I had been Head of Procurement for eleven years when I first let down.
We were discussing printer contracts. A supplier had described a modest reduction in our per-page costs as a journey, and I was preparing to ask him where he thought we were going.
Then I felt the damp.
Initially, I assumed I had leaned against something. This was difficult to establish discreetly while seated at the head of a table, but I made several small adjustments.
By the time we reached maintenance agreements, I had folded my arms.
I kept them folded through lunch.
My wife knew immediately.
‘You’re lactating.’
She said it with the restrained satisfaction of someone who had been asking me to book a check-up since June.
‘I think it’s the new shirts.’
‘Both sides?’
I looked down.
There are occasions in a marriage when further discussion simply gives your spouse more material.
She fetched a towel.
The GP was reassuring. He asked when it had started, whether there was any discomfort, and how I felt about being needed.
I said I managed a team of fourteen.
He waited.
I explained that several of them still required help booking annual leave.
He made a note, although I sensed I had answered a different question.
The referral letter described me as ‘coming into provision’. I disliked this. It sounded like something that should have been raised during pension planning.
My wife put it on the fridge.
At the specialist clinic, I was given a leaflet showing a relaxed man in a pale linen shirt.
This struck me as irresponsible.
The consultant explained that experiences varied. Some men produced only a little, seasonally. Others found themselves responding to emotional cues: a grandchild’s voice, an old school photograph, someone struggling with a fitted sheet.
‘Have you noticed any particular triggers?’
I mentioned that it had happened while watching The Repair Shop.
‘Before or after the reveal?’
‘Before. They’d only just brought the chair in.’
He turned to a fresh page.
Managing the practical side was straightforward enough. Darker shirts. Spare vests. A brief conversation with HR during which we both looked at the same unoccupied corner of the room.
What I hadn’t expected was the hurt.
Nobody wanted any.
I appreciate how that sounds. I had not imagined the family gathering around with mugs. Nevertheless, when you discover you have something to offer, it is natural to hope someone might need it.
One Thursday, my wife came home carrying two pints of semi-skimmed.
She knew I had been in all afternoon.
‘I didn’t think,’ she said.
‘That’s rather the point.’
We ate dinner quietly.
Later, she explained that she was allowed to buy milk without it becoming a comment on our marriage.
Of course she was.
I simply wished she had checked the fridge.
My opportunity came at work.
We had run out during a difficult afternoon, and the person whose turn it was to go to the shop had joined a call with Singapore.
I stood up.
‘I might be able to help.’
There was a silence. Then Denise from Accounts said she’d try anything once, which was generous, although I would have preferred a little less adventure in her tone.
I withdrew to the kitchenette.
For a few minutes, I felt useful in a way no procurement saving had ever quite achieved.
Then someone asked whether I was oat.
I explained that I wasn’t.
‘Just checking,’ he said. ‘You do a lot of walking.’
Denise took hers without sugar.
‘Lovely,’ she said.
I have negotiated contracts worth several million pounds. I remember very few of the people who thanked me.
I contribute occasionally now. Nothing formal.
There was a suggestion that I should appear on the kitchen rota, but HR felt this risked creating an expectation. I was grateful. I had already begun worrying about bank holidays.
At home, things have settled.
My wife still buys milk. Sometimes we need it. Sometimes I’m away.
Last Saturday, she brought me a cup of tea in the garden.
I took a sip.
‘Is this—?’
She nodded.
We sat for a while in the sunshine.
‘Good body,’ she said.
I chose to take it personally.