I miss 1985

Smell the flowers while you can

2009-10-26T09:14:00.002Z

I take certain things for granted. That as soon as term ends I'll be on a plane to somewhere warmer; that I cannot ever tell what mood year 11 will be in; that when I go to sleep, that I will wake up.

However, on Friday night one of my friends went to sleep and she will never wake up. Aged just 38, with a little baby and a young son she just died in her sleep. She wasn't ill, there was no warning. It is utterly confusing. Her Facebook page is filling up with shocked eulogies saying what an amazing person she was. And she was.

It's at times like this that you take stock. You kiss your child fiercely. You look at old photos. And you look forward. On Saturday I met my ex husband's girlfriend and I was really friendly to her. I bear her no grudges and I have to admit she did me a favour. Maybe a year ago that first meeting would have been more fraught but now I know that life is going on for all of us. And, for me, life is far better now I am single. Today, I am going to smell the flowers whilst I can.

This song is a eulogy for Julie. Bless you.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xnXQS6oetQk&feature=fvst

History is not over

2009-10-12T21:36:00.002+01:00

Hello, remember me? Single mother. Obsessive. Spends inordinate amounts of time online. Used to have a husband, now has an ex-husband and a boyfriend. Nice to see you again.

I was prompted into action by anonymous who asked, perfectly reasonably, whether this blog had ended. Mainly, I suspect, because I haven't written anything for nearly 6 weeks. I'm hoping the answer to that question is no, because I am immensely fond of this blog and like showing off. There are many reasons why I haven't written much recently: I have been busy with an actual human being on many evenings when otherwise I would be home alone loafing about the net, I have had a promotion at work and have been doing actual work, I had the dreaded school inspectors in a couple of weeks ago and I got an iPhone. Now that I have my iPhone I have very little reason to ever fire up my laptop as I can satiate my net addiction with virtually no effort and that gorgeous slidy interface makes typing seem, well, clunky.

But I think there's another reason that I haven't been blogging. And it's that I have something precious with my boyfriend that I worry about analysing. I don't really want him to see our relationship held up to the internet's light and checked for holes and stains. I enjoy the sense of being a new person with him and try not to allow to much of my previous life to sully that. I learnt the hard way with my ex about the dangers of being too upfront about one's past. I think the 'more than Princess Diana, fewer than Madonna' answer is the way to go. Forever my ex was haunted by the spectres of other men who, in his perception, I compared him to. I didn't. Well, not much. Ok, not every day. All right, I did.

And I do compare my new boyfriend to my ex. There are some similarities: I think people have a type, even if it's unconscious. For example, the first time we woke up together I had a jolt when I looked across and saw my ex-husband's tattoo - they both have the same football club tattooed in the same way on the same shoulder. There are differences: my boyfriend is taller than me and, whilst I didn't acknowledge it, I was self-conscious about being taller than my ex-husband. My boyfriend is part of a huge group of friends and my ex wasn't (this should have been a warning sign...) My boyfriend and I are about the same level of personal attractiveness and according to psychologists this is an important factor in human attraction. Finally, this time I've met someone secure and well-balanced and uncomplicated. And when you've got that you don't want to complicate matters by bleating on about it online.

Whoops, too late.

Honesty and Policy

2009-09-02T21:10:00.002+01:00

Hello dear readers, you may have felt it possible that I fell off the edge of the planet over the past month and that is why silence has reigned but the simple reason was I fell in love.

Now, at some point in early July I kept remembering Dorothy Parker's words: 'I shudder at the sight of men / I'm sure to fall in love again'. This is exactly what happened to me. I decided to remain a little crystalline single girl and then I went on a date and he kissed me. And at that moment I knew the game was up and I'd fall for him harder than one of those Sudoku quiz thingies on the back of the Guardian.

I am, quite simply, perfectly happy at the moment.

And so now I hit the quandary. I'm really proud of this blog and my writing. But there's darkness here and echoes of how hard the road had been over the past 18 months. I don't want anything to sully just how wonderful it is to be a semi-new person with a wholly new person. Half of me wants to tell him the address of this blog so he can hear my inner voice and experience this part of me and the other, selfish, part wants to keep it private so that none of the darkness here seeps out and stains my beautiful glowing present. I think of my soul as predominantly my writing voice so keeping it hidden seems somehow mendacious. And I'm an honest and upfront and upright person.

Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams.

A poem what I wrote

2009-08-03T20:28:00.003+01:00

Escalator, without dog

Everywhere there are too many
rules.
Dogs must be carried on the escalator.
But what,
I think,
Do I do?
I don't have a dog:
Must I use the stairs?

You must not chew or
spit or heavy pet
Divebombing is out
Luggage must be attended.
No entry. No U-turns.
This way only.

And then there are the other rules -
Unsigned, unlaminated
But coldly enforced.
Not too fast, not yet
Not on the first date.
Not if she's older
Not if he's younger
Be careful, be prudent
Wait a month at least.

Well I don't have a dog to carry on the escalator.
Unleashed
I choose my own rules
My own timescales

And, to be honest,
Fate rules me

First the promotion, now....

2009-07-26T09:28:00.003+01:00

Ok, I've discovered that saying you don't want a promotion and that being single is perfect with you will result in two things: getting your perfect job and meeting a lovely boy. I am, I think, in the process of becoming un-single, even though it's only been a week. The reason I think this is that I'm writing poems again.

Wikipedia needs to redefine 'romance'

Romance is not this:
a smouldering glance
a smoochy dance
Not even a meeting by chance
It certainly lies not in
frantical removal of pants

It is truly this:
two snatched kisses from
a boy delivering cola bottles
to a girl dressed in hot pants

Sometimes suddenly in summer...

2009-07-23T14:55:00.003+01:00

The sun shines and even the rain isn't such a problem.
You sit and talk and talk and talk until the early hours of the morning.
There's a smile on your lips and a faraway look in your eyes.
Songs have far greater significance and you listen to the same album endlessly.
02 are going to be very happy about your mobile bill.
You delete pointless numbers from your handset.
Someone kisses you the way you kiss them.

Sometimes suddenly in summer.

Dresses and Successes

2009-07-05T22:36:00.003+01:00

Bare legs used to frighten me. I was always a girl who wore tights or trousers. But this week the ridiculous temperatures in my classroom lured me into a linen dress and wedge sandals. And, man, what a reaction. I must have been told by about 25 people that I looked lovely in the dress; my favourite comments being 'Miss, you look hot' from a Sixth form girl to the female head of HR at work pointing out that if she had legs like mine she'd show them off too. It was immensely gratifying and enjoyable. On Friday my ex hesitantly asked if he could comment that I looked pretty these days. Well, of course. All people would rather be told that they look good, wouldn't they?

This dress book-ended a bit of suit wearing on Wednesday. I had an interview for a promotion for a job at work. After saying a few weeks ago that I'd decided not to chase promotion my perfect job came up and I was persuaded to apply for it. And, you know what? I got it too. The feedback from my interview made me glow with pride. From September I'll be Queenie and I'm looking forward to it.

Over this weekend my actual baby sister and our adopted baby sister came to visit me. I wore a hot dress on the night out and was amazingly successful as I did all the things I set out to do. Have a girlie night. Do a Cinderella and stop drinking by midnight. And I managed it all. I had a really wonderful night.

And finally, today I went across to Manchester to act as god-mother to my friend's baby. I managed to be early for the service (thanking heaven for sat nav) and having a lovely, lovely time with her friends and family at the party afterwards. It was a total honour to be asked to be god-mother and to be part of their day.

So, this past week has been a total high. I've had success after success and most of them have been achieved wearing a cute dress. I do believe that you have to change: whether it's as simple as being bare-legged in a summer dress or as major as having a big career change. This week will apparently also be warm. More dresses? Hell yeah. More successes? I can but hope.

Like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind

2009-06-29T20:47:00.010+01:00

Like a circle in a spiral

Like a wheel within a wheel

Never ending or beginning

On an ever-spinning reel

As the images unwind

Like the circles that you find

In the windmills of your mind

I might not have been tilting at windmills this weekend but I have to admit to an outbreak of windmills in my mind. Whilst there is certainly progression and I've really moved on in a number of ways I still find myself repeating certain patterns endlessly.

The first 'wheel within a wheel' was that I ended up at Debehams buying underwear again this weekend rather like I did in this post from last year. This year I had to get a new bra because Paul McKenna has done a rather good job of making me thin and as my 36FF assets are now 34E assets I need new lingerie. True to form I handed over a Debenhams gift card that didn't work. And I thought, I've been right here before. There were some very familiar bleeping noises emanating from the till and a whole lot of card-rubbing-on-tops-by-sales-assistants. However, this time Debenhams recognised it was their fault and allowed me to buy the bra.

