I miss 1985

Say it with....

2011-02-14T23:04:00.003Z

Go outside now.

Find a big rock, preferably a cold, hard one with unappetising facets. A rock that is an uncomfortable and unprepossessing shape.

That rock is definitely going to be warmer and more cuddly than me. Significantly warmer and cuddlier.

Today is Valentine's Day and I have not got a single quantum quark of romance about me. I have never been arsed with the nonsense that is Valentine's Day and I'm not about to change now.

My boyfriend turned up with a thoughtful card and a special note inside.

My card to him said 'Happy non-specific day in the middle of February'.

Sometimes I'm a bit of a shitbag.

The psychological is the political

2010-09-12T11:23:00.008+01:00

In my teaching job I've just started to teach A level Psychology which has required me to start studying Psychology for the first time. My first lesson was on evolutionary theories in Psychology and that all population-wide behaviours in humanity are adaptive; i.e. that they helped us survive in the Stone Age, get with more hot Stone age dudes and have more babies, passing our adaptive genes and behaviours on to them. Sorry for lifting that wording straight from 'On the Origin of Species'.

It's made me think hard about choices in this society and what we consider as normal and abnormal. Firstly, relationships. The received wisdom is that you get married for life and that separation or divorce is an aberration from the norm. However, historically people simply didn't live as long as us,life was brutal, work hard, disease rife, hunger ever-present, quite apart from the likelihood of dying in childbirth. We have an assumption that we are marrying for life, but that 'life' is far far far longer than any human population before us. So maybe a behaviour like Judaeo-Christian marriage that was born out of late Iron Age requirements to pair up for mutual survival is a ridiculous strategy in a world where you could be together for upwards of fifty years; a lifespan unimaginable at the time the behaviour developed (unless Methuselah was real).

This is one of the instinctive feelings I have about marriage. I know my boyfriend's avowed wish is to marry me and I'm totally resolute that I don't want to. Not that I don't love him but that I don't believe in the institution of marriage. I'm happy to commit for seven years or so, which, rather non-scientifically, appears to be the period for which most of my friends' marriages managed to last. But not with a wedding ring on my finger because extricating oneself from a legal marriage is far too long and expensive. If I'm asked, I'm honest. The friends who are getting married soon I wish a lifetime of bliss and marital felicitation to, but wishing that and believing it will happen are rather different things. I just think that what I think is 'I hope you're really happy for about a decade and then move on in a mature and non-acrimonious way if that's what happens'. And, remember, that decade was probably a 'lifetime' in aeons gone by.

Due to the improvements in medicine and diet we live longer and so, thankfully, do our children. They are fewer in number and we don't ever imagine the ever-present horror of times gone past that we could lose them. But, I'm assuming that throughout history people ended up bringing children up on their own as a lone parent when disease or famine or war or accident took the other partner away. I know that at the end of World War 1 and World War 2 there would have been thousands and thousands of mothers bringing children up on their own. Bet they weren't called single mothers and treated with contempt. Mr fury was raised by this article in the Guardian that said that the cuts will take an average of £1012 per annum away from a couple and £1880 from a lone parent. When I mentioned this on Facebook I got a familiar response about lazy bastards living in their council houses with tonnes of kids and living it up on benefit. I don't doubt they exist but I don't know any lone parents like that. The lone parents I know are like me, Jen, Emma, Zena, Caroline, Kathryn, Claire, Kelli, Teresa, Michelle, Spencer, Debbie, Sarah, Liz, Louisa, Anne, Nadine and Shirley who all work really hard. We hold down jobs and do practically all the childcare bringing up well-balanced and happy kids. At most we have maybe 3 kids. Only of us is on welfare and that person is a PhD who is overqualified for all the jobs she applies for. As lone parents we are due to be punished by an additional £800 being taken from our pockets than couples. We have to support TWO people on ONE salary and more money is being taken from us than couples. This is sold as a crackdown on welfare scroungers. Well, thanks. I work bloody hard. I don't scrounge and I'm being financially punished because my ex scarpered.

The answer I am given to understand is that they should 'get a job'. Well, I have one so it's not the greatest answer for me. Also, people fail to see the problems with being a lone parent. Somebody has to look after your child whilst you work. If you are on your own this pool of people is frighteningly limited. You can put them in nursery but you are looking at £800 per month upwards. From studying Psychology I took in Bowlby's theory that attachment between mother and child is very important up to the age of two when the child has an instinctive need to be with the mother for most of their time. Throughout history this was possible: the mother would work with the baby strapped to her. I'd like to see my school's reaction if someone brought their baby with them every day in a papoose. Instead the babies are dumped in daycare where, at best, they are cuddled a couple of times a day. It's brutal and if babies are not securely attached to a person in babyhood it affects their ability to form relationships throughout life. It could be argued that by forcing women out to work by labelling them scroungers you are psychologically damaging their babies for life. Great. If I regret one thing, it's that my son went to nursery as a baby instead of me staying home with him.

There's a famous 1970s feminist slogan: 'the personal is the political'. I take the ConDemNation choices as a political campaign that personally harms me. It also psychologically harms me as a lone parent. All of my sorority and brethren are tarred with the 'welfare scrounger' brush despite that practically none of us are. And we are financially punished for transgressing against Stone Age partnership expectations.

The happiest day of your life

2010-08-09T23:39:00.001+01:00

I got married once, as this blog suggests. And I remember spending months and months obsessively planning for it. Bridal magazines were pored through, colour schemes chosen and important decisions taken on menus and discos and table decorations. At the time the endless chatter about napkins frustrated my (male) colleague so much that he unguardedly said 'fucking weddings!' in the week I wrote the invitations and promptly got himself left off the list.

The day dawned and it was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. And it wasn't. I was nervy and difficult with my bridesmaids. And I remember waiting for the meal thinking 'is this it?'. Something was missing in that day and, whilst it was fun, it wasn't the transcendental experience promised. It was just another wedding. Big dress. Bridemaids. Ceremony. Eat. Cut cake. Dance. Eat. Dance. All activities I enjoy but not the life changing experience ushering one into a whole new world that I was promised. The worst thing is, I felt like that at my own wedding.

Now, I'm a total snob and refuse to watch soaps or Big Brother and sometimes (shamingly) respond to other people's statuses on Facebook in Latin. So you wouldn't think I'd watch 'Four Weddings' on Living, but I do. I like the predictability of the show which usually has four very different weddings but which usually follow the same formula:

Wedding 1 will be phenomenally expensive. The bride will be gorgeous and bitchy in the extreme. Her dress will be practically transparent in the boob region and the size of Rutland in the skirt area. It will sparkle a lot.The wedding will include loads of guests in very bright dresses and a groom who is tanned to a deep mahogany table colour, and insists on taking his top off during the dancing to show his pecs. The other brides will look around in fear because they can't afford to compete. However, they are intrinsically nice girls and score fairly meaning this wedding will win. Despite costing £50,000. And then the horrendous bride and groom will get a free holiday that they blatantly could have afforded themselves.

Wedding 2 will be a Nice but Poor couple from The North. The dress will be cheap, their toddlers will be bridesmaids and the do will be in a pub. The other brides will try hard to say positive things without actually allowing the words 'she deserves a free holiday a lot more than any of the rest of us' out if their mouth. They will, instead, complain about lumpy gravy. As the wedding will be inexpensive it will score lowly for food and overall experience and thus the people who deserve a free holiday won't get one.

Wedding 3 will be the comedy Goth wedding. The voiceover will be extremely satirical and never in the least bit patronising i.e. 'hahaha, she got dressed in black and had pumpkins as table decorations. Loser.' This one is doomed. Particularly if the groom looks like a zombie. The other brides will complain that it wasn't 'weddingy' enough even though it was a wedding.

Wedding 4 gets squeezed in at the end and is usually the traditional British wedding. Small service in church. Middle class and faintly mousy bride. Meal somewhere nice. Dancing. This one often scores poorly for 'overall experience' as Bitch with Cash Bride thinks it's too predictable and Goth Bride bemoans the lack of inventiveness as there's no fake blood and the vicar wasn't dressed like a character from Rocky Horror.

In the end it's invariably the person I liked least who will win and the sweet, penniless couple never do. But in their final piece to camera every bride says that she believed her wedding was the best and that it was the happiest day of her life.

Well, my wedding wasn't. The best day of my life wasn't even the day my son was born because motherhood ain't all it's cracked up to be either. No, it was 5th December 2009 when I took my son to Lapland for the day to see Santa. It was perfect in every way.

Having been married once I know the excitement of planning a wedding and being a bride. Some of the people I love best on the planet are doing it next year and I'm really excited for them. I suppose for many people it is the happiest day of their life but I can't believe it would be for me. I've done it once and it wasnt so much that I married the wrong person, more that it was the wrong ceremony for me. This doesn't however stop me considering in idle moments what would happen if I were to go on 'Four Weddings'. My daydream would be to a contestant simply so I could sabotage the scoring and thereby ensure the lovely people who actually deserve a free holiday win it. And then say in my final piece to camera: 'yeah it was ok I suppose, but Lapland was better'.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

I'm not your friend anymore

2010-08-01T18:26:00.001+01:00

My main motivation in life is knowing that, at most, I only have to work eight weeks in a row before I can go on holiday. Most people I know look forward to spending huge chunks of their free time painting their homes a different colour and matching soft furnishings. I march to a different beat and believe it doesn't really matter that my house hasn't been repainted in a decade because I'm basically only ever in it to sleep or to pack for my next trip. This addiction to travel is well served by my parents who live in a stunningly beautiful part of the Algarve and whose views from their balcony are:

And

It makes a bit of a change from my house in Leeds, where my front room looks on to a wall of leilandi and from my attic eyrie I have an unparalleled view of a gas holder.

I also love coming here as it gives me a yardstick to measure my son's life by. Last summer he was just starting to swim and in deep dread of the deep end. This year he can snorkel and throws himself in the deep end with wild abandon. Last year he was too shy to play with other kids, now he has spent the afternoon splashing and screaming with other boys.

Well, until a new 'friend' turned around and informed him 'I don't want to be your friend anymore'. He was just devastated as I think this might be his first experience of those poisonous words. He was very tearful and wanted to leave the pool for the sanctuary of Nana's sofa and CBBC. He's very sad because he doesn't think he's done anything wrong. We've all told him that tomorrow it'll all be forgotten and they'll play together happily. But right now he's feeling rejected and dejected.

As the days tick forward to my decree absolute and my divorce becoming final I can understand his feelings only too well. I remember the astounding rejection of being dumped and then the tears. For a while I sat in resentful silence and then was vociferously angry on this blog. But the silence which fell over this blog for months was because I'd stopped feeling hurt and my ex and I are on really good terms. When he came over last week to get me to sign the consent order for the divorce he said "this doesn't mean anything to you, does it?" and I honestly answered that it doesn't. I feel nothing: no relief, no resentment, nothing. It carries no more emotional weight than changing my gas provider.

Over two years ago my ex said he didn't want to be my friend anymore. At the time it hurt like hell. But time passed and oddly now we are more friendly than we were for much of our marriage. My son will feel a bit sad tonight until he's eaten a big Sunday roast and had a sleep. And tomorrow he'll be friends again. And I might buy him a huge and fantastic inflatable toy to make him irresistible to other kids at the pool. I think the past few years have taught me you make your own luck.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

That modern world

2010-07-26T18:21:00.001+01:00

Hello. I'm blogging from bed on my iPhone which makes me all louche and modern, doesn't it?

This weekend marks a year or so since I met my boyfriend. We actually met on the 17th July 2009 but it was a much more important event - the end of term do for the 6 week holidays. And this weekend school broke up for an unacceptably shortened 5 and a half weeks. Having been together a year I felt it time to undertake the most perilous journey a couple can take: a mooch round Ikea on a Saturday. The objective was to get a new bed as we were sleeping in the world's tiniest 'double' with a mattress that was undulating and downright bumpy. We are both 6 foot tall and whenever one of us wriggled in slumber the other's quiet rest was severely compromised. So therefore we went off to Ikea to buy a bed.

3 hours and the best part of a grand later we'd chosen and ordered a huge superkingsize bed with memory foam mattress and bought new duvets, pillows, sheets. The whole caboodle. And it was all done without any stropping or sniping or downright arguing in the aisles. He even laughed when 10 minutes drive from the store I 'remembered' that I'd forgotten to buy fitted sheets and had to return (alone. He sensibly went to the pub instead).

On Sunday my boyfriend undertook the Herculean task of constructing said massive bed whilst I took my son to a pop festival. And then I came back home to a lovely new bed and a surprisingly unstressed boyfriend. As he said to his parents on Saturday night, we've never argued yet. This is because he's sensible and backs down and I've learnt from my past behaviours to avoid being provoking and not to sweat the small stuff.

Today I made another small but significant purchase - a DAB clock radio with two docking stations: one for my iPhone and the other for his iPod. That's very symbolic, isn't it?

