When I grow up...

Are you a grown up? I think I am, finally. I've had the accoutrements of being a grown up for many years: a husband, mortgage, career, child, stretch marks, a dislike of most of the Top 40 etc. But in my head I wasn't a grown up. I was always a bit frightened of what people thought about me and constantly sought approval. I often didn't dare do things.

This weekend I found out that I'm not like that any more. On Friday night I went to my high school reunion which involved meeting up with a whole load of people who I knew 20 years ago but who I was always a bit wary of because they were cool and popular and I wasn't. And do you know what? I was totally confident and able to talk to them. In fact, I have to say that I've weathered a lot better than all of the men and I'm looking pretty fit these days. I never felt hesitant or silly once all night. I never used to be like that. In fact, for many years towards the end of my marriage I used to get really uptight and tearful when meeting with close friends because I simply wasn't happy. Socialising with people I hadn't seen in two decades would have been inconceivable.

On Saturday I went to a family party and I spoke really easily to everyone there. Until recently I would have felt old and awkward talking to the under 20s and naive and awkward talking to the over 40s. Those in the middle? I'd just be awkward. But, I had a lovely evening and spoke to nearly everyone.

In the morning I read this article in The Times Style magazine where Emilia Fox was talking about after having a very difficult year she is now far more confident and the final words really chimed with me:

I’m wondering what the secret is — divorce? Therapy? Getting older? — when she hits it on the head. “Put simply, after all this, I care less about what people think of me these days. I think that’s the trick.”

And I think that's the trick I've learnt too. If people like me, good. If they don't, it's their loss.

Tonight I've been a true grown up: over the past week I stood my ground with my ex about not having a contentious divorce but instead taking the decent and non-corrosive option and having a consensual divorce. And do you know what? He not only agreed but we sat down and agreed every term of our separation agreement without any rancour or disagreement. In fact, it was a very good humoured process.

I think I'm going to steal the Times' words to sum up how I feel tonight: it’s odd how the shock of my marriage break down has made me much surer of myself. Maybe getting divorced, rather than getting married, is the ultimate in growing up.

Cosmic Ordering

Noel Edmonds cosmically ordered himself a career. 'Hello universe, I'm a rebarbative twat. Please can I have a box-orientated gameshow where I hang out with a total banker'. And lo....

There are websites that offer cosmic ordering but I reckon imiss1985 is just as valid a part of the cosmos as them and therefore for this post only I'm opening the blog as a cosmic ordering conduit. Feel free to order what you desire.

Rio's cosmic order for a boyfriend:

• age unimportant (as long as it falls within the 26-and-a-half to 28 years range)
• height unimportant (as long as over 6)
• education unimportant (as long as he's a post-grad, preferably with a degree in Physics - particularly quantum mechanics. Dig those clever science boys)
• music taste unimportant (as long as he's an indie boy who hates Westlife and Queen and understands that Coldplay are NOT indie and neither are Kaiser Chiefs - but must recognise that Duran Duran are gods)
• appearance unimportant (as long as he's fit, cute and has hair that falls in his eyes and requires flicking out a lot)
• Humour unimportant (as long as he understands the importance of punning at every available opportunity and laughs at this joke uproariously: 'what's brown and sticky?' a stick)
• Other: Must be willing to never live with me or take up too much of my actual time and be happy to take third place after my friends and gin.

Ok, phew. That's done. Just have to sit back and wait for him to be cosmically delivered.

Whilst I'm waiting why don't you pop your cosmic orders on the end and we'll cut down on delivery charges?

The Angel in the House

Throughout my late teens and twenties I would have fulminated against Coventry Patmore's poem 'The Angel in the House' as patriarchal sexist gobshite, particularly nonsense such as: Man must be pleased; but him to please/ Is woman's pleasure' My feminism was fairly scattergun, I used to copy huge tracts out of The Female Eunuch and Sexual Personae onto my school file. I was Millie Tant and I was proud.

