Birds of a feather...

Being a parent is never easy. Sometimes you have to accept that you don't have all the answers and that even trying to do the right thing may not be for the best. My youngest daughter is 16 years old. She is, to say the least, a bit of a wild child and since her father and I divorced she has lived her life in a somewhat challenging way. I always considered myself a good mother. I raised my girls in a traditional way. I was a home mum, breastfed both of them, played with them as much as I could and tried to inspire creativity with them. Money was tight and I didn't always have the means I needed to lavish them with expensive toys or clothes, but love cuddles and time were free and they had these in abundance. Vanessa decided to live with her father when I moved away in Autumn. She wanted to be close to her friends and college but under it all I always felt she had a deeper loyalty to him than to me. Bird of a feather, flock together and she is very like him in many respects. I moved here alone and have been alone ever since.



Living with their dad was difficult. He never loved me in all the years I stayed with him...I say this with conviction because he never told me. If he thought it, I never knew it and felt it even less. I do not even know why I stayed so long. Fear of the unknown I think, or lack of self esteem. I was rather lacking in extended family support and so, it appeared, I stayed because simply, I had nowhere else to go. Salvation came with the children and the very act of procreating with this man was the very essence of the beginning of our marital demise. My focus on the children being as intense as it was, gave him the perfect opportunity to begin breaking away. This took many years. Not for me the sudden shocking end but the gradual paint drying degeneration. In the end divorce was the only thing left to do...so I did it. Apart from one single meet, we didn't even have an autopsy and I think this may have confused the children as suddenly everything had changed. New lives had to be planned and built and I did it all in a haze of disbelief, self loathing and depression. I felt cast out and not one bit excited. Even 3 and a half years later I still live with fear everyday.

My youngest now wishes to come and live with me. A perfect cure for my loneliness it seems but after having so much time on my own, despite it being sad and solitary, I feel loathed to give it up. But do I have the right? Can I say 'No you have to stay with him'. Her behaviour was vile when she left me before. She was aggressive and argumentative, lazy and self absorbed. Sometimes we would fight and she would hit me. Eventually it became too much and my moving here gave us the catalyst to separate graciously. I love her and as a mother I will always love her so the question is, Do I let her in to the life I have made for myself now. I am not sure I have a choice, but I do know if she returns, it will be under my rules. Having her here will be a little like living with him again. She thinks like him and talks like him. So what should I do?

I guess I am her mother first and I should just suck it up for the sake of us all.

This house is a perfect minimalist palace of serenity and calm that I have created. Is it ready to have it's walls shaken with grief again? I'm not so sure.

NEXT!!!!!!

And in the news today...'Angie actually went on the date. God I hate dating a lot and yet I am a moth to the flame. I had arranged to meet this man I got talking to on the Internet for a pub lunch. He sent one tiny little grainy photo to me that made him look like an ex from Strangeways but I thought I'd take my chances. After much deliberation and overcoming a minor case of the ' will he won't he show' jitters. I made my way to the said pre- arranged location like a man on death row. I pulled into the car park of the pub, it was spitting with rain and my hair wasn't behaving. I could see the guy sitting in his rather nice black shiny sports car but as soon as he got out my heart sank. He was tallish but weedy and thin. He had the kind of face that looked like it had been screwed up and shut in a drawer denied from sunlight for several years. His hair was clean but flopped over his left eye and lay across the bridge of a ratty little nose. He gave me a toothy grin and leaned forward to peck me on the cheek.

Lets get one thing straight here. I am not exactly a babe. I keep myself nice and have a definite idea of what I am searching for in a partner, both looks and personality wise. But I do like to give people a chance, even if it's just one. Most men when seeking women, box entirely above their weight but it is never polite, when setting eyes on a bloke for the first time, you start pulling your hair out and run screaming ' Oh God NOOOOOOO, its HERMAN MUNSTER!!!!!!' from the scene. Also this looks so bad and you could run into a lamp post and knock yourself out, giving him the opportunity to give you the kiss of life (heaven forbid)

This man looked tired and weary and when we sat down with our drinks he was not only weary but dreary too. He droned for about an hour over his ex wife leaving him. He repeated the sentence 'She was relocated with her job and went to bed with her laptop' about seven time. God help me if I was married to this man I think I would have relocated to Northern Iraq, and I'd have taken the bloody laptop too!!.

I tried my best to look interested, I leaned forward and placed a finger on my chin (much like Dr Evil) trying to look remotely concerned for his predicament. All the time my stomach was rumbling away like an old boiler. 'I am sure this was a lunch date' I thought to myself?? If I was seriously going to have to listen to such insufferable crap at least there should be food involved.