The final repeating pattern is that my ex has got back with and then split up with his girlfriend again. Which has led him to telling me that he misses me a lot. I might repeat the same patterns, mistakes and fashion choices many times. But there's one person I'll never repeat my mistakes with. And that's my ex.

Innocence and Experience

2009-06-21T10:01:00.003+01:00

I'm trying to learn not to under-estimate and I haven't under-estimated how difficult that can be.

Yesterday I took my six-year-old son to see 'His Dark Materials' Part 1 at our local theatre. If you've never read Philip Pullman's trilogy you have denied yourself of a wonderful and potentially life-changing experience. In short, Pullman has rewritten Milton's 'Paradise Lost' with a modern many-worlds slant. It is utter brilliance and all about whether you should choose to Fall: to choose experience over innocence. The consumer information was that the play was suitable for 11 and over. So I felt a little concerned when I took a six-year-old. However, he sat in rapt attention for the whole of the matinee performance. Then I asked him whether he wanted to wait for the evening performance of Part 2 so he could see how it finished? This would mean a further three hours (on top of three hours of matinee). The worst part being that it was the last night of the run, the performance was fully sold out and we'd have to wait until 7pm (his bedtime) before finding out whether we'd get seats. He told me, quite simply, 'what's the point in only seeing half of it?' and I had to concur. We queued, we got tickets, we sat through a wonderful play and I left feeling that I was proud that I hadn't under-estimated my son.

Right now I'm trying not to under-estimate myself too. After years of not applying for promotions at work I applied for one this week. I have had real issues about my motivation for doing this and if it is merely vanity as I've had quite a few senior management check whether I've applied, and they've told me that I'd be perfect for it. However, I'm not sure I am. I'm quite chaotic and no matter how many times people tell me that organisation is just a matter of writing lists and then crossing things off, I've been on this planet long enough to know that I'm the sort of person who forgets to write the list or loses it five minutes after writing it. The worst part is I think the other candidate is amazing and that they'll give her the job and I don't want to cope with the rejection. I've had enough rejection recently and I don't desire any more. I'd rather not try than fail.

But, I'm pretty far away from innocence these days and my path over the past year has been one of experience. Maybe I ought to learn the lessons of the past and try not to under-estimate myself.

Guiltless secrets

2009-05-11T22:58:00.004+01:00

There are things that people don't admit to. I guess I shouldn't admit that when I'm peckish I pour a blob of brown sauce onto my hand and lick it off (or mayo or thousand island dressing). I ought not to admit that I spent the entire of my son's bedtime story tonight sniggering because it's 'The Faraway Tree' and in just one chapter there was Dick, Fanny and the queer folk of the Enchanted Forest.

Other things people that people might not admit to include the fact that I've totally decided that I'm not going to go for any sort of promotion in the foreseeable future. There are better jobs elsewhere and the potential for higher remuneration in my current organisation but I don't want to do more work. In fact, I'd rather do less work. It feels a bit maverick to admit that you don't want to move up the greasy pole as I think most people are expected to try to develop their career. But I don't want to.

The really guiltless secret is that I've decided that I want to remain single. I think I've realised that I'm a bit of a cranky lone wolf and I like things done my way. Over the past few weeks I've been revelling in my OCD and have done things like ensuring all the hangers in my wardrobe are black plastic. Tonight I went to Ikea and bought furniture so I can sort my room out and make it 100% clutter-free. Whilst my ex lived here the clutter was of Steptoe-esque proportions and I revel now in the complete emptiness of my house. Last night I was online at midnight tracking down a jewellery tree just so I can organise all my necklaces.

Obviously having come to the decision that I want to remain single has one major ramification. Ever since I decided that I don't want to play with boys I've had the opportunity to pull more than a barmaid at Oktoberfest. On Friday alone a doctor or dentist or something added me as a favourite on Guardian Soulmates. Then in town I got chatted up by J who was the world's shortest but funniest man. Shortly after a right fit man decided, somewhat randomly, that I was the girl to recreate that Uma Thurman / John Travolta 'Pulp Fiction' dance with. Finally, in a club 6 foot 5 of amazing dark handsomeness took a shine to me and I told my friend (for I was wholly shitfaced) that 'sometimes it's all about the ones you turn down'. And you know what, I resisted temptation ALL evening. I didn't want to kiss randoms so I didn't. I just stayed out with my friends and danced and enjoyed myself.