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Cupboards abound in old poems

2010-06-30T10:00:00.000+01:00

Velcro Feedback
(to her son starting Reception)

Forensic examination:
What, where, why, when,
How, who?
Is he happy?
Never an answer.
Glimpses of a new life:
Shards of experience -
Assembly (quiet music).
I reconstruct from hints:
Stickers. And stains.
Half-sentences.
Velcro is a harvester of
All life's business.
Dry grass, carpet threads
2:43 story time on carpet.
New shoes, secretly scuffed.
Velcro feedback.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Other poems found in cupboards

2010-06-30T09:53:00.000+01:00

Clutching on to metal
Fingertips gripping,
Clinging, the comforting
Coolness dissipating into
Familiar unwanted warmth.
Corners to trap fingers and
Resistance of valves.

The taste,
Testing batteries for charge
Hesitancy as you wait
For a faint shock but
Tasting like an old spoon from
Nan's pantry drawer.

On playing, the image
Of the person now unmelodied
Plays in the mind of
The listener. Almost beyond
Reach. Like a shadow
Flitting past a window.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Poems found in cupboards

2010-06-30T09:46:00.001+01:00

Katrina Jazz

Unable to hear the sea
Ever-present, unnoticed
Until the deluge.
Below the surging brine
A disintegration of the American Dream
Diluted. Dissolved.
What should be a trumpet blare of rejoice
Now a Last Post.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Let's stay friends

2009-11-09T22:08:00.001Z

Two blogs on one night? I'm spoiling you.

So, I just got off the phone with my ex as we were supposed to be discussing arrangements for our son's birthday. But he couldn't talk long because he is putting up an exhibition.

My ex is an artist and he's had a commission for a big show for 2 weeks. But he hadn't told me. I have to say I felt disappointed because I thought that we had stayed on friendly terms. But apparently not. Whilst I don't expect, or want, an invite to the private viewing I am sad that he didn't tell me at all. We have a shared child and I thought that would mean we would discuss our successes and failures.

Apparently not.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Malicious and delicious

2009-11-09T20:26:00.001Z

My blog has been rather light on content of late as my steam-powered laptop takes far too much time to fire up and I can obsessively check my Twitter and Facebook from my iPhone. But, until tonight, I had not blogged from it.

However, as the ad would have it 'there is an app for that' and so I can tell the world how my world has changed.

Firstly, I met my ex's girlfriend. Maybe a year ago I would have been hurt that he left me for her, cos she's short and quite old. But since I am now 4 clothes sizes smaller, in a good job and loved up I kept my feelings under control and warmly shook her hand. Thinking all the while 'nice anorak'. Malicious but delicious.

Secondly, I now own my house 100% and am an independent woman. I like the fact that I am beholden to nobody and I have an asset to myself. I am getting divorced in February and I await the opportunity to be truly independent with anticipation. And I am planning a big divorce party to celebrate that phase of my life starting.

Finally, I have become aware that a couple of my friends are separating from their husbands. And, whilst I understand the pain and the heartache, I can promise that the grass is greener on the other side.

I am unrecognisable as the person who first started this blog. And it's a wonderful feeling.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

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?

New Year's Solutions

2009-01-05T21:27:00.005Z

Welcome to Divorce Day. No, I'm not getting divorced but this is the day that, traditionally, family lawyers do their best business as failing relationships sputter to a halt over Christmas and then refugees from domestic heartache seek divorce advice on the first working Monday of the new year. Certainly, this time last year felt like Divorce Day for me as I returned to work after the Christmas break and everyone cheerily said to me: 'Good Christmas?'. Well, no. I got dumped on New Year's Eve and cried constantly for four days. However I was in such a state that I couldn't admit to many people what had happened and just dumbly nodded, afraid that words would bring the waterworks on.

A year later I'm happy. I'm not feeling any negative emotions about this time of year and I can look back with a level gaze and see that I'm better off for being alone. However, it is time to look full-square at my life and find some New Year Solutions. Everyone knows that New Year's Resolutions tend not to last (although I did once give up chocolate for a year), so I'm looking to find Solutions to things that need attention.

The first is my size. I recognise I'm overweight and I resolutely refuse to follow traditional diets for a number of reasons. Firstly, I had extremely disordered eating throughout my early twenties and was severely underweight. The photos of me from that period make scary viewing. Secondly, I know that dieting makes you fatter in the long run. Therefore, I'm going to try Paul McKenna's system. His Golden Rules are:

When you are hungry, eat.
Eat what you want.
Eat consciously.
When you are full, stop eating.

I'm not dieting but before I even watched the programme tonight it struck me how I bolt food quickly in front of the TV. I'm going to eat at the table, with the TV and laptop off, and enjoy what I eat. I'm going to savour it. And I'm not going to empty my plate: I'm going to try to learn when I feel full.

Second solution: my life. I'm going to continue what I started last year: getting out and about and being with friends. This makes me a lot happier. I'm going to get out with my son more too: we went for a countryside walk the other day just the two of us and had a great time.

What about relationships? Well, the ones I have with my son, my friends and my family are much better now than they've been for many years. I'm going to concentrate on that instead of thinking about what I don't have. Hey, and maybe this time next year I'll be ready for my own Divorce Day.

Fuzzy Logic

2008-12-31T10:04:00.009Z

Over the past couple of weeks I've kept thinking that I ought to do a blog-birthday post as I Miss 1985 was a year old on the 19th December and the main subject-matter of this blog (my marriage splitting up) dates back to the 30th December 2007. But I haven't really got round to writing those posts because those dates don't have the resonance I thought they would.

Humans have an odd tendency to see patterns. Give us a load of random ink-blots and we'll see a Toulouse Lautrec painting forming in front of us. We have 'lucky' pants (well, I don't. No, really, I don't). We believe that things will go wrong on Friday 13th. For me, my random pattern belief is that how my New Year's Eve goes will predestine how the following year will be.

Last New Year's Eve was dreadful. I drove back from the south coast on the 30th and rang my ex from some services on the M1. Instead of a cheery hello I got told that he'd cancelled our plans because things were going to be 'horrible'. I had absolutely NO warning that this was about to occur. And, Lord, was it horrible. New Year's Eve 2007 was spent with me crying hysterically whilst he said the cruelest things. He then disappeared off to go out with 'friends' (read 'new girlfriend') whilst I sobbed myself to sleep to the backdrop of fireworks exploding and people cheering. It was appalling.

So, if my random pattern belief is true then 2008 should have been equally as horrendous. I do have to say January and February were. But then things changed. I sorted my house out and although feng shui is another human random pattern belief it is a much more pleasant place to live. I made new friends. I went on lots and lots of holidays (three to Portugal and two to France). I rediscovered the wonders of having a social life. I ate lots of curry. I finally organised a reunion with my University friends. I watched my son cope with the breakup of his parents' marriage with aplomb. I wrote this blog and am endlessly touched that on average one hundred people read it a week. It was, if I dare say it, a good year.

So, despite proving to myself that random patterns are just that, I'm still trying to be a Delphic oracle and discern what 2009 might have in store. 'Louise' told me that 2009 will be 'my year'. Yesterday I went to see 'Peter Pan' at the theatre and left thinking that 2009 might well be an 'awfully big adventure'. I've got plans for tonight which involve my best friend and food - always a good combo.

So, I'm wishing you, and myself, a happier new year. xxx

Tuesday Night is Curr-istmas night (the 25th)

2008-12-16T21:15:00.003Z

Tonight Velouria and Rio have thrown caution and financial solvency to the wind and had not just a Christmas meal, but a Marks and Spencers Christmas meal. This involved remarkably posh nut roast, veggies, leeks in Gloucester cheese sauce and Yorkshire pud. For pudding we had Christmas mulled fruit crumble and Armagnac crean which was so good we did pseudo-sex noises throughout it.

Tonight's topic: Ree and Vee's 12 days of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me a frozen strawberry daiquiri
On the second day of Christmas my true love sent to me two leather thongs
On the third day of Christmas my true love sent to me three hot men
On the fourth day of Christmas my true love sent to me four brawling birds
On the fifth day of Christmas my true love sent to me five sore rings
On the sixth day of Christmas my true love sent to me six Gin and Tonics
On the seventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me seven muffs a-trimming
On the eighth day of Christmas my true love sent to me eight chavs a-blinging
On the ninth day of Christmas my true love sent to me nine boils a-lancing
On the tenth day of Christmas my true love sent to me ten lads a-leching
On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me eleven arseholes parping
On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me twelve armpits humming

Sadly this wasn't a podcast as Velouria just sang this modern classic beautifully and Rio howled through like a tone-deaf badger with the rhythmic ability of a drunk uncle at a wedding, dancing to Natasha Bedingfield.

Your turn: can you think of any alternative lines?

A Christmas (Ad) verse

2008-12-14T17:31:00.006Z

Some of the very best things in life come through fire: gold is refined and melted by forge fire; chestnuts roast on an open fire; the Australian outback requires regular bush fires to regenerate and some of the best St Andrews beach parties ('89 - '93) were heated by stolen pallet fires. I've been through the fire this year and I've come out regenerated, stronger and ready to party.

On Friday night it was my school's Christmas do. Times have been hard in recent months and it was a great opportunity for the staff to enjoy some good cheer together. Instead, of over 170 staff there were a grand total of 32 revellers. For most, adversity had got the better of them and they couldn't be arsed to attend. Those of us who attended could have had a rubbish time and moaned about it afterwards. Instead we took the opportunity to have a better time. Wholly faked photos of us sliding down bannisters were taken to display in the staffroom. My friends and I took advantage of a yawningly empty dancefloor to express ourselves dramatically through the medium of Dance. Afterwards, we zoomed into town to dance and be merry even more - the dancefloor in the club was empty and so my friends and I did even more expressive dancing (particularly after the liberal application of Jagerbombs...). I discovered that wearing black fishnet tights and an LBD can result in random early-20s males pulling up their t-shirts to display their taut torsos. Hurrah. It was a bloody marvellous night.

And then on Saturday night Alexandra Burke won X-Factor after being rejected three years' ago. More proof that great things can come from adversity. One of the things that chimed the most with me was Cheryl saying that they were more than mentor and act: they were friends. And that's what got me through this year: my friends. I never went to the staff Christmas do in years gone by because my ex inevitably had something planned and I had to stay home to look after our son. But there was another reason - I didn't feel like I had many friends because the problems in my marriage made me completely isolated from people and I avoided making friends as it was too difficult to maintain my two faces.

This year has been a time of making and relying on friends and I'd like to do some call outs and thanks on the pages of this blog, as I know that those friends read this:

First place has to go to Velouria. Curry night was the greatest invention of 2008. Throughout the year Velouria has been a steadfast trooper with a truly outstanding ability to come up with a finely crafted expletive. She rocks.
Next is 'anonymous', aka 'my little sister'. She combines a rare ability to care about people without being soppy. A fine trait.
Travelling together, as they always do, are the East Leeds Massive. One of the Leedz 15 Girlz (Louise to my Thelma) is following a similar path to me and has been a great support. They're both foul-mouthed in the most glorious manner possible. I've never been told to 'fuck off' in a more tender and caring manner...
Lpa, without whom my bunkbeds would be sadly empty after a night out. Without her many of the nights out would have been impossible and she's the reason why I feel like I'm in my mid-20s rather than my late 30s
Highwaylass, an inspirational blogger and late night Skype pal, her highway has run parallel to mine over the year and she's given me some excellent journey planning advice along the way
The friends I've been blessed with for years: the ones I saw in Ingleton in October. Most people don't stay in touch with University pals for 19 days after Graduation, I've known you all for nineteen years and I love you more now than I did when I was a self-obsessed twenty-year-old.
'Exiled to Aidans' - she tells me off. A lot. And I always richly deserve and appreciate it.
The 'rents. They've stopped being parents and started being friends.
My son. He doesn't read this. Thank God.
My ex, if he hadn't dumped me I wouldn't have a life. He doesn't read this either. Thank God.

God bless you, one and all. xxx

A Tale of Two Birthdays

2008-12-08T20:07:00.004Z

Quoting Dickens when discussing a child's birthday is really too pseuds-corner to be true, but that's not going to stop me. Yesterday it was my son's sixth birthday party and to quote Dickens 'it was the best of times, it was the worst of times'. He had a fantastic time and thoroughly enjoyed every second, I, meanwhile, was prostrate with exhaustion and noise overload about five minutes in. However, I discovered something that surprised me: my ex can behave.

Rewind to last year. My son's fifth birthday party was a joint enterprise with a friend. We hired a steam train for the afternoon and chugged merrily up and down. The carriage was packed with excitable five-year-olds but the biggest child was my ex (or husband as he was then). He spent the entire afternoon with his portable radio headphones glued firmly in his ears listening to Leeds United getting thrashed. He was also morose, uncommunicative and downright rude. The scowl on his face was indescribable. Within days he was to announce that he was (a) having an affair (b) sodding off on holiday to Berlin with her instead of being home for our son's birthday and Reception class Nativity play and (c) it was all my fault. Hmmmmmnnn.

