachers were wrong. It was always to remain their little secret.

She had told me how she believed every word he had said, and not wanting to believe the last ones. How the words didn’t settle on the ground, and if she was ever lonely those words would keep her happy through all of her life. All she had to do was look up and listen.

Her mother had never remarried, stating her trust in one true love. Bringing up Susan with this belief had made her weary of teen boys and student crushes.

When Susan fell for me, I was walking across the road in front of her. She tells me she knew I was the one. Apparently that’s how women work. That’s how Susan works. I soon learnt how impulsive she was. Susan’s mother had been driving as they stopped at a crossing. I had been with my two best friends John and Nick. I was twenty two then. Susan twenty. Her mother had pulled over and watched her daughter. Susan hadn’t even noticed the car stop. She turned to face her mother who just smiled and nodded

“Go on my love. I saw your face.” As Susan closed the door her mother had shouted after her: “Be careful!” more to herself than her only child.

That night had been the best night of my life, I didn’t sleep one wink, had my neighbours banging on the ceiling below at three in the morning. We ignored the banging front door of my tiny flat as me and Susan lay naked in a heap. It was all like a school boys dream. I met my future mother in-law two weeks later. Instantly making me feel at home she thrust a plate of biscuits into my hand and asked me to take the rubbish out.

Now I haven’t seen my friends for years. I found out that John was trying for kids with his wife I had never met. She was getting broody. Unlike me, John came from a strongly devoted family. Always looking out for each other and helping each other. I felt like a brother to him and his family acted like mine. Always buying me presents when his parents went on holiday. I have more happy memories of John’s mother than my own.

It wasn’t the same with Nick. His parents were divorced. He lived with his alcoholic dad. His younger siblings lived with their mother so the school playground was a way for them to have some sort of relationship.

They would share homemade cakes in the doorway of the music room. He didn’t care what the other boys thought of him. He would often get laughed at for hanging around with the junior kids. That was just another reason to bully him. His hair was too cool for school, his coat too retro, his attitude, his whole being too grown up for fighting, but still the other kids tried to wind him up.

Nick lost contact with his brother and sister shortly after leaving school. He fell out with his dad over who the beer belonged to in the fridge.

After moving out at the age of seventeen we would hang round his flat on the high street listen to music and get high. Nick always wanted to do something with music. He loved it. Lived for it, breathed it in every breath. He played bass. I wanted so much to play the guitar. I couldn’t and still can’t.

We would write immature love songs between us and pretend they weren’t about John’s sister Hannah. John getting upset in his over protected older brother role.

The last time I spoke to Nick he was buying his flat and working in a music shop, dating Hannah. A good few years, I wonder where he is tonight. His favourite pub was the rough and ready ‘Crown and Sixpence’. The landlady had a copy of his credit card behind the bar. That had always made us laugh.

I’m lying here now, unable to sleep again with all these thoughts flying round in my head. Feeling sad that I’ve neglected my mother, and for blaming her for everything. Tears swell my eyes, I’m angry with myself for allowing this thought to take over my mind.

I try to think of my own family, Thomas and Jessie my children, Susan my wife. My mind is racing, I’m hot and Susan is breathing gently against my chest. I’ve forgotten about the presentation. I’m thinking of Susan. Of our fights, how I never win.

Our most recent argument involved my faithfulness. As I didn’t have the energy to copulate with my wife, I must be having an affair. As I didn’t have the time to read my children stories at night, it was because I was sleeping around. I was late home, I was working all weekend, and I was not there when I was needed. I was automatically cheating.

When I confronted my wife with these accusations I had to ask ‘where was your proof?’ Quietly, calmly and to the point of being bored with the situation I would add sternly ‘I work in an office full of sweaty masculine macho meatheads, and the last time I checked I was not that way inclined’ which would usually work for the time being, an apologetic smile would cross her face. I had won the battle but the war raged on.

We had had the argument so many times I was beginning to think that I actually was having an affair. The latest women I’d apparently been with happened to be the mother at the end of the road.

I don’t know her name, I don’t know which end of the road she lives at and I’m not sure if I would have the ability to have an affair with someone who lives within shouting distance.

It turned out that Thomas had been to the accused ladies house to attend a birthday party and was asked ‘How is your father?’ Susan jumped to the conclusion that we’d been seeing each other. I got home that evening to be told I was sleeping on the sofa. I was too tired to argue.

