Another self teflective navel gazing story by a middle-aged man

There were, George reflected, already far too many stories by middle-aged men about themselves. Lying in bed on a Saturday morning, his wife lying sleeping beside him, he felt his place in the world. The very weight of being a middle-aged man; in a world where middle-aged men wielded the most financial clout it was, of course, only natural that was reflected back culturally in too many stories about middle-aged men.

Kinaston had said so the other day, over an overly expensive coffee at the end of Southport Pier. His words disappearing into the blank, milky sky. The Arts like to pretend they don't follow the money, he said, but at the end of the day everyone's got bills to pay.

Kinaston worked in Life Insurance. He'd wanted to be a poet, once. Now he confined himself to sweeping statements.

His wife's breath was even, she was sleeping well and George was relieved. She'd been unwell of late. He could get back to his navel gazing free from concern or requests for Lemsip. Yes, he thought, there were too many stories about middle-aged men. There were two in this one already, and the only woman hadn't even been granted the distinction of a name, merely a title that, he was dimly aware, was disputed in some quarters as implying ownership. George was aware of the idea that Patriarchy was a bad idea, but he wasn't sure of the whys or how's.

It was hard to feel remarkable, when there were so many like you, a world of middle-aged men, a world of stories of their concerns, their frustrations, their desires, and yet he'd lived his life with the secret conviction that he was. He got up, quietly, not wishing to disturb her sleep. Looking at himself in the mirror there was nothing to suggest difference, hair greying, running to fat, penis still functioning, thank God.

That was another of Kinaston's lines: in all the stories men write about men, it never takes long to get round to cock. 

George dressed quietly, and went downstairs. He had the sense that something momentous was about to happen, but then, he always did. Ever since he'd been a child and secretly convinced that he was marked for greatness., there had always been the idea that, any minute now, something was about to happen. He made a cup of tea while he waited, but nothing did in the time it took to drink it.

Maybe, he thought, if I went for a walk.

It was worth a try.