Fast-forward to this year. I had organised a party at a local bowling alley (the sort of activity he would have griped about last year). He arrived a few minutes late but almost immediately got involved in trying to stop six-year-olds dropping bowling balls on their own and their friends' feet. He then stood at the end on the bowling alley and helped the kids bowl for the whole afternoon. There was no scowling. There was no petulance. He congratulated me on how well the afternoon went. Heck, there might even have been a smile lurking below the beard. The biggest shock was discovering that my staff do this Friday clashes with his friends' wedding and he was willing to forgo the wedding so I could go out. If I were a cynical sort I'd say that he'd come to realise that I'm really not going to divorce him any time soon and so the only option left would be to kill me via giving me a major shock. I was fairly startled that he was doing something - gulp - altruistic. What the Dickens?: he's stopped acting like a dick.

But that's a Tale of Two Birthdays: last year was the worst of times, this year is starting to feel like the best of times. Roll on the staff do, I'm ready for a bit of mountaineering.

Cutting down the Christmas list

2008-11-30T21:42:00.005Z

Frequent flyers with Air I Miss 1985 will know that I like a band called My Life Story. A lot. If I had to recommend a song to introduce the uninitiated to the band it would be 'Penthouse in the Basement'. In fact, if I'd had the wit I might have named this blog after it too as it is about the ending of a relationship.

My favourite lyrics are: 'And in the wasteland of our bed / where you lay your head / on seven different stale perfumes / on my pillowcase'. This has nothing to do with the rest of this post, it's just I love those lines, even though they don't represent my current lack of love life at all (just in case my parents or my ex's solicitor is reading this...)

The lines that do chime are: 'I'm gone, do you hear? / I'm cutting down my Christmas list this year' because with the approach of the festive period I'm horribly aware of how limited my Christmas list has become. Firstly, my beloved Nan died last weekend and so I won't be visiting BHS to buy her traditional Christmas Cardi this year nor choosing cards with pictures of poinsettias on the front and long verses inside (because she liked the sentiments). I'm going to miss her at Christmas, a lot.

Furthermore, I don't know where I stand with my ex's son (my ex-step son?). I used to go out to buy his main present as my ex wasn't arsed with that job. Or at least he would buy it, as long as he could buy a Leeds United team shirt and hand it over, unwrapped, in a carrier bag. I have to say it hurt like hell the other week when my ex's son was taken out for his birthday meal by my ex and the new girlfriend. I've also idly toyed with being 'Bitchy by Kindness' with said new girlfriend. Maybe I could really, really embarrass and fluster her by sending a card or a present. What about a DVD of 'The First Wives Club' or maybe something more literary like, say, the play script of 'Tis Pity She's a Whore'?.

Also, I don't have a husband to buy for. It seems weird not to be thinking about him in terms of a Christmas present. He was always hard to buy for but I think I did OK (and significantly better than some of the random stuff he bought me. Like brown walking boots. I ask you). This also means I won't get a main present. I know it's better to give than to receive but the idea that, aged 37, pretty much every present I get will be from my Mum, irrespective of whose name is on the 'from' tag, makes me feel like a bit of a loser. Don't get me wrong - I love and appreciate my Mum and all the effort she puts in - but at my age there ought to be someone else in my life to buy my main Christmas present and there isn't.

What do I want for Christmas? Maybe not seven different stale perfumes on my pillowcase. But one new aftershave might be nice...

Tuesday Night is Curry Night - The Seventh Seal

2008-11-25T21:13:00.004Z

After a difficult couple of days Rio was very lazy and ordered a veritable pile of Indian takeaway from the local emporium. It was yummy.

Tonight's blog is going to be a tribute and the topic is: The Best Things about Grandparents.

1. They take you shopping and you always come back with the same amount of money you went out with but loads of treats.
2. They bung you a hundred euros when you are going on holiday.
3. They have a special soap smell that nobody else has.
4. They send you food parcels even after you have left University and have famillies of your own.
5. They treat your parents like children.
6. They always take your side against your parents, even when they know that (a) this is something they shouldn't do (b) you are in the wrong.
7. Their cupboards are full of far better biscuits and cakes than anyone else's.
8. They can do 37 cards at once at bingo.
9. They know more about everything than anyone else and anyone who questions it is wrong.
10. They have fridge magnets about their grandchildren saying things like 'I love my grandchildren so much that I should have had them first'.
11. They go to jumble sales and even run stalls there.
12. Aprons and novelty tea trays.

RIP Nan. xxxxx

Tuesday Night is Curry night - the 6ixth

2008-11-18T20:54:00.004Z

Tonight, Velouria and Rio have had jalfrezi and lentil makhani (that tasted like refried beans, but in a good way). Before the flatulence kicks in we wish to share tonight's topic:

Velouria and Rio's Literacy Hour

These are our favourite words in an A-Z styleeee:

Ampersand
Balderdash
Catharsis
Driech
Encapsulate
Flatulence
Gringo
Hirsute
Icthyosaur
Jaffa
Kindergarten
Luscious
Moribund
Nincompoop
Orifice
Priapic
Quim
Rebarbative
Shenanigans
Turgid
Ululate
Voluminous
Waggle
Xerox
Yiddish
Zanzibar

This is from 'The Glass Slipper' and is a good instruction manual on how to properly relish words that you like (at about 2 minutes in)

Your turn: which words do you absolutely love?

Climb ev'ry mountain

2008-11-13T21:15:00.004Z

Oddly, for someone who is completely terrified of heights, I am obsessed by mountaineering. I have an online repertoire which goes Facebook > personal email > here > work email > MountEverest.net. I know vast amounts of ridiculous knowledge about Everest and if allowed to could bore your bollocks off with rabbiting on about the Khumbu icefall, the Lhotse face, the Hillary steps, the South Col, the yellow band and theories about whether Mallory could have free climbed the Second Step or not. And I swear I typed all that without looking it up. I know Everest is variously called Sagarmatha and Chomolungma by the peoples surrounding it and that it's significantly easier to climb than K2. Indeed, my mountain geekiness extends to knowing the names of a lot of the other twelve 8000+ metre mountains (Annapurna, Gasherbrun I&II, Kangchenjunga, Nuptse, Lhotse, Ama Dablam, Makalu, Cho Oyu, Nanga Parbat, Pumori). Ok, I'll stop now.

Why on earth am I fascinated by the fourteen 8000+ metre mountains? I will never actually be able to visit even the base of any of them because even the trek to Everest base camp is too frightening for someone who had screaming ab-dabs on Hadrian's Wall. No, really, I did. I'm fascinated by them because I'm frightened of them. Anyone who has the guts to take on an 8000+ is a brave soul, especially as the statistics aren't great. Over 200 people have died on Everest and the mortality rate is dreadfully high on K2 and Annapurna. But people still do it just, for a fleeting five minutes, to be the highest person stood on earth. To be able to see the curvature of the earth. To know that the coming back down is more fatal than the climbing up. It's fascinating.

I've climbed some mini-mountains this year. I've learnt to deal with being a single person; I've started going out and having a life; I've even ended up being better friends with my ex than I've been for many years. I'm not ready to be in a relationship yet and I don't really want a boyfriend.

Dud sparklers

2008-11-06T23:43:00.006Z

This blog is my brave face. From it smiles out a happy, confident woman who can deal with every vagary of single motherhood with a finely polished pun. It suggests that my life revolves around nights out and eating curry.

Sometimes that's not true. Tonight is one of those times. I've had a wearisome couple of days and tonight I don't have my brave face on. Yesterday I ran at full pelt all day and was thoroughly exhausted by the time that I came home. That didn't stop me from trying to be RoboMum and organising a home fireworks display for my son and his friends. To cut a long story short:

As I don't have a garden we did the fireworks in the alley at the front of my house. It's very dark. I trod in a huge dog shit and then, brilliantly, walked it over the rugs in my hallway. Leading to me having to throw away my favourite trainers and two rugs.
The lighter fuel ran out before I could light the sparklers so three sobbing kids and I had to traipse round the neighbours asking for matches; then after I managed to borrow a lighter
inevitably, the sparklers were dud and wouldn't light. More crying from the kids.
After all the delays and disappointments I got home to find the dinner I had timed to be ready for the end of the fireworks now fairly comprehensively burnt.

So much for RoboMum. I went to see a band afterwards with Velouria but we hated the venue and felt unsafe so we came home early.

Today was more of the same. Frustrations at work. Complications to do with a house purchase. Finding out that a hen weekend I'm due to go on will cost me triple what I expected. Rain. Rude kids at school. Burning the dinner again for the second night running.

The only highlight was speaking to a lovely friend who is in a similar situation to me. Despite the fact that the conversation was about how it is hard to cope with a marriage splitting up and all the attendant emotions. Because it reminded me that it's ok to be down sometimes. It's ok to be angry and frustrated and bloody awkward. It's even ok to argue with your ex down the 'phone for three hours (as I've done tonight). Right now I feel that all my sparklers are duds and that there's a dog shit lurking on every pavement. But that might not be how I feel tomorrow and by Saturday night I might even outshine a thousand sparklers. And not one a dud.

Tuesday Night is Curry Night - V

2008-11-04T20:57:00.007Z

Last week Velouria and I had to disapppoint our avid fans, of whom we have none, as we were attempting to break Europe. Velouria was in Paris and Rio was in Portugal.

Unfortunately tonight's topic will have a macabre and scatalogical bent as Vee has unwisely poisoned herself with sodium nitrate. Or copper oxide. Either way science teachers should know better than to lick their fingers during chem practicals.

Tonight's topic: Too much information, frankly.

For reasons of anonymity we are not going to admit which of Velouria or Rio the following pieces of information relate to.

1. One of us followed through after eating a egg mayo sandwich. On her honeymoon. Then had to leg it across a train station to find the only public convenience was a nasty hole in the ground.
2. On being with a new chap for a mere matter of weeks one of us spent the whole night having explosive diarrhoea after consuming an entire punnet of cherries, one of strawberries and a full tub of Cherry Garcia ice cream.
3. One of us has just done a silent and deadly fart.
4. One of us had a very, very, very loud and prolonged fanny fart whilst doing a plough headstand during a yoga session. It was probably audible from space.
5. One is mortified that the other one has admitted to that online when clearly not drunk.
6. One of us habitually falls asleep in public conveniences when pissed.
7. One of us has done rude nasties in the same room as a major Hollywood film star (but not with said film star).
8. One of us has done nastiness in the top of a bunk bed whilst there was some other poor soul in the bunk below.
9. One of us went to see Bucks Fizz. Twice.
10. One of us went on a coach trip to Whitley Bay ice-rink to watch Torville and Dean.
11. One of us ate tonnes of curry and drank lots of red wine and then threw up in somebody else's shower cubicle. The chunks blocked the drain.
12. One of us passed out on the stairs at Uni with alcohol poisoning but was cleverly revived by a barrister chum who poured red wine down her.
13. One of us told a previous boss to shove his job up his arse. N.b. she did not call him a c u next Tuesday as the urban legend surrounding this incident relates.
14. One of us lost her nose ring on the floor next to her boss's desk when on the premises illicitly late at night on Easter weekend because she thought it would be really, really funny to get off with someone in his office. Two years later she was horrified to be put in the same team as the person who assisted in the losing of said nose ring.
15. One of us was bought a drink and chatted up by a random midlander in a club, only to have his sister to visit the staffroom on Monday morning to say 'hello', and then for him to turn out to be her new gym instructor a year later, starting the session by asking innocently: 'don't I know you from somewhere?'.

That was, as we are certain you will agree, FAR too much information.

Your turn: anonymously post something that really ought never to be disclosed.

In five years time...

2008-10-22T23:16:00.003+01:00

Tonight I went to see a band, Noah and the Whale, at a venue called the Cockpit that I haven't been to for about eight years. But it was a place where I spent a lot of time in the past. In the mid 1990s I used to go to a club night there most weekends where I dressed up in little 60s dresses and lots of black eyeliner and danced to indie and brilliant 60s stuff like the Small Faces and the Yardbirds. I used to leave about 3:20 in the morning to catch the train back to York and would snigger loudly at Shed Seven (almost always on the same train) going on about their negotiations with Sony.

Some of my best 'ooh, I've met them' moments happened at the Cockpit. One night a friend and I went to see Super Furry Animals there and on the way along the street to get chips afterwards a tour bus screeched to a halt and the support band, The Diggers, invited us along to a party at the Marriott hotel. The details of the party are a bit sketchy now but I do remember running away from the police after the barman unwisely shut the bar without turning the pumps off...

The last time (before tonight) I was there was to see Pete Wylie, the Mighty Wah. It was round about the beginning of November 2000 and my ex and I had just come back from honeymoon. Pete signed the cd 'To _____ (me), not _____' (my ex) and thoroughly chatted me up. I lied and told Pete the song 'Sinful' had cured me from my Duran Duran fixation in the 80s. This is obviously untrue. At the time my ex was quite proud that Pete Wylie fancied his wife.

But, as this blog shows I didn't go out much after my marriage and I've not been to the Cockpit for a very long time. So it was great to go out on a school night, have a drink and see a band. A lot of the gig I spent thinking about times past until Noah and the Whale's Big Song 'Five years time' came on. And that made me think about my future. If you'd asked me this time last year what I'd be doing in five years time I would have said more of the same: working, sleeping, staying in and arguing with my ex. But now? Now, I'm interested to know, because whatever I am doing in five years time it will be very different.