I managed to break into the conversation whilst he took a momentary pause to sigh deeply and buff up his look of pathos. 'Shall we order some food' I proffered, he blinked ' Well I've already eaten but you can get yourself something if you like'. That was it for me...game over. I sat there for a while longer letting him witter on. He asked nothing about me. I think he had me mistaken for the Samaritans or a marriage guidance counsellor. I wanted to tell him how boring and annoying he was...but I didn't. Why kick a man why he's down?

I finished my drink and said it was time for me to go. We made some inane banter on parting. The kind that you do when secretly your thinking 'I never wanna see you again and why the fuck am I doing this' He made an attempt to kiss me on the lips. It was like slow mo' with me making a nifty diverting turn of my head. The kiss landed somewhere between my top lip and the side of my nose...'just kill me now'

I waited for him to pull out of the car park in his flashy motor and I breathed a huge sigh of relief and chuckled all the way home.

Internet dating is a game of numbers. Its a quick fix, fast track, in and out way to make contact with others and you really do have to have balls the size of melons to survive it. It's a brutal game out there and any flaw or failing on your part will be trampled on and spat out by the obdurate institution that it is. Sensitive people are toast and paranoia runs rampant. Its a case of 'If you can't stand the heat...get out of the game pretty fast'

For me it's a game I like to indulge in every so often. Intrinsically I am happy being single. I am not ready to share space or pick out bath towels just yet, but I do seek for company every now and then and being human, there's no shame in that.

All I have to say about the date is NEXT!!!!!!!!!

Can you date in a poncho?

A whole long long weekend off to most people would be sheer and utter bliss. Four whole days to fill with fun, frolics and good times (do people even frolic anymore, I have no idea). Four days to catch up on all the crap we store up and procrastinate into obscurity.

I approach such a weekend like it is a Nuclear Physics kit. It's strange and awkward and I don't really want to touch it. I could make something wonderful out of it or it could all end up a big horrible mess. Such a chunk of free time surely makes the devil come scuttling to fill your hands with mischief. Truth is I am scared to face such a long weekend alone. My best friend is away, I have no significant other in my life right now, the kids are busy and it's all a bit shit to be brutally honest.

Last night I spent a little time on an Internet dating site I use from time to time (see...devils work indeed!) and yes, I got chatting to a bloke who lives down the road from me. He's asked me out for a pub lunch at 2pm today and I'm now wondering if I should go or not. Oh how I wished I had made a schedule for today to keep me from boredom and straying into dates.

8:00am: get up
8:09am: eat toast and feed cat
8:15am: slop around house in slippers and a poncho
8:30am: put together new computer desk I bought from Argos
12:00pm: wonder why said desk looks like a wonky set of shelves and is leaning on the wall for support!!!

Christ! now I have to do my roots, de-fuzz and find something to wear. I have practically zero money and you cant always assume that the bloke will pay for lunch. Oh lord! what if I have to pay? and what if I have to sit there at the table whilst the payment machine spits out my card and declares 'You've got no money you total loser, isn't it time you sorted your life out!!!' Maybe I could just crawl under the table and hide there until he leaves. He sounded nice on the phone but what if he doesn't turn up??? Oh shit! What if he likes me shit shit shit!!!

Men have such high expectations. They expect you to be perfect and I am not perfect. I am 44, I look my age, I have stretch marks and wrinkles and sometimes my eyebrows get a little overly thick and curly. I have a bad hip, greying hair and a dodgy cervix. I hate the tops of my arms and the cellulite on my thighs. I don't want to join the gym and bounce around like some manic old biddy, trying to clutch desperately at my youth by punishing my wobbly bits. It's just not me. I'm not cut out for the slog of self improvement (although I do know how to check my tyre pressure and use an electric drill) It's all so complicated and now I have an entire weekend to think about how scared I am to date, or how lonely I am and how much enthusiasm I lack for making things better...but it's just lunch and maybe he will be nice and maybe it will kill an hour or two and maybe it will be OK. Now where did I put my poncho!!!

A day in my bed

Yesterday was my only day off in the entire working week and I am not ashamed to say I stayed in bed for all but an hour of the day. My bedroom is minimalist and cosy. My bed a nest of soft white Cotton linen and a quilt of satin. I have a huge TV on the facing wall and together with my lap top, at times, I feel I am at the control centre of a space ship. I have been restless and watched the sun come up and go down through the same small, but beautifully dressed window. I had nothing to get up for. No other person to attend to, apart from the cat who I fed and let out into the courtyard. Other than a short walk over the recreation ground and a couple of trips to pee and make tea, I was in my bed all day.

