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pictures of toilets, of all things. I rang my mother who explained that dad had been in the habit of taking pictures of toilets he had used in the final years of his life. He had never explained why he had taken the snaps and kept stumm. The result was hundreds of photos of toilets and trees and rocks and other places where you might have a piss outdoors. It struck me that I knew him even less well than I thought, but I liked the pictures and the thought of him having taken photos of all the places he’d had a piss. It was just like him. My father, the toilet photographer. As a consequence of this, or as a consequence of the feeling all this created in me, or at least hopefully as a consequence of something or other which had to do with something, I packed my bag on what seemed to be a sudden impulse, and which still feels like that, and wandered into the forest. I left a note on the kitchen worktop in which I briefly explained that I had gone for a walk in the forest and didn’t know how long I would be gone but they shouldn’t expect me for dinner. That’s about six months ago now and I’ve only seen my wife a handful of times since then. She’s been up to the tent twice to have sex and to persuade me to go home, and even though I’ve promised her both times to do so, I haven’t. I say I’ll go but I don’t. I suppose, in a way, it’s close to a lie, but so what, it’s my life and I need to be in the forest for a while.
    My wife is concerned by what people think and believe, as she says. It doesn’t bother me any more. Nothing could bother me less than what people think. People can think what they like. In general I don’t like them anyway and seldom respect their opinions. I haven’t had any interest in our so-called friends for a long time. They pop by to see us and we them. It’s an eternal hassle with dinners and kids and weekend walking trips and rented houses in the summer. And of course I’ve always strung along and as a result in a despicable way been part and parcel of it. That must have made them think when I headed for the woods. Doppler, of all people, they must have thought. A good job, a nice family and a big house in the process of being tastefully redecorated; and what should I say to those who ask? my wife has said several times with desperation in her voice. Say what you want, I said. Say that I’ve become manically obsessed with flora and fauna, say that I’ve gone mad. Say what you want.
    I realise that my behaviour has been very trying for my wife and I’ve tried to explain that my little adventure has nothing to do with her. That’s difficult for her to believe, I’ve noticed. At the start she suspected I had something going with another woman, but she doesn’t think so any longer. Now, in a sense, she has resigned herself to the fact that I live in a tent even though she doesn’t understand why. In good times and bad, they said when we got married. The problem with this is, of course, that any one time can be good for one person and bad for the other.
    I’m pregnant, she then said, as we stood in front of the packet soup shelf in Norway’s biggest ICA supermarket.
    Crikey, I said. Again? We’ve barely had any sex since I moved out into the tent. As I said, it could only be a matter of two or three times. She came to see me at night and left again after a short session during which she could hardly be bothered to remove her outer clothing.
    Due in May, she said. And if you’re not back home by then you can forget the whole thing. Then it’s over. Got it?
    I hear what you’re saying, I said.
    And I’m sick of being on my own with the kids and not having your income any more, she said.
    I understand that, too, I said. But I don’t live in the forest for fun. I live in the forest because I have to be in the forest and you don’t have the wherewithal to understand that because you’ve never felt that you have to be in the forest. And you always function so well and I