Do me a favour

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.