Now, it might be a bit odd to want to be single, but it's working for me.

How I love now

2009-04-30T19:53:00.008+01:00

There's a poem that I haven't taught for three years that I had to teach today. Last time I taught it I was with my husband and I didn't really understand it. Today, I do.

Love After Love

The time will come

when, with elation

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror

and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

Derek Walcott

My class didn't understand it and for one dangerous moment I felt the tears dancing behind my eyes as I read it. Because this poem speaks volumes about who I am these days and how I live now. This blog is over a year old but the original posts - the first steps towards catharsis - date from this time last year. At that time there were suggestions from my ex that he might want to come back and I was very confused. I would never have believed the prophesy that 'The time will come' that I would feel at one with myself. That this would feel like my house, and mine alone, with no ghosts hovering.

I wouldn't have known that I can 'love again the stranger who was your self'. I've changed so dramatically in that one year: I'm confident, I'm a lot more attractive and, heck, I'm sexier too. Metaphorically and physically I've taken 'down the love letters from the bookshelf, / the photographs, the desperate notes'. I've thrown it all out. It doesn't clutter my home, my life or my psyche.

If you are someone who is on the first steps towards experiencing love after love, or if you are faltering on your path, I can tell you that this poem is full of truth and power. You will 'give your heart back to itself'.

Sit. Feast on YOUR life x

In Amalfi with no Pradas

2009-04-12T20:32:00.006+01:00

When I was a student my favourite film adaptation was 'A Room with a View' and my favourite chapter title was 'In Santa Croce with no Baedeker'. In the chapter Lucy loses her chaperone, Miss Bartlett, and ends up in the cathedral, Santa Croce without a guidebook to advise her which are the very important Giotto frescoes and which are not. There she has the start of an unsuitable romantic encounter.

E.M Forster's description of the foibles of Edwardian travellers in Italy has crept into my mind a few times over the past week as I am in Italy too. I'm not in Florence but in Sorrento. However, I'd love Forster's archness when writing about British tourists here. They are all discernible by their dress: why is it that as soon as a Briton leaves the country they believe that they need to wear khaki trousers with a multitude of pockets and ugly walking shoes? Just to walk round a city? And why must their handbag be traded for a rucksack and a litre of water in one hand? The rebellious part of me has chosen a gorgeous and impractical blue Italian handbag for the daytime and I've been wearing cute sparkly sandals and proper clothes. Do I look Italian? No. Do I look like I should be on safari rather than walking down a shopping street? I sincerely hope not.

But travelling in Italy is sometimes quite like becoming single again. There are a lot of reverses and alterations which you just have to deal with. One day we set off to visit Amalfi and instead visited Positano and then came back. Yesterday, we planned to visit Amalfi but there were 300 people queuing for a bus that carried 67 so we wandered Sorrento and sunbathed instead. Today we planned to visit the Archeological Museum of Naples but when we got to the station all the trains were cancelled so we ended going up to Amalfi finally. Due to the notorious nature of Naples we had emptied our bags of mobiles, cameras, credit cards and cash and were only carrying the bare minimum. However, our diversion to Amalfi meant I turned up in one of the most chic locations on earth wearing 5 euro sunglasses rather than my beautiful, and thoroughly cherished, Prada sunglasses (I'm not telling you what they cost - suffice to say BOTH of my last cars were traded in for a substantially lower sum...). I'd pictured myself wandering around Amalfi in my fit black dress, sparkly sandals, gorgeous handbag and Pradas. But that was not to be. However, I have to say that life is what you make it and I completely loved the town even if I was in Amalfi with no Pradas, which is just a modern version of being in Santa Croce with no Baedeker.

When I grow up...

2009-03-23T22:06:00.005Z

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

2009-03-11T21:43:00.007Z

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

2009-03-09T20:01:00.005Z

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?

2009-03-02T20:49:00.003Z

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.

