History is not over

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.

Deconstructing texts

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!

A new lease of life

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.

Fuzzy Logic

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

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

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.