I communicated with a few people throughout the day via the phone and e-mail. One being a person who I have been seeing for a while, 2 years to be exact. I cannot call it a relationship as I have no trust left in me. It is someone who wants to see me when they choose, being as they are out of the country for most of the time. They still date other people, it makes me feel used and I cannot contact them if I want to. The truth is that 4 fifths of their life is a mystery to me. For all I know they could have a wife on the other side of the world. I cannot really cope with this fact and the last week of attempting to contact them was ignored...

After a short angry and annoyed e-mail, I managed to completely piss them off and they me. Then came the cut off. None of my texts were answered, none of my e-mails replied to.
I was severed, I went into meltdown at precisely 10.33pm and cried for an hour. I will assume it's dead and buried.

I have dated quite a few men in the last couple of years and mostly all of them had other women in their lives who they liked more than me. That makes me wonder who I am, that I am so available to hold hands with men who's hearts lay elsewhere, but when you suffer from chronic depression, its not hard to be used and then cast aside. It's hard to change who you are.

After calming myself down, pushing some very tenebrous thoughts from my mind, I went to sleep at midnight.

Today I am on call for work and so it is back to movement and routine.

I have no doubt there will be other days in bed to come.

Beginning with an echo from the past.

Do you ever wonder who you are?...show of hands?...yep we all do.

When I was a small child I has a fixation with houses. I would make imaginary houses in the garden out of bricks and rocks, just the one layer ,of course, to map out my palace and in my house would be all the things I loved. Dolls, teddies, my favourite sandals (actually my only pair of shoes) half a plastic tea set and maybe the odd biscuit. In my play house I was the law, I made the rules and keeping it spic and span with my imaginary broom was an obsession. I can remember my house being invaded one sunny afternoon by my younger brother and a bucket of worms. 'They're dirty' I screamed and I pushed him away. This brought my mother scuttling from the kitchen to shout at us both in her annoyance. She returned to the kitchen after threatening to beat us with a stick and was even more annoyed to find the said worms sloshing about in the bottom of the sink with the washing up!!! My brother always lived on the edge and still does.

I cannot remember if we did indeed take a beating for that but we did take many in our childhood all with an assortment of implements. My mother had an electric airer for the clothes. For some strange reason it was called a 'flatly'. It was a tall metal box with a flat metal lid, about the size of a refrigerator. Inside were several slim wooden poles in which one draped damp washing. The gadget was then plugged in and as it warmed up it aired the clothes. The sticks, or 'flatly sticks' as we called them could be removed and it was these my mother used as her primary weapon of assault on our behinds. Next came the softer but no less deadly slipper. An old one discarded by my father. I still scorn his large feet as their size contributed to the surface area of the leather used to sting the backs of our legs. To be fair, along with punishment came a fairly efficient and well organised childhood. We were well fed and despite my mother's exhaustion and 'bad nerves' there was a fair smattering of love to be had albeit weighted heavily to the oldest child.

My father was a product of the times. He was, and still is a man's man. Hardworking, laddish in his youth and tough. Both my parents suffered from what I liked to call 'sixty's syndrome'. We lived in South East London in the mid 1960's and times were extremely hard. My father was a drinker and used to beat my mother and I guess that's why she used to beat us. I can remember being stood outside the pub with my brother and sister. We were given a glass bottle of coke and a straw and sometimes a packet of crisps and there we stayed until after dark. My mother actually realised this wasn't good for us and so my father went to the pub alone.

Money was tight, we lived in rooms and I can just about remember how dire it truly was. There was always someone shouting or crying or being told off or hit in our house. We were forbidden to speak at mealtimes as my father ate. If any word was uttered, he would pretend that he were choking on some imaginary morsel and we would be terrified. As I got older, it occurred to me that sometimes I wished he actually had of choked to death. Not a view I feel now as he is just a harmless old man, but back then things were very different.

My imaginary houses gave me a sanctuary when I was a child. They were places of safety even though the walls were barely 3 inches high. Sometimes a couple of chairs and a table cloth provided a shelter or a quiet corner with a few cans of soup and the side of the garden wheelbarrow. I swear that when I stepped inside their invisible walls I could hear nothing but peace. Order and safety were restored.

I have always been insular. I left home at 17 and a half, married young and had two children of my own. I stayed in an unhappy marriage for almost 18 years before I decided to quit. Yes I married someone like my father. A drinker and mans man, liar and cheat as it turned out...worse than my father in fact...

And now the children have gone I live alone, except my house is now a real house with solid walls in a quiet unassuming suburban street. Its neat and peaceful and I have become a grown up version of that little frightened girl, hiding out and pretending that the rest of the world doesn't exist. Sometimes it is as if everything that happened to me actually happened to someone else. I was just the voyeur of my own life. How strange that is to know. Our childhood shapes us and makes us who we are. I am still not sure if I like myself but I guess that's all there is.