Phillip thinks that I don't see his mother the way she really is. His view is that she is just madly loyal and as soon as the family includes me, she will change alliances, and if we should ever produce grand-children, I would see that in her eyes they were going to be the best in the world.
He thinks that her attitude is not untypical of people who were children after the Second World War, and had to grow up in a world which was in pieces, which was in Germany. It was her mother and her grand-mother who kept the surviving family together as the men were dead - they were carrying the recycled bricks from the rubble heeps to build shelters and new homes. They made sure that they were all starving equally and finally survived.

As a young girl Phillip's mother came to Austria, and when the economy finally recovered, she worked in a factory at the conveyor, before - like Phillip says - she started to climb socially, fucking herself into the middle-class by getting married to a member of the management, his father - after her first boyfriend had made her an office-girl and the second a secretary. No wonder her hopes were that he would fuck himself into big money.

All her life his mother had been haunted by the anxiety of being poor again one day, spending another cold winter in a lean-to. That's why she wanted to provide in time and keep the family together. What Phillip says makes sense, of course, there have been similar stories in my family after the war. But as I mentioned before, they are all dead now, and I am the only remaining person alive. So the only family I will ever have again will be Phillip's - that's why I will certainly give his mother a chance.

It's not that Phillip's parents are brutes as I might have given the impression, by all means, they are very cultivated, ordinary, middle-class people. They are just so proud of their gifted and successful son that they think only the very best is good enough for him. That this is his right and his destiny, and whoever interferes with their expectations does wrong and should be clever enough to notice that they should step away. Particularly his mother is quite a fanatic in this respect - she would walk over dead bodies to make sure that Phillip gets what he is destined for.

It seems to me that Phillip has never done much to keep his family from behaving in this way, because he has always profited from this system. They paid for his education, always provided him with enough money, supported him when this lewd Caribbean singer seduced him (they didn't support their child), they showed understanding for his needs to take women home as long as they didn't have the impression they were welcome to become part of the family. I am not sure if Phillip is not a little afraid of telling them he has made up his mind now - for fear that for the first time in his life he might fall from grace.

Towards me they behaved like always: civil, communicative, but rather distant - they spoke of their son's merits and his potential, that they were convinced that he could go far (if not hindered by obstacles like me who threw themselves into his path of glory). They didn't say that, of course, they just tried to give me the impression that I should not be so selfish and endanger their son's success. They didn't say this time that it was important for his future to marry into the right family, as they did before - they are not that tasteless and unmannered. It's just that they have to say good-bye to their greatest dream, the quintessential middle-class mother's desire: that Phillip gets married to a pretty upper-class girl, and with this into money, influence and the tabloid newspapers.

So they know now and hope they can make it to our place at Christmas because they usually have other commitments on that day. This at least gives them room to decide how they want to behave towards us. Phillip thinks that his mother will change as soon as she is faced with realities - but this may just be true towards him, and not me.

The dreaded day has arrived - we're driving over to Phillip's parents today to tell them we're going to get married at Christmas. I am prepared for the worst and ready to face shock and disappointment. They had so high hopes for their son - someone from a good family, someone to be proud of - not this limping 40-year-old school teacher with the reputation of being everything else than a virgin. Keep your fingers crossed that their unfriendly stares do not depress me so much that I say something too terribly out of place.

"Have a hot night with Phillip", is the last sentence of a very nice message from a good online friend, and this we certainly will do after all our work is done. Phillip is typing downstairs as the Monday edition does not allow any delay - the Pope is visiting our country and this means that there is a lot of work for all the newspapers to be done.

But we will have sex, as we did last night, and as we will tomorrow. And I enjoy it immensely. He knows what I need, and he can give me so much - he handles all my controls so expertly that there is nothing he could do better.

And yet I wonder - how long can it go on like that? Forever? When we are married. When we do it for the thousandth time - or the five thousandth? Will I still tremble? Will I still shout? Will there be no routine ever?

Maybe the solution really is that we are adventurous together - the way I used to be until recently. So that we are excited by new experiences, and new desires, and new pleasures. Take the lead, Phillip, and I will follow you wherever you steer.

I mentioned the young woman who had made room for me at the photocopier some days ago; she had started to teach at the beginning of this school year, four weeks ago. I soon found out that her name is Irmgard, and she was teaching English and German like me, 25 years old, pretty, lively and with very good ideas.

When I limped back to school on Thursday, I was told that Irmgard had been to the principal to tell him that she would quit her job immediately, because she was not up to it and couldn't go on. She had had a lesson the week before which she had to improvise due to a postponement of a special course, and it had been a disaster and the students had reacted unpleasantly; in consequence she had become ill and felt too bad to leave the house. Now she's gone - the few books I lent her were on my desk - without a personal note.

How could something like this happen? After years of training. And she had had another teaching job before this one. Such a young, winning person with so much potential, and who is so attractive. What happened to her in our school? How was she welcomed? How was she treated? How did I treat her? Did I fail her in any way? Could I have done anything for her, but hadn't noticed?

Or is she just too sensitive for the profession? And how insensitive are we, who have been toiling on for a dozen years?

"The start of my day was a sad one when I heard of the death of Pavarotti. To me his voice had no equal", was the beginning of the message of a very good friend today - and I have to agree: he was a wonderful singer, and I have a number of his records. Unfortunataly I have never heard him live, but to hear him sing with the two other famous tenors was really a great pleasure: they are and will remain my favourite boy group.