Tuesday Night is Curry Night - episode 4

2008-10-21T21:26:00.005+01:00

Tonight's blog is sponsored by Sainsbury's Tadka Dhal, Saag Paneer, Bombay potatoes and pilau, accompanied by mini-naan. It is faintly gaseous in this abode.

10 things that make us happy

Velouria is made happy by:

Paris - every single last thing about it, even the bad bits.
Cocktails, especially daiquiries
City lights at night
Stained glass windows with sun shining through
Stationery - much and varied
Big funky Orla Kiely patterns, especially on handbags.
Sunshine
Finding a pound in your pocket
Strictly Come Dancing
Having nothing to do but lie still, eat chocolate and listen to my ipod.

Rio is made happy by:

Inventing long and witty conversations in my head and often letting the associated thoughts show on my face, to the confusion of passers-by.
Putting my feet into the cold corners of the duvet
Staring out of the window on trains (especially in tunnels)
The sound of rain falling on the outside of tents in the middle of the night
Sudden hail storms on bright days
Writing, especially if I can crack out a quality pun.
When my son gets words wrong
Cheese and onion pasties
The smell of my own skin on warm days
Adventures late at night in big cities

Spot the linguist, spot the scientist.

Your turn: what makes you happy?

Tears before lunchtime

2008-10-19T12:49:00.002+01:00

I've always considered 8 to be my lucky number. My Mum and Dad were engaged on the 8th, married on the 8th, I was born on the 8th and I started University on the 8th (not the same 8th, though). So why have I just been in tears about the 8th? Especially when today is the 19th? Because tomorrow is the 20th October 2008, and I would have been married 8 years tomorrow. In fact, I have been married 8 years tomorrow, it's just I'm not with my husband any more.

So, why - when the entire point of this blog is 'getting dumped and then getting a life' - would I be in tears at lunchtime? I'm relieved I'm not with my ex any more, our life together was really unpleasant and destructive for everyone around us, particularly our son. I am much happier than I've been for years. But, I can't help thinking back to my wedding day and thinking about how happy we were and the potential our marriage had that day. He admits that it was pretty much him who ruined it and that we could be celebrating our wedding anniversary together if he'd been able to control his demons. I was at fault, but as the hugely annoying Angel Clare once said, I was 'more sinned against than sinning'.

He's just collected our son to take him out for the afternoon and it gives me time to use the ever-cathartic power of blogging to apply some perspective to the situation. I think back to our last wedding anniversary and how dreadful that was. We went to Venice and he made the entirety of the first day phenomenally unpleasant until I was so desperate that I tried to book a flight home to get away from him. The idea of me leaving him was enough to make him behave and for the rest of the time there was peace with an underlying feeling of uneasy truce about it all. Shortly afterwards he met his new girlfriend and started making plans to leave me permanently. It wasn't a good way to be. And so, when mourning our wedding day I need to look full-square at our final anniversary together and see that being apart is for the best.

These anniversaries will fade with time and I'll cope better each year - but - and this is a big but - I realise that I need to put something fantabulous in place for New Year's Eve as that was the night he dumped me, and I'm not 'celebrating' that one with tears before bedtime.

Friends Reunited

2008-10-14T22:20:00.004+01:00

These days the idea of not 'Social Networking' is anathema to most. Kids who absolutely loathe me whilst being taught by me seem to feel no sense of irony in requesting to be my 'friend' via Facebook. Similarly, I feel no sense of irony when I ignore their request. Facebook, in particular, has brought me closer to old friends with whom I had lost touch. Through my Facebook addiction I can keep up with their partners, their children and whether or not they are good at WordTwist. Facebook also lost me my marriage, as it was via Facebook that my ex got together with his new girlfriend. I knew something was up when my own husband (at the time) refused my friend request and kept shutting the laptop screen down quickly whenever I came in the room.

However, when I was at University in the years 1989 to 1993, our social networking was limited to writing notes on each others' doors and bumping into each other in coffee houses / bars / megabops / the all night garage and, extremely rarely, lectures. We did not text each other. We had never sent an email. We didn't arrange events on Facebook. Nobody had a landline in their flat and in the Halls of Residence 48 people or more shared one public payphone. However, even without the simplest tools of social networking the friends I made in my University days are still some of the people I hold most dear in my life.

This weekend just past some of my closest friends and I assembled in a youth hostel in the Dales for a reunion. The spurious reasoning behind the event was that on the 8th October 1989 we started University, so nearly 19 years later we are as far away from that first day as we were the minute we were born. I did the majority of the planning and I used the social networking site Facebook to create a group for the event and email out the plans.

So what did we do over the weekend? We discussed how things had changed. The world now is unrecognisable. The last time we were all together, in 1993, the Americans had invaded Iraq and the world was going into a major recession. House prices were tumbling. Inflation was rising. How things change. Back in 1993 I was resolutely single and refusing to countenance the idea of having a boyfriend and I'm right back there again. Some of us are a bit bruised and battered by child-rearing and single motherhood. Most of us are greyer. Some of us are in the major league of blogging (e.g. Highwaylass). But, as a social network we support each other and I feel that we are all the richer for our shared experiences. Facebook might have brought us back together again but the friendships stretch a long way back to the days before any friendship was digitised. All these people were in my life long before I met my ex and I hope they will still be in my life many years into the distant future, whatever social networking looks like in those days.

Tuesday Night is Curry Night - part 3

2008-10-14T21:52:00.006+01:00

Tonight's blog is brought to you by the power of mushroom and courgette korma and a quorn tikka masala, made by Velouria's little paws. Indeed, Vee could teach you to make a graph showing the fat, protein and carbohydrate value of the dinner but that would be just frightening.

Tonight's topic: Top Guilty Pleasure Choons

Velouria's:

Go Your Own Way - Fleetwood Mac
Umbrella - Rihanna (it's raining tonight. Blame Velouria for this)
Here you come again - Dolly Parton
Galveston - Glenn Campbell
Since U been gone - Kelly Clarkson
Toxic - Britney Spears
Close to You - The Carpenters
Rush Hour - Jane Wiedlin
Only You - Flying Pickets
Twenty Four Hours from Tulsa - Gene Pitney.

Velouria is in a contentious mood and told me that I'm not allowed to simply list out ten Duran Duran songs. I pointed out that Duran are NOT guilty pleasures, in fact they are a New Religion (see what I did there?) and hence a perfectly acceptable pleasure. Her riposte? Maybe not for you, only for the other 6 billion people on the planet. Next week her curry will be accompanied by the gentle sounds of Natasha Bedingfield in revenge.

Rio's:

Final Countdown - Europe
Living on a Prayer - Bon Jovi
Maneater - Hall and Oates
Never Gonna Give you Up - Rick Astley (I'm not Rickrolling, I've always loved him)
The Frog Chorus - Paul McCartney
Too Shy - Kajagoogoo
Gold - Spandau Ballet (as a Duranie I am not supposed to like der Ballet)
Time of my Life - Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes
Islands in the Stream - Dolly'n'Kenny
Fame - The Kids from Fame

Your turn: which songs get you up on the dancefloor, howling like an over-excitable banshee? You can post anonymously but Velouria and I will just check where you posted from and work out who you are.

Tuesday night is Curry Night - no 2

2008-10-07T21:37:00.010+01:00

As promised, tonight's Curry Night is brought to you by saag aloo, vegetable dhansak, mushroom pilau, paneer saag and huge naan. Velouria is prone on the sofa nursing what can only be described as a curry pregnancy.

Here's tonight's list: Those That We Shouldn't But We Would.

We tried to find an online Venn diagram generator to show where we both agree but failed miserably.

Velouria and Rio both would:

Gene Hunt, with him wearing his camel coat throughout
Paulie Bleeker, wearing the headband throughout
Reece Shearsmith, but not as Edward. Because that's just a bit too wrong.
Stuart Maconie despite being from 'the other side' (in unison we both howled 'especially with all those records'. Frankly, we're little short of vinyl whores).
Louis Theroux despite being far too posh

Velouria would, but Rio wouldn't:

Mark Lamarr (rude, clever and funny)
Justin Lee Collins (hairy and funny)
Dylan Moran (dirty and funny)
Eric Cantona (rude, French and fit)
Uma Thurman (fit)

Rio would, but Velouria wouldn't:

Jarvis Cocker, particularly in the 'Help the Aged' period.
The entire DIY SOS team, starting with Nick Knowles, working through everyone else (except for Billy) and finishing up on Nick Knowles again.
Simon Amstell (I don't care that he's gay)
Matthew Collins (despite the fact he looks exactly like my ex)
Madonna in the 'Like a Virgin' period (I don't care that I'm not gay)

Best rudery of the evening: 'Ray Mears, because he'd look after me in the forest and be up for a bit of bushcraft'. Blame Velouria, not me.

Next week: Guilty Pleasure Choons and Velouria is making curry (with ready-made sauce).

Your turn: feel the love. On whom do you have a wholly inappropriate and quite queasy crush? Post anonymously.

Tuesday Night is Curry Night

2008-09-30T21:01:00.003+01:00

Tonight's topic is what we would put in Room 101. (By the way we ate vegetable pathia, dhansak, plain naan, chapatti and a pilau coloured in a manner no natural foodstuff has ever been).

Velouria's Room 101 wishlist is:

The entire Bedingfield family
Tracey Emin and that buttock-clenching post-modernist claptrap ("she is a lout" Brian Sewell)
Licorice
All Saints studded belts
People that try to high five you, especially those aged under 16
Pretentious marketing speak
Sandals All Inclusive Resorts and anyone who would actually go there

My list is:

Freddie Mercury
Small beige houses
Foof belt skirts
The food served by Betty's Tea Rooms which tastes delicious but makes you feel sick for hours afterwards
Personal statements that start "I have wanted to study Logic and Metaphysics since I was an four years old...". No, you haven't.
The phrase 'in terms of'
Men who steer their girlfriends by putting their hand proprietally in the girlfriend's lower mid-back.

Next week's list will be brought to you by an unknown, but voluminous, quantity of Indian Food and Top Ten Totty That You Shouldn't But You Would.

Your turn: please comment on what would be in your Room 101. Velouria would appreciate it if someone would pop X-Factor in as she's run out of options.

Girls on Film

2008-09-24T16:33:00.005+01:00

How do you tend to spend Tuesday nights? My Tuesday nights have had a variety of commitments over the decades. In the mid-1990s, Tuesday was Student Nite at Ziggys nightclub in York (which is just as crap as the name suggests. One memorable night my best female friend and I were stood with a male friend, Dave, at the bar. A random bloke in a shiny shirt walked up and pointing at we two girls whilst addressing my mate Dave he inquired: 'they both with you?', when Dave answered in the affirmative Shiny-shirt-man responded, 'can I have one?' as if universal female suffrage had never occurred). For a while in the early noughties Tuesdays were gym nights and after I became a teacher they were stick kid in bed, work until midnight, go to sleep exhausted nights (c.ref Sunday to Thursday).

Now Tuesdays are far, far, far more wonderful than I can ever convey. Tuesdays are Curry Night (capitals ungrammatical but intentional). On Curry Night my friend comes over and we eat curry and discuss the state of the education system. This is a euphemism for thoroughly and systematically slagging off one particular school. However, last night we undertook some wonderful pastimes:

(1) planning out which songs we would dance to if we got on to Strictly Come Dancing. My answer to every single dance was a Duran Duran classic (i.e. Argentinian Tango to 'Girls on Film'. But apparently the tempo would be wrong). I worked through the Duran back catalogue and failed miserably to show any knowledge of dance whatsoever. I then chose 'Something Changed' by Pulp which was the 'first dance' song at my wedding. This led to,

(2) digging out my wedding video, heckling my ex and cheering myself. I have to say - and anyone reading this who attended might agree - I did look bloody gorgeous that day. Was that really my body? The weird thing about looking at the wedding video was I didn't feel any sort of nostalgia or regret for my marriage. I did get a little sniffly watching the wedding speech I gave but the emotion was solely about my Granddad who had died before the wedding. I'm surprised at how it isn't raw and difficult to watch my wedding video but it just shows how far I've come.

So on Curry Night I looked at girls on film from two angles. The first, the Duran early '80s classic and the second, myself on my wedding video. One is an outdated curio from a time long gone. And the other is a Duran Duran song.

So this is my life story

2008-09-14T10:50:00.004+01:00

Sat nav is an amazing creation of this century, it shows you where you are now and how to get to where you want to go. And if you have half a brain you will even know the difference between Newcastle-upon-Tyne and Newcastle-under-Lyme and not end hundreds of miles astray, wandering around hopelessly and asking Black Country types why you can't see the Angel of the North. Amongst many things, my ex was completely anti sat nav. He much preferred the spiritual and geographical purity of having huge sheets of Ordnance Survey maps completely blocking out the front view of the windscreen and blazing rows about where we might be and which turn-off was the correct one. Another thing he despised was my music taste. At first he pretended to be into the bands I liked, but by the end he treated everything with disdain. Foremost in the pantheon of bands he hated were the mighty, mighty My Life Story (or 'My Wife's Tory' as he called them. Chortle. Not).