It was from this moment on that I started to fantasise about actually having an affair. It wasn’t with anyone that we knew. My dreams bought me mystery women, an imaginary friend, my phantom lover.

Susan was very attractive. She was perfect. Beautifully proportionate in every way. Her long brown hair waved its way down her back, eyes that sparkled and sang. Some people’s features seem too disproportionate, their heads too small. Not Susan. Susan’s eyes were just the right distance apart, her legs just the right length, her bottom and thighs so delicately shaped they mesmerised those who looked at her. And her breasts, those two shapely rounded, firm, glowing antennas. She was perfect but very straight.

She fell for me. I had never the courage to approach a girl the way she had approached me. I was flattered and extremely embarrassed.

The only women I had been with prior to Susan I had met on drunken nights out. Chasing girls across dance floors forgetting their names and leaving early the following morning. Nick and John would be snickering with jealousy.

Susan was beautiful, still is beautiful.

My mystery women turned out to be everything Susan wasn’t. In my dreams she would turn up drunk. I never named her. I would be sleeping in my bed, in my marital bed. Susan would always be in the house, cooking or doing something that would keep her occupied. I was never in risk of being found out. Although in my dreams I would sometimes fantasise that Susan walked in on us. Something I found to be quite a turn on. I would get slapped awake and experience things that only inexperienced adolescent males dream of. I would often wake up wet, needing a shower. This only drove Susan to more conclusions that I was washing off the women from the night before.

I asked her ‘smell me before I get in the shower.’ She never did. And so I was in the clear for a week, or till the next time I work late, next time I have to go to work on a weekend, next time I take a phone call and walk out of the room, it all starts again. And my secret lover turns up to teach me something I hadn’t thought was humanly possible.

Susan is now asleep, playing the little spoon in what looks like, to an innocent bystander a perfect marital bed time.

I close my eyes.

I block out everything.

My mother is talking to me. Tears rolling down her face, I’m nine years old.

Something I don’t understand has happened.

I shrug it off and try to sleep.

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Cover Design by Becca Thorne Illustrator:




Twenty months ago I arrived on a goat farm owned by a Dutch couple in the south west of France.

A friend and I had turned up to help do some renovations on the farm house which Chris, the father of the family had started, but perhaps did not realise how demanding his goat project was going to be.

Eleven months later saw the departure of my friend to start a career in graphic design.

At the same time my girlfriend returned to start her final year at university in economics in the Czech Republic.

I turned an old chicken shed into a workshop and set about making furniture for some local friends, all the while assisting on the farm and not only teaching the Dutch some British cuisine but also educating them in humour and Churchill quotes.

Often eating with the family which consisted of two small boys I ended up becoming one of them. Someone to confide in and vice versa, and with the 5 and 7 year old boys I became an older brother.

As well as collecting bales from the land I was also an honorary au-pair. A collection of funny runs and competing at everything with Lucas, the youngest son, I was the one he would show off to, or embarrassingly hide from if he wanted to cry.

Always smiling and wanting to be the strongest or quickest, I would see disappointment on his face if I had to turn him down when he wanted to play. I could say ‘plus tard’ or ‘demain’ and he would be happy knowing I would give him attention later.

But as I took him to school for my last time I hugged him and he hugged me back outside the school gates. I then walked him to his younger playground and where he would have normally run to play with his friends he just stood and looked up at me. No smile or tears just a face of understanding, a face I can’t pull of now as a 30 year old.

I bent down to hug him again but this time he didn’t hug back, he felt to me too weak to lift his arms, too sad.

I watched him walk into his playground not interacting with the others as he always does, just forlornly staring at the other children around him.

He knew there would be no later, no tomorrow, to play his games. I walked to his older brother who brushed me off in a cool embrace and joined in the games of others.

If I hadn’t turned the corner to see a friend approaching I would have surely burst into tears and ran from view.

Just like Lucas.



Prague, Capital of the Czech Republic and historic centre to what was the largest European Empire houses wonderful architecture, delicious smells, colourful people and home to……….. the biggest castle, the funniest statues, central Europe’s biggest music club, the ugliest building, smallest puppets and the worlds biggest measure of beer.

Even the Czech author Milan Kundera writes about  Central Europe’s biggest index finger in his book ‘The unbearable lightness of being.’ The rest of us should take note!