Hair today

2009-02-20T11:11:00.011Z

I am currently in the Algarve reading lots of books (in four days I've finished that Lionel Shriver book, read 'The Suspicions of Mr Whicher' by Kate Summerscale, 'Saturday' by Ian McEwan and now am revelling in a guilty pleasure: 'Child of the Phoenix' by Barbara Erskine). Holidays are about letting go the hurly-burly of life and living at a more enjoyable pace. However, I found myself thoroughly frustrated this morning by having to follow a pointless and time-consuming noughtie ritual. To set the scene: the Algarve is a pleasant 17 degrees but it is humid. I have naturally curly hair. These two facts of nature result in my hair going frizzy the second I set down at Faro airport. If I had any sense I would tie my hair up in a bobble and leave it festering in its own juices until I get back to the UK. But do I do that? Heck, no. I spend about 40 minutes cack-handedly clawing at my hair with my straighteners to try to achieve a straight look. It's ridiculous.

To horrifically misquote 'Twelfth Night': 'some are born straight, some achieve straightness and some have straightness thrust upon them'. I am firmly one of those whose straightness was thrust upon them. Until October last year I resolutely wore my curls with pride and refused to give into the Cult of the Ghd. Then, in Portugal, my hair was 'restyled' (savaged) by a hairdresser and the resulting mess of layers and fringe had to be straightened (unless I wanted to look like a Norman page). I've got used to having straight(ish) hair. My friends take pity on my hopelessness with straighteners on nights out and sort out the back - as I belong to a select group of women who believe that it only matters what the front of your hair looks like, as I can't see the back I believe that neither can anyone else. There are usually some disparaging comments about my Remington irons as I ought to have Ghds. But I just can't bring myself to pay £100 for something that effectively just burns my hair.

Looking back at 1985, the year this blog harks back to but rarely mentions, everyone had huge frizzy perms. Except me. Back then I had sleek, straight hair naturally. I was out of the times then as I am now. Part of me keeps wanting to give up and return to my curly mop. But now I'm one of the straightened crew I don't think I dare.

Practical Parenting

2009-02-14T20:36:00.003Z

Recently I've been wondering whether I'm actually a bit of a crap mother. I'd like to think I'm a good Mum and when I asked my son today what he liked about me I was rewarded with an honest appraisal of my parental fitness: 'you let me have Quality Streets'. Well, that's me mother of the year then. Ironically, the said Quality Streets were given to me by a student as a Christmas present and are in one of those paper cartons. Well, we've had them for virtually two months now and they are still only half eaten so clearly I don't even let my son have many Quality Streets.

This blog stems from me trying to work out this morning how many units of alcohol I consumed on a night out on Friday. The honest answer? I honestly don't know. I guessed the total numbers of glasses of wine, gin, cocktails, sambucca and tequila shots and, using the Drinkaware website, got to the staggering (pun completely intentional) total of 13.5 units and 795 calories. Ouch. Thankfully for me I don't get hangovers but I knew I wasn't fit to drive all day so I couldn't take my son out in the car. I did take him to the cinema to watch a Disney film but I kept nodding off.

Now, I'm aware that the perfect 1950s housewife was a mirage. Hand on heart I never planned to be a single mum: I was certain when I got pregnant that I was going to be with my husband forever. I also didn't plan to work fulltime when I had him, but circumstances pushed me into having a fulltime job. If you search the net for statistics on single parents you will find that a quarter of all children of lone parents live in poverty, that they are three times more likely to suffer emotional problems than children who have two parents living with them and every other statistic is bleak: likelihood to end up committing crime or suicide. It makes me feel really guilty that my son's potential has been damaged by my ex's choice to leave. But, on the other hand, I enjoy my freedom and am far happier. So, do I enjoy myself at my son's expense? Sometimes, yes. Usually, no. I'm not a perfect Mum, if such a person even exists, but I found these words on the BBC website to be very reassuring:

Jane Ahrends, from One Parent Families, said while single parents might face poverty, the image of them as "young, feckless women who deliberately get pregnant" was wrong.
"The vast majority of lone parents are ordinary working mums and dads in their 30s and 40s, who are just trying to do their best in circumstances they didn't choose," she said.

Sometimes I do get the balance wrong: but tonight my son and I had Dominos pizza in front of 'You've been Framed' and laughed our socks off. Ok, so it wasn't mung beans and dolphin friendly tuna steaks followed by an improving game of charades but we had a great time.

I need to remember that I'm a single Mum, not single.