So, last night I did two, maybe three things, he would completely disapprove of. Firstly, I went to Manchester (a place he calls Scumchester). Secondly, I got there by using my sat nav. And finally, I went to an acoustic set played by Jake Shillingford of My Life Story. Now, I'd have to set up an entirely different blog to properly introduce you to the immense gorgeousness that is My Life Story but I know it won't succeed because the only people I've ever met who actually like them are my friends. You know who you are.

If my life story had sat nav the journey would go like this. In the late 1980s I took the route of being very shy and a total square who rarely left the house and had few friends. In the early 1990s I took a left and headed straight down A1 party girl territory. I was a bit of a glamour-puss and have lots of 'things I did when I was gorgeous' stories. In 1997 I bore right and met my ex and for a while the road was straight and fast to 'happy ever after'. In 2002 I got pregnant and I got stuck in the cul-de-sac of stay at home all the time, have no friends, be a bit square, whilst having a dreadful relationship. Then new year 2008 my life's sat nav recalculated and my ex took a right straight out of my life. At this point I set the sat nav for total new road and last night I arrived at one desired destination.

I got a cuddle from Jake Shillingford and I have photographic evidence that it happened on my Facebook. Wibble. Incoherency. Giggle. Woo-bloody-hoo. I made a bit of a twat of myself as I couldn't string lucid sentences together but he was very lovely and chatted regardless of my utter girly patheticness.

This post is dedicated to The Dedicated. We sparkle and shine. And we're the only ones who understand those words.

Happy returns

2008-09-07T21:27:00.005+01:00

There are many ways in which to segment a lifespan: by careers, by rites of passage, by lovers, by hairstyles (both wise and, usually, unwise) but the simplest is by years. Tomorrow is my birthday and, unusually, I am about ten years younger than I was this time last year.

If I were clever enough to draw graphs I would be able to chart the gradual decline in my married fortunes by the manner in which my ex and I 'celebrated' my birthday. But I don't know how to do that.

1997 - a fantastic seventies cops themed party.

It was a cheap excuse to dress up as Charlie's Angels.

We scandalised the neighbourhood by having the party on the day Princess Diana was buried and the nation snuffled sadly. But we didn't. We dressed up in polyester and boogied.

2001 - my 30th. Huuuge party in Scarborough and a trip to Barcelona

2002 - I was pregnant so no drinking but we went to see a film

2005 - I was left at home to look after the kids whilst my ex went to football with his friends.

2007 - my birthday clashed with a home match again and I always lost. So went to the cinema with my best friend to watch 'Atonement' instead.

Hmmmmnnn. Do you see any decline in my fortunes? Unlike poor old Diana there weren't three people in my marriage towards the end, there were about 23. Me, my ex and the entirety of his football team. With me coming in at a paltry number 23.

So, what about this year? Well, I've had a bloody marvellous time. I went out on the town with my friends last night. We ate posh pizza. We drank cocktails with free Cobra chasers. My friends valiantly tried to get the Dj in an Indie club to play Duran Duran for me (they failed). A short Mancunian who looked like a bit like Ashley Peacock from 'Coronation Street' tried to chat me up (he also failed). I burnt chips at 4am. Today I recovered by eating Minstrels in front of 'Mamma Mia' whilst intermittently sniffling, singing and ogling Colin Firth. It rocked.

And I feel significantly younger than I did this time last year. I don't know about many happy returns, but I do know my happiness has returned.

We're doomed, all doomed.

2008-09-06T09:51:00.005+01:00

As my well-educated readers know the average person has fewer than two legs and if you are blessed with two legs you are above average (if you take a mean of all people a small proportion will have no legs, or one leg, or a stumpy bit and then when you add them in with the majority who have two legs you end up with the average human having 1.73 legs or something). So, clearly statistics are nonsense. Therefore, whenever you read that 1 in 3 British marriages end in divorce you have to question the statistical validity of that statement.

I can give you some useful advice on how to have a happy, lifelong marriage. Don't live on my street. Ever. My little terrace of 6 houses spells doom for marriage.

In number 5 lives J___. Her husband scarpered with another woman in 1967 and she still bleats on about it. We try to avoid her. In fact, on bin night I have to pay extreme attention to the manoeuvring of my wheelie bin, rendering me completely incapable of making eye-contact. Oddly, a minute after she starts talking to me I can usually hear my son crying inside and I have to rush in to see him. Even if he's 2 miles away at his Dad's.

I live in number 2 and, very conventionally, I split up with my husband after 7 years of marriage. He was immensely itchy.

Number 1 is owned by a lovely young couple called M___ and J____. They got married the week before Christmas 2007 and she'd moved out by March 2008. A three month marriage? Anyone would think I lived next door to Britney Spears. Ironically, they bought the house from T____ and C_____ after their marriage split up after 17 years.

This week I was talking to my other next-door neighbour, P___ who is married to M___. They bought the house a couple of years ago in a practically derelict state and have been doing loads of work on it. During our little conversation she told me that she and her daughter were shortly to be moving out after 22 years of marriage.

Clearly, the young couple with the baby in number 6 need to relocate. Fast.

How the other half live

2008-08-30T10:16:00.005+01:00

I spend a lot of my time dividing the population of the world into two groups. There is the group I belong to and then the group I don't. For instance, I am a member of the group who refuses resolutely to ever use text writing and indeed I tend to shudder whenever I see text writing. I belong to a minority group in this but I do feel that when a semi-colon is required in a text, it should be used. I also believe that there is a verb: 'to text', and that this verb has a past participle of 'texted' i.e. 'last night I texted her', instead of the grammatically reprehensible: 'last night I text her'. Another set of two groups is the pedantic camp and the non-pedants. I think it's clear which camp I belong to...

However, you can change camps, and become one of the other people. Clearly, this does not mean tht da blog is guna bcum fulla txtese lol, because I actually felt just a little bit sick when I wrote that. No, I used to belong to a group of people who felt that their life was all but over. I believed that my whole role was looking after my son, teaching the kids at school and trying to avoid confrontations with my ex. I was never truly happy and I was the only person I knew who dreaded the bell on Friday because that meant a potential weekend of hassle and being shouted at in the kitchen. But I'm not that person any more. I have changed sides and I am now a thoroughly happy person. I used to be a member of the group who said 'no' to everything and now I say 'yes' a lot more. In the past few days I have signed up to seeing some bands on school nights and going on a hen-weekend in Barcelona. And, for the first time since my son was born, I can tell my ex that he's looking after our son without fear of endless fallout and recriminations. I'll simply hand him a list of dates and tell him that he has to look after him on those nights. Simple.

This summer has also been spent living like the other half. I've spent virtually three weeks abroad in France and Portugal with my parents and son. I've not been guarded and quiet like I always was before because I don't have to try to 'protect' my parents from knowing how bad my marriage was (although, to be fair, they knew perfectly well). However, I really learnt how the other half live at my Mum's hairdressers. Whilst I was there having my hair changed from the Red Panda look (grey roots, black middles, ginger ends) to glossy Auburn pony the 'phone rang. The assistant said that they needed an appointment for Princess M_______ and I thought 'ooh, it's a bit rude to call a high maintenance customer 'princess' in front of the rest of the clients' but it turns out that Princess M_____ is indeed a bona fide European royal type and she does frequent that salon. There's another group to which I don't usually belong: women who go to royally approved salons. I don't think I have half a life any more.

Girls who like boys who like boys who like girls

2008-08-15T23:15:00.004+01:00

Today I got to meet a really fascinating new person and spend a good few hours in their company. This person was a complete stranger and it was really odd, but rewarding, to make their acquaintance. And yes, it was a male. And no, this isn't a juicy post because this stranger is my son.

If you are expecting some sort of novelistic denouement where I tell you about a long lost child I'm afraid you are going to be disappointed, because I'm going to be writing about the son that I've brought up and spent nearly every day of his five-and-a-half years on this planet with. However, I've only ever seen him with friends that I have chosen for him, not with friends that he chose for himself. Today his best friend came over and I met a whole new son.

Think back to your childhood. Was there a friend that your Mum wanted you to play with (usually her friend's child) that you basically couldn't stand? They came over and you got sent off to play together, but it was more punishment than fun? Well, I'm afraid that my friend and I decided a long time ago that my son and her daughter were going to get married, for us it's a joke. For her daughter it is a deadly serious betrothal. Sadly for this little girl my son has decided that he doesn't want to play with girls and he has a best friend that he's going to marry. And it's a lad. This playground menage-a-trois led to the most heart-rending note, in her handwriting, waiting on our welcome mat when we got home:

To E I love uoy are my best frend love fron C

His answer? 'Mummy, what's this card for?'. Poor C.

So, today his real male best friend came over and I met a new son. This son is excessively boisterous, obsessed by Ben 10 (which I don't let him watch) and has the strongest Yorkshire accent you have ever heard. Doing nothing to disprove Freudian theories of phallocentricity they even kept pulling their shorts out to compare willies (even though I told them not to. Repeatedly). This son doesn't put his toys away and doesn't cuddle me. He rarely sucks his thumb and runs like the wind. He shouts and shouts and shouts until I am sick. He looks very like my son, but he's just a bit more savvy, and a real leader.

It reinforced that men and women are very different creatures. Even if I do find someone to start a relationship with there's always a chance that anything I do for them will be met with an (unspoken) 'what's this for?'

A straw poll: did your Mum attempt to foist a friend on you? What was the matter with them? You can post anonymously remember.

Regrowing the family tree

2008-08-12T17:29:00.004+01:00

I am back from France having gained a fair few freckles and lost a couple of grammes due to my salad-centric diet there. One thing that struck me whilst there was the whole notion of family.

The Mediterraneans know how to do family. Walk down the side streets and you often see a cluster of grandparents and parents and children sat on chairs on the pavement having animated and interesting foreign conversations (probably: "what the hell are those red-faced, sweaty, rucksack-toting tossers doing taking a photo of this street?"). Children are prevalent abroad: they go to restaurants until the middle of the night, they play on streets, the 13 year old ones drive scooters right at you full pelt (protected only by their insouciance: helmets and, heck, t-shirts, are for losers).

The odd thing for me was being a single parent. Now, I'm not claiming that France has no single parents but I didn't notice any. Everywhere there were couples with babies or extended families. In the hotel there was very firmly a Mum and a Dad collecting the kid's Coco-pops. Why is this? Are there far fewer single families abroad or is it simply that single parents can't afford to travel? It is shockingly hard to cope financially as a single parent: you have all the expense but only a half of the income (or in my case a third as my ex earned twice what I do). Additionally, it is exceptionally tiring travelling as a single parent: theoretically you can't even go to the loo on your own - you have to have your kid with you 24-7 as there isn't another pair of eyes to watch them. I remember the outcry after Maddie McCann's abduction about the children being left on their own in the apartment: it doesn't bear thinking about.

But luckily for me I am becoming more Mediterranean in familial matters. Trees regrow branches when one has been cut off. My family tree has had one major branch lopped off rather dramatically when my son and I were left by my ex, but instead we are relying on the older boughs of our family tree and holidaying with my parents. This means I can afford to take my son to places significantly more interesting and stimulating than my back yard; and - and this is a great thing- I can actually go to the toilet on my own abroad.

We're regrowing our family tree.

No, I don't eat fish. Or chicken.

2008-08-03T21:44:00.000+01:00

In choosing the perfect holiday destination you should take into account characteristics particular to yourself.

Firstly, I have special skin that comes in four modes:
Mode 1: white
Mode 2: scarlet (following the least exposure to sun)
Mode 3: freckly
Mode 4: peeling

Additionally, I am a vegetarian. A proper one. I do not eat anything that once had a face or a parent and I call any pseudo-vegetarians who ´just eat fish´fish-and-chipocrites.
So, taking into account my skin type and feeding foibles where is the ideal holiday destination for me? Clearly (a) an organic vegetable farm in Reykjavik or, (b) my house.

In fact, I am in southern France.

French waiters have a special Gallic shrug reserved for vegetarians. In one shoulder move they can convey their total amazement that the namby-pamby carrot bothering Britons could ever have won at Crecy or Agincourt and in revenge all I'm going to get fed is an omelette. Hah.
However, there's something great about the holiday. I may be eating salad like a C-list celebrity on course for a 'How I shed the baby weight' special in OK Magazine, I may be smothered in Factor Duffle coat sun-repellent cream. But I haven't had a single argument all holiday unlike the humdinger I had with my ex on the train to Krakow this time last year.

That's progress.

Doing it Yourself

2008-07-24T22:38:00.007+01:00

In this world there are two sorts of people. The first decorate their house every year and take annual leave from work to achieve a new habitat all based around a leaf motif they saw in Good Housekeeping magazine. Then there's people like me. I buy quite nice houses and then let entropy take over to the point where it becomes a crap hole and I move somewhere else into a home one of the Other Type of people has done up. Simple.

This is not purely down to laziness. It is because I've never felt very confident about decorating so I've always felt it unwise to start with a half decent room and end up with rubble a few short hours afterwards. So I don't decorate. Or at least I didn't until this year. I always took my post-backlash feminism extremely seriously during my marriage and left all DIY type jobs to my ex. Only, sadly, he isn't the Good Housekeeping type either so it never got done.