I traveled to school with quite a good feeling today, because staying at home with my bandaged feet and too much time on my hands had started to get on my nerves. Because the school secretary had written on the message board that I was absent because of an accident, everyone showed a lot of interest and wanted to know how I was. I quite enjoyed the public interest, I must admit.

But I must have been quite a sight for them, as I was wearing a pair of orthopedic shoes with high shafts reinforced with some steel inserts - fairly heavy gear for my tender feet. They do not look unlike some basketball boots, and some guys wear them for fun, but on me they look like pure disaster. And I had a limp like a very old bird - a two-feeted one which looks more than only awkward. When they looked at me so critically, I thought for a moment that one should also have a right to stay away from work for aesthetic reasons: thou shalt not work when thou look so impossible.

Phillip came home from his business trip to Klagenfurt after eight last night, and I had waited with dinner, which I had prepared before and could warm up in minutes: some light courgette dish with cheese, which I did in the oven and which tastes very nice. I usually have the vegetables delivered by a local organic farmer whose son used to be my student years ago, and he was not easy by all means.

I could have kept what had happened between Helene and me a secret, I know. But I had decided I didn't want to. And I was not sure if Phillip didn't have a similar story to tell - I just know him too well, and after all we agreed that such escapades should not interfere with our deep feelings for each other. Ours was a relationship which was way above mere physical experiences of lust, wasn't it? (I still have to get used to this, I admit, although I know it makes sense). As it proved, Phillip had nothing to tell this time. (Will I ever get rid of my obscure premonitions? I am so inconsequent, you're right).

Phillip thought my story was very sexy, arousing actually, and he wanted to know everything, like for example if I had felt her tongue the same way like his - and he insisted on me feeling his then and there - and I thought I felt his so much better. But there was also some pleasant anticipation involved, because I knew what would follow and what Helene could never provide: being fucked with his wonderful, wonderful cock.

That one day I would ask Helene over when he was in, and then we could have a threesome is something I did not want to promise - in spite of the libidinous glow in his eyes. Or maybe because of it.

As I said I would answer all questions, I will also answer this one: How did Helene taste? First I must say that I have not much expertise concerning female tastes. Any guy who has come around a little might know many more varieties - in case he isn't usually so horny that he does not notice anything besides himself.

I know my taste (slightly salty like the sea, I love to say). I know Maria's: very womanly, slightly musky, I kown Tanja's: not unlike mine. I certainly remember Traudl, the Elf's: a wonderful taste like milk and honey, something to which one might become addicted, and I am glad we don't meet anymore - I couldn't guarantee for anything.

Now Helene's: her taste is sweet, with no discernible trace of saltiness, which surprised me. Like a wonderful dessert, lovely and pleasant. At least that is what my tongue reported to my brain - maybe I ought to ask her husband one of these days to compare taste bud impressions. If he can still remember, that is - if I believe what Helene told me.

How do you taste, folks?

I had first planned to write a second blog last night, just after it had happened, but after all the wine I had drunk all evening when I was alone again, I couldn't really. There are some headaches left this morning - but I have to start work because I'll go back to school tomorrow, in spite of my limping. Part of my headaches might stem from yesterday's developments which I had not expected, and during which I have shown little decisiveness or moral strength, but just let myself be overcome by the Sister Hyde side singlemindedness of my personality.

When yesterday afternoon the clouds covered the sky and the air started to smell wintry, Helene and I took our towels and went inside. We put on some fluffy bathrobes and had a drink. It was there in my living-room when Helene started to talk about the day when we had almost sex on the lawn on that very hot day, but only touched and snuggled for some time, and she said she hadn't been able to forget it and thought of it almost daily. And that she thought she had failed, and missed an experience she was very sorry to have missed, and if I ....

My regular readers know that I am only human - and that I have a side that gladly takes over from me in such an impossible situation - so we soon found ourselves on the bed in my study, in each other's arms; I felt her wet kisses everywhere, and her hands, and then her tongue in me - and she did well. And when we changed positions, and I buried my face in her ample bush, I found her streaming wet, and when she felt my tongue on her, she moaned and wiggled, and I had to ask for a time-out to put my glasses away so that her thighs didn't squash them. And then she came with a big moan, and she clung to me like a fearful child and cried and cried - loud first and almost desperate, before she became gradually quiet, but for the whole time she never let me go for a second.

I held her, too, and even gently rocked her at times, and all kinds of thoughts swirled through my mind: about Phillip, who will be back tonight, about myself and what and who I am, about my neighbour Helene and our impossible relationship. And if there would really be snow on the mountains already in early September.

A look out of my window this morning shows there is.

The forecast for tomorrow is only 12°C, and snowfall in regions above 1000 meters, which is on the mountains I can see from my study. But today is sunny and still fairly warm, so I told Helene to come over for a swim in the afternoon - it might be for the last time soon because I will have to close down the pool in about three weeks and turn the heating on. Summer, my favourite season, definitely draws to a end.

Phillip is away for two days, on business in Klagenfurt, and Angelika is with a friend of hers, and I am still immobile. And Helene seemed quite eager to come; little Oliver is at school until five, so we needn't have an eye on him all the time. I wonder what's the news about her marriage - I will certainly not say too much about Phillip and me in order to keep this whistful expression from her face which she invariably puts on when I do.

So I'll do a few texts this morning - it always takes a lot of energy to start reading and correcting them, but I can't leave them on my desk any longer. But the longer I teach, the more I hate this kind of tedious work.