Deconstructing texts

2009-02-09T23:08:00.004Z

For much of my life I have deconstructed texts: as an English student, then a History student, then a Law student, then an English teacher I have spent much of my adult life trying to glean the significance of texts or discussing the implicit meaning in a text. For many of those years texts were limited to novels and plays and poems and happy hours were spent deciding whether a post-feminist slant could be applied to the works of Emily Dickinson. Or not. On one drunken occasion in about 1990 we analysed the tundric nature of the metaphors in 'Ice Ice Baby' by Vanilla Ice (largely due to this line: 'Take heed, cause I'm a lyrical poet'). We were being consciously arch and clever. Course we were. But isn't that what the study of English literature is about?

However, little did I realise in the post-University world that the implicit meaning of texts would gain a whole new and totally absorbing significance. The texts which take me so much time to analyse are not canonical works of literature. No longer do I worry whether I am getting Shakespeare or Byron or Hardy. No, now the texts I worry about are the SMS version that I receive on my mobile phone. Or more to the point, the ones I don't receive on my mobile phone. Many of the single women I know live under the absolute tyranny of their mobile phone and conscious minute counting as to when the bloke that they fancy is going to return their message. I know I do. Your mobile is fished out of your bag every 20 minutes to check for a little yellow envelope on the screen. Your heart actually thuds at that beep-beep noise. If he doesn't text you back the same day you get all paranoid. You question how soon you should text him back and whether responding immediately makes you look too eager or desperate or slutty or needy. And then when it is sent you've set off that whole rota fortunae of waiting for him to respond again. It is wearisome. It is truly tyranny.

So when did he last text? 23:14 on 04/02/2009. It's not looking good is it?

How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world/That has such people in't!

The ice age

2009-02-07T11:37:00.003Z

If you are British and reading this blog I warrant that you are wearing a jumper. It's parky outside. The snow has given we Britons something to talk about constantly for a week: whether to discuss has it snowed? / will it snow? / is the school shut? / is school opening tomorrow? / have they gritted? / why can't we cope with two inches of snow? It's brilliant. Being the Mum of a six year old I have had a fantastic opportunity to go sledging and snowball throwing. I've thoroughly enjoyed it.

The reason I'm enjoying it is that I'm now a constantly sunny person, irrespective of what the weather brings. On the other hand, my ex is really not in such a good place. Apparently, he and his girlfriend have finally split up for good. This led to him telling me that he wasn't going to try to get back with me. I was quite taken aback as I honestly couldn't imagine any world where we would ever be a couple again and even the suggestion seems utterly bizarre. As Heraclitus of Ephesus put so succinctly: 'everything flows and nothing abides'. Just as this snow and ice seems so permanent now in a few short days we will be back to rain and ice-free pavements. Everything flows and I couldn't go back to my ex: I'm not the same person, that period of my life is now as much history to me as the last ice age. As someone with a medieval history degree I understand the value of acknowledging history, but whilst I might be fascinated by the Black Death of 1346, I wouldn't like to experience it. My marriage is now frozen in the past for me and when the sun shines on me it is as a single and happy person.

The post-birth world

2009-02-01T10:59:00.005Z

I've been reading a book for months that I don't much enjoy: it's called 'The Post-Birthday World' by Lionel Shriver. The premise is that it is about a woman who makes a momentous decision on a birthday and then the book splits into two and we see her life unfurl in two ways: if she says 'yes' that day or if she says 'no'. Today, February 1st is an important birthday for me as it's my sister's birthday (aka 'anonymous' on this blog), it is also the anniversary of my ex moving into his flat.

Yesterday I visited one of my most loved friends and the one whose life was most similar to mine. We are pretty much the same height, have the same degree, are both aspirant writers (though she is far more successful - deservedly), our husbands have the same name, we married them within a few months of each other, both of us have step-children the same age and our first boys were born 6 months apart. So far, so alike. Visiting her is to see what might have happened if my ex and I were happier together: she now has three utterly beautiful children of her own and a husband. Whereas, I am a single mother to one boy and have all but lost contact with my step-son.