Today, dear reader, has been a day of new starts. I painted my porch. This is not the simple task it sounds. My porch is huge and was constructed by Heath Robinson in the late 1970s of untoughened glass and putty. Wet rot had allowed holes to develop in the superstructure. It has been thoroughly gnawed by a rabbit.

In the past 12 hours I have toughened the wet rot with Ronseal sealant. I have filled the holes with putty. I have painted all the woodwork. Sadly, I am not an adept DIY-er as I get bored easily: I'd much rather slap putty and paint around than, you know, sand or prepare surfaces. The puttied areas look like one of those Christmas cakes that are iced roughly to resemble a well-skied mogul field. However, there are now no holes in my porch and I'm proud of myself for getting it all done in 12 hours, whilst also teaching my son to play tennis. I'm such a DIY queen that I'm sure Nick Knowles will be around to recruit me to help with his plumbing*. I wish.

So, just how much of an independent Doing it for Myself Amazon am I? Well, there's one thing I ought to admit. Whilst I was in the shower washing off several laminated layers of paint'n'putty the shower curtain frame detached itself from the wall and fell on my head. As I don't own a drill I had to get my ex round to put a new one up. But I told him to buy me a drill for my birthday on behalf of our son. So, maybe come September I will wholly be doing it for myself.

* Yes, I do recognise this was rude and unnecessary. But you don't know just how bad my Nick Knowles obsession is...

Do me a favour

2008-07-20T18:10:00.004+01:00

In the interests of veracity and well-scrubbed-lacrosse-stick-toting-play-up-and-play-the-game-girls-fair play I ought to admit that my ex is currently doing me a number of favours. This is somewhat of a surprise as I was out of favour for about half a decade. Last week he brought me some fresh milk round after mine solidified on contact with hot coffee in an unpleasantly ploppy manner. On Saturday I realised that I had left something vital with him last time he looked after our son and that the absence of this chit of paper was going to cost me a small fortune. So I rang him. He didn't answer on any of the first five calls as his mobile is always on silent. Finally I reached him and explained my predicament. He had Important Business to attend to and could not drop the chit off. I pleaded and he agreed to meet me somewhere half way between where I am and where he was going to deliver said chit. This, in itself, is little short of miraculous because we rarely ever met in a half-way-between-where-I-am-and-half-way-to-where-he-was-going manner whilst married, neither in time nor space nor emotion. So, we met, I got the chit and off we both went with a smile and a wave. There was grace and there was a favour.

Thinking about this on the train to Manchester (whilst waiting forlornly for the free coffee to arrive. It didn't) I realised:
1. Whilst I was in favour at the beginning of the relationship he made me happy
2. He helped make our son and that's the greatest favour anyone could bestow
3. And, at the end, he did me a favour by leaving me with my son and the house; dignity a little tattered and heart thoroughly broken; but in a position where I can regroup and become the person who writes this blog.

He's done me a favour.

Feeling supersonic, give me gin and tonic

2008-07-12T17:14:00.007+01:00

I doubt you need a refresher on quantum mechanics, but here's one. Nils Bohr's quantum theory suggested that as matter behaves differently at the quantum level that we had to 'look' at the matter for it to behave as expected in our world. Hugh Everett III's many-world theory gets around the idea that it appears that at the quantum level matter behaves oddly (it exists in two places at once; freaky) and he suggested the many-worlds interpretation. Basically, Everett suggests that whenever we come to an important decision another parallel universe is created where the choice we chose not to take is followed. So, you go to Dorothy Perkins, remember your bank balance and don't buy the gorgeous frock. Everett would suggest in a parallel Universe another you buys the frock, goes out, parties and maybe ends up marrying the lead singer of a major 80s band such as Duran Duran. Bet you wish you'd bought the frock now, don't you?

So, somewhere in a parallel universe there is another me whose husband didn't leave at the beginning of February. Last night she would have eaten pasta & pesto alone in front of the TV and then snoozed on the sofa. At 2am she would have run up the stairs to bed at the sound of his key in the back door to avoid a fight. Meanwhile, her colleagues would be out celebrating the end of term.

But, I don't live in that Universe because my husband did leave. And so, last night was another milestone. I went to a staff do. This is a big deal (although not enough of a big deal to warrant random capitalisation). I had a blast and behaved fairly disgracefully. I admitted a wholly inappropriate crush to a colleague. I did bum-to-bum dancing whilst pouting with mates. My mini-me friend and I decided that even though there are 12 years between us we were going speed-dating whilst pretending to be sisters because that would make us hotter. For some reason my mate and I ordered about 7 taxis which never arrived so we commandeered a lift to town with a faculty leader's boyfriend. Who we've never met before. I snogged a completely random stranger who is about a decade younger than me in a club. I didn't get to bed before 4am. At one point a kid who I used to teach asked me if I was stoned (no, I wasn't) but I did suggest that the state I was in could be aptly summed up by these Oasis lyrics:

I need to be myself

I can't be no one else

I'm feeling supersonic

Give me gin and tonic

Actually, I didn't need any more gin and tonic because it appears that I was a major factor in the bar running out of gin. No, really. Anyway, I'm glad I live in my supersonic Universe and I feel really sorry for the alternative me in a parallel Universe who is probably having an argument with an alternative ex-husband right now. But, I have to say I'm quite jealous of the other alternative me who once picked a dress that I rejected and is now Mrs le Bon. Well? I can dream.

A game: please (anonymously, if you wish) tell me what an alternative version of you is doing in a parallel universe. This must be based on a decision you made and where the flip-side might have ended up. Go on, it'll be fun - and you can post anonymously!

This is my truth. Tell me yours.

2008-07-10T21:08:00.003+01:00

As I was tucking my son in tonight he asked me what 'fiction' meant. As he's five I told him it meant stories that people make up that aren't true. However, this chimed with a number of thoughts I have been thinking that were crying out to be blogged. I have been questioning where fact ends and fiction starts.

My ex told me that an old friend of ours had contacted him for a chat. The reason this was done was that this old friend had seen me in my bitter early days following the split and couldn't believe what I had said about him was true. The person she'd always known and the person I described just didn't intersect. However, when I considered things more closely I did recognise that my ex was two people: the person I married and the person I split up with. She used to know the person I married and I would never have split up from him. However, the person I split up from was different and it's better that we are apart these days.

Then another old friend pointed out, in a lawyerly fashion, that my ex ought not to see this blog as it might prejudice any future divorce proceedings between us. I've had a re-read and whilst it's not particularly complimentary it doesn't outright libel him. I've said a lot worse to his face. Am I being unreasonable writing this? I don't think so and I'd like to think that maybe in a decade's time he could read it and grudgingly admit that all the things that attracted him to me are demonstrated on these pages. Or maybe not.

So, what is my truth these days? Well, I'm just so happy that I can't even explain it without drooping down to some trite simile. I'm confident, I'm my own person and I'm totally happy with myself. For a number of years I've been hidden away from the world because my marriage was so dire and my self-esteem was rock bottom. One friend recently told me that, until recently, I was the most lonely person she'd ever met: always home alone and often in tears from some marital spat. I would say that I can't imagine being like that any more but that's not true. I see it every day, in reflection, when my ex comes to collect our son. He's so lost and depressed and guilty about the split. I truly wish him well and wish that he could feel happy.

This is my truth. Tell me yours.

In loco parentis

2008-06-30T19:45:00.004+01:00

If I were playing 'let's speak comedy Latin' then 'in loco parentis' would probably be translated as: push your Mother under the train. However, it really means 'to take the place of a parent'. This particular phrase is A Big Deal, in fact, enough of A Big Deal to warrant completely random capitalisation.

So, following this Latin refresher, your task is to write down what you understand by the phrase: 'married, with children'. Even those whose DNA pool is on the shallow side would recognise that those words will mean that the spouse in question will have:
(a) a husband or wife, and
(b) offspring, progeny, sprogs, kids, descendants or whatever other name you have for them...

Now my ex's new-girlfriend has a bit of an issue with (a). Despite the fact they went on holiday whilst he was still married to me she gets all funny about the word 'wife' and won't talk to him for a week if he uses it. The fact that he was married would be a rather large hint as to the existence of a wife, wouldn't you think?

It gets better though. This weekend my ex introduced her to his children. So how do you think she reacted? Of course, if you are deeply in love with a new partner you will do everything in your power to make that first meeting with their kids as wonderful as it can be. When I met my step-son for the first time we took him to the railway museum and had a great time with him. What did my ex's girlfriend do? Apparently, she sat in stony silence ignoring the children all evening and got stroppy about him showing affection to them. Oh brother.

So, rather than being in loco parentis, as she should be, she is in fact totally loco about going out with a parent.

Things taught to me by sixth formers

2008-06-28T16:45:00.002+01:00

Last night I went to the Sixth form ball. This is what I have learnt from the experience:

1) Don't have any photos taken in profile. Not good.
2) Don't have any photos taken straight on. Worse.
3) Don't have photos taken with 18 year olds. You will look like something Hans Christian Andersson rejected from a witch fairytale as just too disturbing.
4) Don't drink lots of wine and gin and then hand your camera to sixth formers and ask them to take pictures of you together. There are some things about yourself you should never see should you wish to retain your sanity.
5) Everyone else in the world, except me, knows how to do a line dance thingummy dance to Whigfield's 'Saturday Night'. And that 'Cha-cha-step' nonsense. This makes me proud.
6) All DJs are tossers. Particularly bald ones from Garforth.
7) It's probably not dignified to emote through 'Time of my life' from Dirt Dancing if you want to retain any shred of dignity.
8) The idea of profiteroles is significantly more attractive than the reality of profiteroles.
9) Duran Duran are godlike genius. 'Girls on Film' attracted lots of dancers. Nice work.
10) Ignore any shite you hear about kids today. The ones I know are simply gorgeous. Particularly when stood next to women twice their age....

Rebarbative

2008-06-23T22:37:00.003+01:00

During second year at University I was still under the misapprehension that I ought to do an English Literature degree. That year we studied the Romantic poets thus starting a lifelong dislike of Wordsworth's 'Tintern Abbey'. However, the main recollection I have of Second Arts Eng Lit is how much I hated a bloke called Martin and a new word I learnt. Rebarbative.

Martin was one of the most reviled characters it is ever possible to meet on an undergrad course. He was a mature student. Who climbed mountains. For fun. He had the audacity to turn up at tutorials having done not only his reading but research too. Without a hangover. And on time. How rude. He had furry blue legs (some lame mountain outfit) and a beard. Ohh, how I hated the beard. It was like some highland rodent creature had smeared itself around his gob with the express intent of making his lips look horribly pink and wet. So, whilst idly flicking through the dictionary I found a word to define Martin:

rebarbative: /ri'ba:baetiv/ adj. literary repellent, unattractive [f rebarbatif - ive f. barbe beard]

Loud was the chortling when I discovered that 'repellent' could be a synonym for 'bearded'. It seemed to suit Martin extremely well, and a lifelong inability to fancy men with beards was born.

And I often think that girl is long gone. I don't read the dictionary for fun any more. I did a teacher training course where I was exactly the sort of know-it-all-look-I-got-all-As sort of mature student I loathed when I was an undergrad. I quite like mountains. I turn up for things early without a hangover. But certain parts of one's psyche NEVER alter.

My ex has taken the opportunity of being a free operator to express himself. And he has done this via the medium of ... a beard.

Rebarbative, indeed.

Remember the date

2008-06-20T19:54:00.004+01:00

Well, after much fannying about and emailing I went on a date last night. Being me, I managed to sabotage my appearance early on in the preparation process by dousing both my eyes with shampoo: the albino-rabbit-blazing-red-eye thing is so not a good look. However, in a frock and emo quantities of black eyeliner, I set off.

And the datee in question was great: good looking, articulate, amusing and good fun. I managed to chat for a good few hours without marking an arse of myself (I think), and thoroughly enjoyed myself. And, no I didn't snog him (I can see you're desperate to ask...). We parted at 10:10 for me to walk back to my car and for 300 yards of the Headrow in Leeds I had a big grin on my face: I'd done something grown-up pretty well. It felt significant.

So then I checked my phone. And two hours beforehand the babysitter had tried to contact me to tell me my son had woken up to find me gone. The poor wee thing had cried inconsolably for nearly two hours because he wanted his Mummy. And where was she? Blithely drinking fruit juice in a bar where you just can't hear your phone. I zoomed home to him and he clasped my hair so tightly to try to feel secure again. Just heartbreaking.

And that's when I realised: when I remember the date that's going to be the feeling that will stay with me. Guilt. You can't do both things: you are either a single girl or a single mother. And I'm the latter. So, I'll remember the date but I don't think I'll be repeating it.

You're my wife, now.

2008-06-16T22:24:00.005+01:00

Many years ago my ex and I joked that after the exchange of rings at our wedding ceremony he was going to say 'you're my wife now' in the style of Papa Lazarou from 'League of Gentlemen'. We didn't. Indeed, it would be very hard to discern from his behaviour and attitude in the past two years that I was his wife in any meaningful form. But tonight he did say I was his 'wife'. How did we get to this outbreak of proprietary interest, hmmmn?

