Dying With My Children
By Colin Marks
Copyright 2011 Colin Marks
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Special thanks to Mark Mitchell for his fantastic editing, to Tanya Almeida and Allan Jardine for their support, and to Katherine for tolerating me. And finally, a big hug to Stan, my Cassandra.
I’m dying, and I’m content. My children are here with me.
I’ve never been much of a father. It was a role I neither sought or cherished. To me, my businesses were my children. I either gave birth to them or adopted them, I nurtured and cherished them, and had favourites that I’d spend more time with than others. Eventually most would triumphantly graduate from my tutelage though a minority would be discarded, cast out in shame to the orphanage. Businesses were my protégés: I was firm yet patient, demanding yet supportive. My children were tolerated inconveniences.
I’ve had my share of wives and certainly my collection of mistresses, both imposing their separate frustrations. The trophy wives effortlessly amass more diamonds than Amsterdam, whilst mistresses are great fun for a few months before they too turn into wives, proffering opinions and demands, becoming yet another tiresome matrimonial bosom. The one common interest the two do share is the desire to secure their finances by ‘expanding the family’. Unfortunately, both are far too fertile for a man of my age. I had my last son Jack when I was 65.