But, I do know that this is a life path that fits me better. Whilst you are never supposed to admit this I am pleased I only had one child. Society's scorn is heaped upon women who choose a life of indulgence and never have kids, but, in my experience, women who choose to have only children are treated with equal suspicion. We are seen as both spoiling our only child whilst depriving them of siblings. I remember clearly at post-natal checkups the health visitor blethering away about how 'it would be different with my second'. I did not dare tell her that I didn't want a second. I absolutely loathed being pregnant: I was sick constantly for six months. When my son arrived I resented sleepless nights and exhaustion. My ex was very little help: as I breastfed our son for a year he saw it an an excuse to not really do much to help. My ex cited my refusal to have more kids as a reason our marriage failed, but I believe that it would have failed far faster had I been chucking up constantly whilst running around after a toddler. Additionally, he might have earnt double what I did but he still expected me to pay all the bills (even the entire mortgage!) so I would have had to go back to work early. I love my son dearly but I've never once, even momentarily, wanted another child.

Visiting my friend has shown me how wonderful having a large family is: her kids are joyous. I've always been obsessed by different choices, the reading at my wedding was 'The Road not Taken' by Robert Frost as that is my favourite poem. I've blogged before about my interest in the parallel world theory of physics. It might have been my ex's choice to take the road out of my life on my sister's birthday in 2008 but I do believe that it was the very best path for me. But my heart swells with gladness that my friend's life took the other path so that I can enjoy seeing that other post-birth world.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference

Nobody move, nobody gets hurt

2009-01-22T20:11:00.009Z

Despite what my ex suggests I rarely read Heat magazine. I don't like all the carping about too thin/too fat/too thin/ewww, cellulite /bad frock stuff. I just think it's really counterproductive to women's images of themselves. But I do know that there's a secret compulsion to see evidence of people who really should know better behaving badly. As I've mentioned before I work in a school and I really need to be careful to preserve the mystique of who the kids I think I am versus who I am really. However, last Saturday some of the kids saw me out, totally blootered, and they've been lovely about it. There are some pictures circulating of the event (the worst ones, thankfully, are no longer in the public realm) and one of my colleagues pointed out that we're just like celebrities: the kids love to see us falling out of taxis, drunker than a skunk.

Thankfully, some of the worst excesses were well beyond the sight of the kids. I'm a bit of a nightmare when I'm drunk and I believe myself to have powers I patently do not have. The first is that I believe Terpsichore, the muse of dancing, has blessed me and I need to prove it to the world. On Saturday that manifested itself as me ordering the DJ to play We are Scientists 'Nobody move, nobody get hurt' my current favourite song. The only issue being the lyrics. Listen to 'em. Hardly suitable for a last 30s mother, are they? Fatally, the DJ then put on a Pulp song and I'm genetically programmed to dance like the girls from the 'Common People' video.

Also, I developed an unreasonable belief that despite drinking rose wine then white port then gin then sambucca (repeating the last two many times), I was sober enough to stand on one foot in six inch heels. I wasn't. I didn't move, but I did get hurt as I plummeted to the floor, spraining my ankle in the process. You don't even want to hear about nicking drinks with a random roofer and trying to crash another club. Even Heat magazine would stop somewhere. As another We are Scientists song goes 'I'm blacking out, but it's been fun'.

Tuesday Night is Curry Night

2009-01-20T21:31:00.003Z

Tonight Velouria and I had a lovely credit crunching cheap curry by the fair hand of ASDA. And marvellous it was too. As the end of January is fast approaching, Rio and Velouria felt it only fair to bring up the thorny issue of New Year's Resolutions. Clearly, anyone we like would have broken all of theirs by January 4th at the outside. Therefore, we offer these potential resolutions to people who have probably been too busy to create their own.

In an online blogtastic lovefest we are joined electronically by Highwaylass via the medium of Skype.

The resolutions we suggest are:

Natasha Bedingfield to embrace silence.
Kate Moss to have a sandwich (with butter but no coke)
Barack Obama to not get shot
Madonna to dodge leotards and super-glue her ankles together
Russell Brand to burn in hell
Chris Moyles to shut up and fuck off (courtesy of a guest appearance by Highwaylass).
Doctor Who to attain puberty
Jimmy Carr. Just don't.
Anyone who says 'in terms of' to disembowel themselves with rusty spears
The Ting Tings to learn a new song
Katy Perry to munch a rug and like it
Jodie Marsh to stand near to a candle and melt into oblivion
Angelina Jolie to buy a white child
Tyra Banks to be president of the universe
Orange cokeheads not to be shagged by sour sheep

Your turn: what resolutions should be made, and by whom?