1. I'm looking pretty good these days. I saw a really dear friend on Saturday for the first time in ages. She said that I'd lost weight since the last time she saw me. In fact, I've piled on quite a few pounds to the point that all the buttons on my capri pants are pinging off quicker than hail on a tin roof. However, I appear thinner because I'm happy. Actually, I'm bloody happy. And a smile in the eyes and a bounce around the knees knocks about 4 inches off your visible arse. I'm patenting it as the 'Grin Plan Diet'.

2. I'm not jealous about his girlfriend any more. Indeed, I was asking cordially and with totally unfeigned interest about their trip to the Lakes at the weekend. Obviously this makes her a smidge less attractive as she's no longer forbidden fruit. Shame.

3. The old me is back. Another friend told me that splitting up with my ex has done wonders for my confidence and I'm a 'different person'. I had to tell her that I was always like this, it just got hidden under a misery duvet for the past few years. The old me used to get together with the girls and get thoroughly trolleyed a lot. Anyone who has seen my Facebook lately can see the reappearance of this phenomena.

4. He's jealous. Really wormy emerald-hued jealousy. Because I've got a date on Thursday. Artlessly, I asked him to babysit because, after all, I was always home looking after our son when he was off sniffing after his new girlfriend. In Berlin. For a week. Whilst we were properly married. Let me just check: oh yeah, he's moved out, he's going away for B&B weekends in the Lakes with her, and he's asked me for a divorce. So, really me going on a date isn't really a Mata Hari level of betrayal, is it?

So, he said that he was finding it hard that his 'wife' was going on a date. I informed him, kindly but firmly, that I'm his ex-wife. I'm not your wife now, because it's my life now.

Gold

2008-06-08T20:35:00.005+01:00

This post will concern gold in four forms: firstly, my wedding and engagement rings; secondly, as a prize for physical exertion; thirdly, as a colour for sandals and fourthly, with reference to the Spandau Ballet classic.

Firstly: my gold wedding and engagement rings. I'm not wearing them. They are in a little box in my safe and I'm not going to put them back on. It has taken me a good few months to finally take them off permanently and oddly, there is no mark on my finger where they used to be. I also don't miss them. I think it is fair to say, dear reader, I'm over my marriage break-up.

Secondly, I deserve a gold medal for waking up at 9:30am this morning and still making it to the gym for a 10am legs, bums and tums class. I haven't done a class for eight years and I did OK with grapevines and lunges but indulged myself in a lot of lying comfortably on my mat during the sit ups, and not sitting up. But I have negotiated about 10 babysitting sessions from my ex so I can keep going. Buns of steel, here I come.

Thirdly, gold sandals. All women look forward with anticipation to the day the black lumpy sensible winter shoes come off and the glittery strappy sandals go on. However, some odd coding in our DNA means we forget just how painful sandals are. We are lulled into a false sense of security by the shop. In the beautifully air-conditioned carpeted shop we slip our feet into accommodating and cute sandals and marvel at their comfort. We then make the big mistake of wearing them outside on a hot day. Our feet puff up in the unaccustomed warmth. The straps of our sandals gouge into the puffiness. The straps flay all the skin from your heels. The toe straps gouge into your toes until they are practically severed. I reckon that the true secret of the Catholic Church is that all nuns who are suggested for sainthood because they have stigmata on their feet have actually simply been wearing their summer sandals for a few hours. You know it makes sense. Anyway, today I chose not to wear my ugly comfy beige Scholl sandals to town but wore my gorgeous kitten heeled, gold gladiator sandals instead. I hobbled, but in an enormously sexy manner. As a married women I always chose comfort over sexiness. No more.

Finally, and phew, ain't this a long post? Gold, by Spandau Ballet. Last night I went on a birthday do with lots of lovely ladies. I lost my karaoke virginity in a little booth. Diffidently I hummed along with the others until enough cocktail had been imbibed to make me believe (wrongly) that I can sing. The last ten minutes were spent howling marvellously and the words of Gold by Spandau Ballet sum up just how I feel at the moment:

There's nothing left to make me feel small

Luck has left me standing so tall

Gold

Always believe in your soul

You've got the power to know

You're indestructible

How are you?

2008-06-02T18:19:00.004+01:00

Say these words in your head: "How are you?". How did they sound? Concerned? Interested? Bored? Insincere? Quizzical? Like Joey from 'Friends'? Hmmn? It's impossible for you to know how I meant them to be read/mentally said because I typed them and you read them. According to semiotic theory they are arbitrary signs to which you, the reader, attach a significance according to your cultural bent. Phew, I'll stop showing off now.

Anyway, I'm suffering a similar problem at the moment because I'm finding it impossible to read emails. Ok, I can read them, but I can't read them. I'm emailing a bloke via an internet dating site and I can't tell whether his responses are quite amusing or dull as ditchwater because I can't tell whether certain phrases are ironic or not. In person this would be very simple, I could use verbal and non-verbal clues to work it out. On my laptop screen they are a befuddling mix of 'does he mean this or that'? Is there a wry wit or is it dry shit? The worst part of it is that I always find the wrong thing funny. Not like laughing at old ladies falling over (although I would and so would you) but at films. A marvellous friend with whom I go to the flicks says that half the fun of the film is me guffawing away in the bits of the film where nobody else is laughing. I find that bit of film funny so I cackle. Semiotics again. But what if these emails aren't truly amusing, it's just the significance I attach to them?

It's all very difficult. Of course if I wasn't a grade A wimp I could just email and say meet me for a coffee in town. But then that would make me have to trade my nice, safe virtual world for the real, frightening world where I might have to meet a real stranger and say 'Hello, how are you?".

D-i-v-o-r-c-e

2008-05-29T20:42:00.002+01:00

What do you usually find on the day you come back from holiday? For most people it's a pile of letters on the doormat and that you didn't remember to throw the milk out after all... For me, it is that my ex has had some change of heart and is about to drop a bombshell.

On New Year's Eve 2007 I was travelling back from holiday and at the service station at Donington on the M1 I rang my husband. He chose that point to tell me he was moving out. Move forward a few months and at the same sodding services I get a text asking me when I'd be home because he needed to talk to me urgently. Now this could have meant one of two things: (a) he wanted to get back together or, (b) he wanted a divorce. I know it sounds unlikely that I wasn't sure which it would be but he's that bloody mercurial that it could be either.

Anyway, I get home and he turns up late (he'd fallen ASLEEP at home. How ungallant). It turns out that he wants a divorce so he can 'move on'. I did question how much more moving on there was to be done considering he lived in a flat and had another girlfriend... Which is the problem. Apparently she's not happy that we're still married and whenever he mentions the 'W' word* (wombat? Wakefield? weaving? windscreen wipers?) she has a stropette and goes all silent for a week. So we need to get divorced.

Now I have absolutely NO problem with not being married to him but I do have a problem with getting divorced. Mainly that I object to spending over a grand on doing it. I spent £14,000 on a wedding for heaven's sake and that was FUN, a divorce is just a big waste of cash that could be better spent on clothes or shoes or nights out or holidays or .... well, anything apart from a decree nisi. So, I won't divorce him because I don't want to waste what little money I have and he can't divorce me because I haven't committed adultery (but I live in hope :-) ), my behaviour isn't unreasonable and I don't consent.

So, it looks like his new girlfriend is going to have to put up with me being wifey for a lot bloody longer. Oh dear.

*wife, apparently.

Things that make you go 'ah'

2008-05-29T19:16:00.004+01:00

Blowing one's own trumpet and showing off is Not Done. But I got this card from my Year 13s and it made me cry it was so sweet. So, I'm going to reproduce the comments and be quietly proud of myself.

Thank you so much for everything: you have by far made law my favourite subject

No one could ever have come up with such ridiculous ways to help us remember about a zillion cases. Thank you for being brilliant ... and a little bit weird!

Dearest Mrs __, I am ever so grateful for your teaching in law, I enjoyed the classes enormously, your personality brightening even the most boring parts of law.

Thanks for being an amazing teacher. We love you!

Law would never have been so enjoyable without you as a teacher - God knows what I'm going to do at Uni! Thank you ever so much

Thank you soooo much for your help over the past two years, you're a lovely person and a hard teacher to follow

Thank you for EVERYTHING!! You have been a great teacher, they will never live up to you at Uni...

Thank you for being the most random, great teacher and for convincing me to do law.

I'm very proud to be random and a little bit weird if it can make sane human beings love studying law...

Two-faced, me?

2008-05-18T22:23:00.004+01:00

Lots of things are proving to me that I'm two-faced. I don't mean that I spend my whole life air-kissing past people's cheeks one moment and then turning to slag off the size of their arse the next. No, I'm learning that I have two faces and they look in very different directions.

Most women have these two faces but I'm not sure that we are conscious of it. The first is the face our friends see. Women are most the person they are, deep down, when they're with their friends. The other face is the one the person we're in a relationship sees: it looks identical but it's very different. Because this face represents the person that we've become in THAT relationship. Sometimes women are almost the same person with their friends that they are with their partner, and I reckon these are the happiest couples. At the other extreme there are two entirely different faces because you have to change your expression dramatically to cope with the relationship you're in. I barely saw my friends with my ex as it was impossible to maintain these two masks at once. The scrutiny of publicity made it clear that what was on show wasn't a face, it was a facade.

Last night my real face was on show because old friends came over. Ironically two of my bridesmaids were at my house whilst my ex's best man was at his flat. I know what face my ex showed: it's always the same. Me? Well, there was no facade and a huge beam all over my face. I'm not in a relationship right now and you know what? I'm enjoying not being two-faced.

Enjoy the silence?

2008-05-13T00:56:00.003+01:00

Right, imagine your job. What is the essential tool of your trade? (If Belle de Jour is reading this, which I know she's not, please don't answer. I grew up in Watford and I don't need to hear about foofs. Cheers).

I know what is vital to my job. It's my voice. And, rather unwisely, I have lost it. Since about 11am today I have gone through a gentle transition from:

Slightly raspy (hmmn, worrying warning sign)

Husky (a la Honor Blackman, or so I'd like to think)

Croaky (a la Kermit the frog)

Tuning in and out (a la 14 year old boys with hormone issues)

whispering (Bob Harris, obviously)

Nada, nowt, nothing at all.

The thing about lost voices is that you need to rest them and not do any talking whatsoever. Since my ex left this is now easy for me as after I put my son to bed at 7pm at night I know I won't speak again until he gets up at 7am (unless I talk to the TV - c'mon, I know you do too). At first this silence upset me. I am a chattery person and I found it wholly unnatural to spend hours in silence. But now I'm starting to get used to it, particularly as I have found my 'voice' on here. Too many of the words I used before my ex left were 'I'm sorry', usually for things he'd done but that I apologised for in a pre-emptive anti-strop strike.

These days I have restorative and recuperative evenings where my voice gets a rest. Tonight it's vital to give me my teaching tool back for the morrow. However, it's also good that I don't have to speak to defend, or explain, or deny. I'm starting to enjoy the silence.

Just one click

2008-05-09T19:26:00.004+01:00

As it's Friday night my thoughts turn incorrigibly to my ex and what he's up to. He's at an artschmooze thingy with his new girlfriend. As I generally disliked his artist mates I'm not jealous of the event, just that he's there with his someone.

Now, don't get me wrong: I'm not heading down path into Sadsville, but it just feels a teensy bit unfair that he's seeing someone and I'm not. Of course, I spend all my weekends with a tall, exceedingly handsome, articulate and funny gentleman who's a big fan of eating out and loves to accompany me to the cinema. But he's only 5. And my son. Which doesn't really count.

What I'd like to do is click with somebody. Maybe not be in love and all that stuff which, frankly, is just too much like hard work, but just have someone to send silly texts to and flirt with. Or maybe email or Facebook. Heavens, I could even hit the Holy Grail of Facebooking and change my relationship status from'It's complicated' to 'in a relationship with'. Which leads me to my 'click' motif.

I'd really rather like to click with someone and there is somebody on Guardian Soulmates that I really quite like the look and sound of. He's a 75% match for me but I'm a 98% match for him (of course I am). But the problem is that I treat Soulmates rather like parties in my student days. I go, hang about for a bit, feel a bit out place, develop a crush and then walk off without saying a word. I then write anguished prose about it (in my student days in my diary. Nowadays? well, you're reading it!).

So to click would maybe just take one click. But do I dare?

How to make your friends influence people?

2008-05-04T22:43:00.007+01:00

I just got a lovely Facebook email from a friend pointing out the existence of this website: http://www.mysinglefriend.com/. The idea is that friends nominate their single friends for the site. This is based on the sound advertising technique of word-of-mouth which is now known on the internet as Viral Advertising. I have to say that linking the concepts of dating and viruses makes me a little queasy... Anyhow, advertisers have long known that people trust people they know rather than random people on the telly. Therefore, if my friends tell potential dates I've got a GSOH, I'm attractive and that you get used to the smell after a while (the flies certainly did) the potential dater will be more trusting of my credentials.