However, these days I'm not an angry young woman any more. I'd still class myself as a feminist and I get a bit depressed about young women who totally reject the term feminism. I do hope that they know that they deserve equal pay for equal work and that it is more important to be valued for who you are than what you look like.

This weekend I might not have been an Angel in the House, but I have tried to be a good mother. And it's been immensely rewarding. On Saturday I took my son on the train to York and I gave him new experiences: we ate tapas in La Tasca and then went to the Jorvik Viking centre. I do advise my readers that the viking centre smells like a viking city - open latrines and leather tanning and all, and that eating a mound of patatas bravas and tortilla before visiting is somewhat foolhardy. On Sunday I cooked us a traditional Sunday lunch and then we went for a long walk around a lake. This weekend has been very different to recent activities as it didn't involve booze, dancing or bringing the wrong coat home. But it was really rewarding and I enjoyed it. Especially as my son said 'Mummy, I love spending time with you'.

I do believe that women are valuable people who deserve to be judged on far more than their housekeeping and parenting skills. But, sometimes, being a good Mum is its own reward.

Why Don't You Just Switch Off Your Television Set and Go and Do Something Less Boring Instead?

I'm sure some of you remember the irony of the BBC's summer holiday staple: 'Why don't you?' where the kids were told to switch off the TV and go out and try doing something less boring instead. Nowadays the corporation would be unable to broadcast that programme as between 6am and 7pm kids can watch wall-to-wall Cbeebies (with novelty disabled presenter) and CBBC. And, if I let him, my son would.

On Saturday I was awoken at 6am by my son yowling 'Mummy, I'm SICK' and proving his innate maleness by avoiding puking on the wipe-clean floorboards and instead covering my woven sea grass mat. Nice. I let him watch TV for a few hours whilst I checked his temperature (bucket ever to hand) and then decided he was fine. Therefore, I took him to the local museum where we had a great afternoon looking at fossils and doing interactive computer quizzes on the Romans.

In the evening he went to his Dad's and I met up with some Mums from his school. They had all generally been dealing with puke for the past 24 hours (and the one who hadn't yet switched her mobile to 'silent' so when her kid started chundering her partner couldn't call her home. Nice work). We had a great evening and then at eleven pm they returned to their families and I disappeared off into town with my pals. It was a bit of a random night in which we appeared to gatecrash someone else's birthday and then bumped into some blokes dressed as sheep. When one sheep gave me his fleece I thought it was time to get my coat and leave. So I did. (Without the sheep. In case you were wondering.).

In the morning when I awoke I was a little confused as to how my coat had changed fabric and colour overnight. Then I worked out (those 7 years of higher education were well worth it) that I had picked up someone else's coat and come home with it. I drove to town and tried to revisit the bar from the night before but it was totally locked up. I hung the impostor coat on the door and left.

On the way back to my car I wandered past 'Richer Sounds' and noticed a bit of a deal in the window - a TV which had been knocked down to a third of its original price. Now, my current TV is legendary amongst my friends. It was my baby sister's 18th birthday present in 1993, it has a tiny screen and you can't see what's happening on it when sitting on the sofa. 'Louise' once asked me whether it actually requires a TV licence. I've always liked it as it isn't imposing and takes up 0.5% of my house space compared to my books. But it is a little old. And it has a big dent in the side where my sister let a candle burn down on it. So, in 'Richer Sounds' I let a nice sales assistant talk me into buying a 32" flat screen LG LCD TV. And I even know what some of those initials mean. My old TV was not visible from across the room, this monster is visible from space.

Back home, I'm aware that now my son has even more impetus to watch more telly than is good for him. But I'm going to try to help him resist the urge. I've given up going online between the hours of 3pm and 7pm for Lent to spend more time with him. And it's lovely to spend time with a real person not just Facebook. So maybe I won't be able to get him to switch off the TV and go out and do something less boring instead, but I've banned myself from the internet during his time and it's lovely.

I just wish I could get my coat back.