A new lease of life

2009-01-17T12:24:00.005Z

It might not be a surprise to you that I am a diarist. Since 1989 I've written a diary every day of my life. It's not really Samuel Pepys or Anne Frank, but thankfully it's not Bridget Jones either. I favour five year diaries so in six lines I have to summarise my entire day: it doesn't leave much space for navel-gazing. Indeed, the omissions in it are blatant: there are very few references to arguments with my ex, despite the fact that they were practically daily. He definitely read it on one occasion and I'm not certain whether he read it frequently. I'd like to share a few entries with you, which have been edited for privacy and traceability reasons:

January 16th 2008, looked terrible today - puffy faced and tearful after last night. Went into (work) but came home during (afternoon)... Then had a mercifully quiet night.

January 17th 2008, (my ex's name) went out with (his friend) last night so wasted most of today on the sofa asleep

January 21st 2008, (my ex's name) got a lease in the post.

January 22nd 2008, Exhausted today - found the whole experience at (work) difficult and am unable to function properly. Tonight I was so frightened that the lease would have been signed but had a quiet + kind evening.

January 23rd 2008, Up at 3am talking and then in (work) on time - but bloody knackered with it. In afternoon went mental.

January 24th 2008, A quieter day at (work) but then this evening was awful. (Ex) has signed the lease and I walked out for a wander but, brilliantly, he didn't even notice.

January 26th 2008, Just another sad day. Changed my facebook status to 'it's complicated' but in reality it's very simple... Really having a hard time.

January 27th 2008, Another sad day. (Ex) told his parents today and I tried to pluck up courage to tell (our son) but I just couldn't. I did manage to get his kite flying so maybe I'm not completely useless. Less than a week now.

January 31st 2008, an odd day - calm and confidence has descended, despite the fact that my marriage ends tomorrow.

February 1st, 2008, So, it's the separation day. (My ex's) parting shot hurt: "you're yesterday"... In evening went to seek sanctuary at (my best friend's house).

Ouch. It makes difficult reading, doesn't it? However, it doesn't stir any emotion in me as I'm pretty certain it is now completely out of my system. Last year I was terrified that the lease to my ex's flat would be signed, this year I have a new lease of life.

Maybe I need to find something else to write about on this blog. Readers, I'm no longer getting a life. I've got one.

Plastic Fantastic

2009-01-09T17:12:00.006Z

Oddly, when 1960s TV programmes imagined the 21st century all the inhabitants flew about in sky cars, wearing silver clothing and white lipstick and having everything at home done by a robot. The one thing that they didn't envisage is the online world. I got through my degree without ever emailing, using Wikipedia, Googling or moaning about deadlines in my Facebook status. Nowadays I get a bit shaky if I haven't been online in a few hours and often find myself surreptitiously checking the net on my mobile. It's an addiction.

Being a single mother I am home alone. A lot. In particular, on weekday evenings I have to stay in when my son is in bed. This gives me a few hours alone. I could use this time profitably doing some work, or reading all those novels I haven't read, or taking up an improving and impressive hobby. Instead, I sit in front of my laptop for hours blatantly time wasting.

Now it will not be a surprise to you, dear reader, that the internet can fill in a space where a life should be. There's Facebook to be stalked, blogs to be written, Youtube to be chortled at, all sorts of spangly lovely things to be bought, Wikipedia to be idly flicked through, whilst checking back on to your emails every half an hour or so. Hours of your life can pass like that.

Over the past year I've indulged in a spot of online dating. I've emailed quite a few guys and chosen to meet two separate blokes for a real date. The problem is the real world just doesn't live up with the online world. Online, guys are always handsome (because you see only the good photos); email conversations tend to be great as if you can't think of an appropriate response you can disappear off for a potter about until inspiration strikes and the witty rejoinder can be typed up. Online guys are 6 foot and funny. In real life they can be 5 foot 10 at best or rather too overweight or a mite sweaty or a bit dull. It's most annoying.

So, of course this post is a circuitous way of saying that I'm in the middle of an online thing again. It's cool because he ticks the boxes really well: tall, absolutely beautiful, musical, artistic, and erm, 27 ;-). Online it doesn't matter if his feet smell or he's a serial killer because he's my construction of perfect. The problem is in real life he's almost certainly not perfect and so if we chose to meet up I'm going to be a tad disappointed. But I might not be. But then when you can have online perfection, why trade?