The issue with all this is the potential semantic pitfalls my friends could fall into. If they use the wrong adjective all hell could break lose. A misplaced comma could be the difference between eternal love and a lifetime of pasta'n'sauce for one. I've been on Guardian Soulmates for a month being all picky about the unattractive men who've looked at my profile and quietly smug about the attractive ones. Over that time I created my 'Dating Site Dictionary' and I will now allow you into the linguistic mantraps the unwary dater/nominator may fall into:

'Loyal' - this means creepy and clingy. Avoid.
'Healthy Lifestyle' - this means steroid-munching-vein-popping half-wit. Avoid.
'Nice' - obviously didn't listen in English lessons when we told people to uses thesauruses (thesauri?). Avoid.
'Empathic' - did listen in English lessons when told to use a thesaurus. Hence a swot. Avoid.
'Creative' - made a thumb-pot in Y4 at primary school that his Mum pretended to really like and put on a shelf. Avoid.
'Vivacious' - a woman. Avoid. (Men are never described as vivacious, are they?)
'Tactile' - Sex-pest. Avoid.
'Funny' - this may actually mean funny/peculiar. With a weird tic. Avoid.
'Irreverent' - tells jokes about Polish people and stares at your tits. Avoid.
'Used to play guitar in a band' - once strummed a guitar at someone else's party. Is pretentious and a liar. Avoid.
'likes reading' - may own 'Bravo-Two-Zero'. Avoid. Avoid. Avoid.

Now, my friends are all hyper-literate and super-adept with a semi-colon. Nearly all rely on their advanced powers of language-wrangling to earn a ciabatta crust. Therefore, I would trust my friends to influence people. The only problem is the Mr Right out there who needs to be influenced is the one who'd read the testimonial and mentally tag it 'Avoid'.

OK, here's today's game. If you know me or (even better) if you don't you can leave an anonymous comment suggesting what should be said about me on a dating website...

Falling flat on my face

2008-05-03T12:33:00.007+01:00

Last night I wore heels for the first time in ten years and I spent some idle moments (of which I normally have none) wondering whether I was going to be able to steer them.

Brilliantly, I managed to fall flat on my face. Not wearing the heels but at 3.30pm on leaving school. I got my completely flat and totally sensible school shoes entangled in the hem of my trousers and fell over. Chin first. The graze on my chin is the only terrestrial thing visible to the scientists on the International Space station currently: it's that large and livid looking. It didn't bode well for heels + booze...

So, the old me would have had a cry and used it as a reason not to got to Year 11 prom. And the old me certainly wouldn't have worn the heels. The new me slathered industrial quantities of Touche Eclat on to my chin and tottered out in my gorgeous heels. At Y11 prom I had a fantastic time watching a load of 15 year olds be magnificent. The girls all looked 25 years old and like the next 63 members of the Sugababes. The boys looked like 12 year old children in tuxes. Bless. The excitement was palpable and they all screeched in such high-pitched voices that only dogs could hear what was being said. At 11pm it was all over and they headed for the afterparties (read snogging in shrubbery at their mates' houses. Or worse). I could have gone home, and the old me would have.

The new me shot home, changed into a little frock and headed for the town. Extremely drunkenly I had an 'unmarriage' ceremony in a bar where the wedding rings came off and went in my bag. Then we headed to a club so I could dance with tall men for the first time in a decade. Predictably, a man did come to dance with me but he was so tiny that he appeared to be a prototype for humanity (ah, this is a scale model of what mankind will look like, the real men will be twice this size).

So, last night I fell flat on my face. But do you know what? These days I'm brilliant at picking myself up.

Things that didn't exist last time I was single...

2008-04-29T18:31:00.018+01:00

So, this is just how much the world has changed since the last time I was single.

When I was last single (in 1996) the following didn't exist:

This millennium.
Wireless internet. In fact back then nobody had the internet at home and we wrote letters to people. With addresses and stamps and everything.
Hair straighteners. Back in 1996 frizzy hair didn't exist. Or at least it did but it didn't lead to social pariah status or the requirement to buy hair products that repel the weather (imaginary conversation - the rain to humidity: "Christ, she's wearing John Frieda conditioner, that's disgusting ... let's scarper")
The idea that leaving home without your mobile was completely normal. I doubt I had texted in 1996. What on earth did I do on buses?
Facebook. I'm not adding Bebo to the list as I assume none of my readers have ever had a Bebo. And if they do I'll crap myself as it probably means my blog has been tracked down by one of the kids I teach and my life is now no longer worth living...
Big Brother (Endemol version, rather than Orwell's. I'm not that old)
Cillit Bang
My belly, as back in 1996 I had a midriff. And it was on display. A lot. I remember once spending a lot of time at a Sleeper gig pointing out that my friends and I had concave stomachs compared to Louise Wiener's convex one. Lord, I was a cow. But a skinny cow.
Wikipedia. Can you imagine a world where you can't find out at 3am what the Latin name for a camel is? Or who invented the umbrella? A truly frightening concept. (and yes, I am going to post this blog and then find out the answer to BOTH those questions - if Wikipedia doesn't know I'm really not going to sleep well fretting about it...)
My son

I bet a chill wind has blown over you at the very idea that only a decade ago you heedlessly and wantonly went places with crinkly hair; you didn't text your friend that you were on the way, and (heaven forfend!) you didn't post the photographic evidence of it on Facebook afterwards. Good thing too probably because this was the 90s and you would have been wearing a lumberjack shirt (damn you Nirvana), eyebrows bushier than the Chelsea Flower Show's herbaceous border and lots of red lipstick.

Listing all that has proven to me how well I adapted over the years to change and I'll adapt well again. I just wish I could trade my belly for my 90s midriff.

P.s. I'd love any visitors to join this game: post a comment listing something that didn't exist ten years ago (you can do it anonymously, y'know)

Move on? There's nobody to see here.

2008-04-29T11:44:00.011+01:00

Last night my ex told me that I needed to 'move on' which sounds to me like I'm some sort of rubbernecker at a gruesome car crash. Which in a sense I am ('Move on please Madame, there's nothing to see in the wreck of your marriage'). What he really meant was 'Please could you meet someone else to assuage my guilt about my new girlfiriend'.

So, is there any issue with this? Well, one at least. The majority of people meet their significant others in the workplace. I met my ex in my last career. What's the problem with me doing the same now? The problem is my school's recruitment policy...

Every job advert and specification sets out the criteria for the successful applicant: they must be an excellent classroom teacher with vision and a commitment to children's learning. In reality there is a secret paragraph not visible to the naked idea which says: "the successful candidate will be a single woman in her early twenties. She will be under eight stone and have sleek shiny hair. A Top Shop account card will be an advantage". If you go into the staffroom it's like a casting for 'Hollyoaks'. This does not provide a useful pool for potential boyfriends. Frankly, it would be like going to a singles night held specifically for people who want to meet Serbo-Croat speaking paraplegics with an interest in tractors. It's a bit too specialist.

We're in the middle of recruiting next September's crew of staff. We had a vacancy for a Maths teacher and I perked up immensely as I've always considered this to be the most likely equation:

maths vacancy + interviewee = possible single late 30's male

Who was the only external candidate? A pretty young woman, blonde haired and about 25. Sigh.

Move on? There's nobody to see here.

Uplifts and downturns..

2008-04-27T17:48:00.000+01:00

With apologies to any gentlemen who may have stumbled upon these pages the next few lines are about undergarments, in fact this post is going to be about bras and control pants but this will be a metaphor for a much larger and more important issue; therefore you are excused any blushes as it is figurative rather than about my figure...

So, today I took a step that all recently single woman have to take. I went to Bravissimo. I had inspected my underwear drawer and, frankly, all my bras have been washed so many times that I have no idea what colour they used to be. Also, they only 'fit' as such because they hang off my shoulders and fasten, but beyond that Gok Wan, Trinny, Susannah and that frightening android woman off '10 Years Younger' would have ridiculed them for at least a 1/3 of a programme. A lovely Mumsy lady in Bravissimo reassessed and reviewed, changed 36C to, erm, 34F and sent me off uplifted in all the ways a lady can be.

All good thus far but when and where did the downturn occur? In Debenhams, inevitably. I was in there to buy the final item all single women require. Industrially reinforced control pants which could contain and/or repel a host of charging wildebeest. I struggled into a number of unsightly and unfeasible garments until I found a pair that looked like cycling shorts redesigned by a colour-blind and quite sadistic surgeon (surely NOBODY has skin THAT colour). They looked dreadful but did kind things to my figure when re-clothed, so, proud of myself I headed to the checkout.

Since Christmas I have had a £50 Debenhams giftcard tucked in my purse. It was, and will remain, the last Christmas present ever given to me by my ex-husband. For four months I've looked round Debenhams plotting the opportunity to spend it but saving it up for a big treat - after all, he owes me one. I handed it over to the cashier who swiped it, instead of ringing up a sale it made a 'beep' noise, she then punched in the bar code numbers, beep again. She did that rubbing thing that shops do with cards. Beep again. It had been declined. In front of the cashier (who was giving me a 'you obviously nicked it' look) I rang the helpline which announced that it had never been activated. I had to leave without the concrete pants and with a smidgen less pride.

In case you have missed the metaphor I will spell it out (like the good English teacher I am). The bra represents moving onwards and upwards; the control pants the reverses that can come at the single woman from nowhere. But what will I see when I look in the mirror? my new uplifted decolletage which will block all unslightly views of my tummy. Well done me.

http://www.bravissimo.com/adcampaign/TvAd2007.aspx

A new start for this blog and for me

2008-04-26T20:44:00.001+01:00

So, when I set up this blog in December 2007 I didn't really have anything to write about, but I did know that I wanted to write something. This, it turns out, was unwise. Because by the end of the year my husband had decided to have an affair with another woman and move out into a sad-Smiths-inspired-navel-gazing-bedsit leaving me a single mother. So then I had loads to write about.

Unfortunately, all the really juicy stuff, the mad-Wuthering-Heights-loony-tunes stuff went by throughout January and February and I was far too potty to write anything lucid. This is a shame because it might well have made compelling reading as I was madder than any bag of frogs you'd wish to point at. I have tried to remember some of my more mad moments for general consumption but it appears that my psyche cleverly wiped it all away before I became a proper nutter. I know I was mad in January, I just can't remember anything about it.

But now I'm making a new start and that's what this blog is going to be about. I've begged my ex to come back, promised all sorts of changes and his general response was to ask me to sell the house and give him some money so he could 'start again'. Nice. Well, there's a credit crunch and a recession brewing so I'm clinging on to the house and he can't divorce me for 5 years because I did nothing wrong. So there.

So, back to new starts:

I threw away all the clutter in the house over Easter. Partly feng-shui, partly embarrassment at the state, mostly revenge.
I got a cleaner. Well two actually. Carol'n'Lisa. My ex: "I don't really approve of cleaning services", me: "well, I don't really approve of adultery". Thursdays are wonderful, I come home from work and it's like really clean burglars have come in and nicked all the debris.
I've started to do things with my beautiful son that I never did before because my ex wouldn't have approved. Today we went bowling and then we did crazy golf in UV light. Yes, you read that right, crazy golf + UV light. Marvellous.
I bought dresses and HEELS (after ten years of being with a man shorter than I it felt indecent to put on heels. But good).
I stalk his new girlfriend via Facebook*
Tomorrow, I'm booked into Bravissimo.

Aren't I doing well? There's more to do: I've joined Guardian Soulmates but can't bring myself to 'add' anyone, I still wear my wedding and engagement ring and I've looked at Gingerbread's website (the charity for lone parents) but I haven't joined yet.

My new road is just opening in front of me and I'd be immensely touched if anyone followed it with me via the pages of this blog.

*OK, this isn't good as such, but it is immensely enjoyable and rewarding....

Why 1985?

2007-12-19T22:59:00.000Z

I'm not entirely certain what happened in 1985 but it's my default 'great year'.

The reason I miss it is that time took its own time to pass back then: geological aeons would pass between breakfast and dinner (which, being southern, is at 6pm: anything middayish is lunch). Years went past slowly. These days I've only just finished hoovering up one batch of no-shed spruce tree needles from my carpet when I seem to be hauling in the next year's Christmas tree. My son's life is zooming in front of me so fast.

Back in 1985 lessons plodded by. There were no starters, no group work, no plenaries. Our teachers did not entertain. They educated. Our 'O' levels were an abstract concept. Nobody really knew what we needed to know for them. We did not self-assess. We got essays with a simple letter on them. No targets, no advice. I got called 'scatty' on school reports, because I was.

But I loved school. I miss my old school and the lessons I had with cranky teachers who never used kinaesthetic activities. I miss naivety.

I miss 1985.

So, I doubt anyone will ever read this ...

2007-12-19T18:53:00.000Z

Due to the fact that I have quite enough to be doing in my life with:
(a) a family
(b) three 'A' level classes depending on me completely
(c) another 'A' level class to be picked up after Christmas

I decided to undertake the only sensible course of action and start a blog. Which will involve many hours of obsessively checking whether anyone is reading the darned thing, rather than doing the million-and-one things that should be higher on my list of priorities.

For example, the time on my computer is 18:56 and my child is still sat in the lounge playing: despite the fact that he really ought to be washed, snuggled into pyjamas and be enjoying an educational and enjoyable read with me. Instead I'm on here wittering into a silent cyberspace.

Farewell appropriate use of time, hello timewasting.