Tim Dowling: my wife is away – and I think I’m starting to become invisible

M y wife is still away. I have one more night alone. In many ways this prospect is relaxing – in a remarkably short time I have managed to reach a level of existence that requires no effort. But I am also beginning to seem unreal to myself. It’s been days since I’ve spoken to anyone besides the cat.

I am working at my desk when the youngest one emails, asking me to print out an attached file so he can pick it up on his way home from work. I send a reply that says “yeah fine,” but then, thinking about it, I follow it up with another that says: “We can have risotto if you come here and make risotto.” The reply – “OK sounds good” – comes after a delay long enough to suggest the offer didn’t actually sound that good.

But I think about how nice it will be to have the youngest one cook me dinner, and then address some IT issues I’m having, which I won’t mention until we’ve eaten. I print out his attachment and then go to the kitchen to put a pot of water on the hob for stock. It feels good to have a purpose.

The cat comes through the flap and crosses my path. Tim Dowling: my year in numbers – turning 60, 23 gigs, one brazen fox and zero kids at home Read more “Hey,” I say. The cat doesn’t even look up. It’s pretty clear I’m evaporating. In the afternoon, darkness begins to gather in the corners of my office.

I switch on one light, then another. At about 5pm something occurs to me, and I return to the kitchen to open a cupboard. My suspicion is confirmed: I have everything needed to make risotto, except rice. I put my coat on and step into the night. The shop on the corner is busy, but I glide up the aisle unnoticed, grab some risotto rice off the shelf, pay at the self checkout and slip away.

It’s only minutes since I left my front door, and I am already on my way home, passing through the neighbourhood like a shadow. On the final stretch a car passes me. As it turns the corner up ahead I hear a sickening crunch. The car halts, but I can’t see what it’s hit. Only when I reach the corner do I see the motorbike wedged under the front bumper, and the rider wedged under the bike.

My reaction to this incident is exquisitely slow; for a long time I seem to be leaning over the man in the road, still holding a bag with a box of rice in it. Eventually the man lifts his helmet from the road, frees his leg from under the bike, and stands up cautiously. The driver is out of her car.

“Are you alright?” I say. The man doesn’t answer, but it’s clear he’s in considerable pain. He removes his left glove, stares down at his hand and winces. I let go of his thumb, put down my rice and bend over to lift up the bike, just to be of some help “I think it’s his hand,” I say to the driver.

She ignores me, and returns to her car to get her phone. It occurs to me that I am now fully invisible. But then the man holds out his damaged hand and says something to me that I can’t quite make out. He’s still got his helmet on. “What?” I say. “Pull my finger!” he says, pointing to his thumb.

“Really?” I say. “Pull it!” he says. I get the impression he wants me to help him re position his dislocated thumb. Well, I think to myself: you wanted to be involved. I grab his thumb. He yanks his arm away sharply, and cries out. “You know,” I say, “I’m not sure this is a good …” He yanks his arm back again.

I tug at his thumb, waiting for a crack that never comes. He pulls harder. I retaliate. It doesn’t feel as if I’m helping in any medical sense. It feels as if I’m trying to steal his watch. We carry on for a bit, until I decide I’ve done the man’s hand sufficient harm. I let go of his thumb, put down my rice and bend over to lift up the bike, just to be of some help.

But the man is now standing back and taking pictures of the scene, so I get out of his shot. I take a few pictures myself, just in case somebody wants a slightly different angle. A light drizzle begins to fall. The driver and the rider stand in the road, exchanging details under the light of a street lamp.

“OK, so I guess I’m gonna go,” I say, picking up my rice. Nobody looks my way. “If you need anything, I’m just …” “Thank you,” says the driver. I walk the 50 or so steps to my front door. Once inside I look at the clock: I have an hour before the youngest one arrives – time enough to figure out how to tell this story in a way that makes it sound like I played a part..