OK, I sort of cribbed the title from Burt Bacharach, and certain lines of that song go to the extreme ('my hands are shaking, don't let my heart be breaking, I need your love, I want your love...') but somehow when Dusty Springfield belts it out it seems perfectly reasonable. Not over-the-top at all. If not, she'll just die.....It's as simple as that.
When I started this journal of the inner machinations of my sometimes overactive mind it was never intended for general public consumption, which I am aware, is not obvious given that I published on the world wide web. But I did think it would sit snugly in an outer recess somewhere, gather a bit of cyber dust and disappear eventually into a search engines' skip for scrap.
I did not at any point consider the fact that Duz may read and inwardly digest the contents. It was not created due to a desire to plaster my feelings all over a screen for him to view in glorious technicolour. No, sir; that was most definitely not on the agenda.
So, I shall paint the picture.
I had a buoyant weekend, not in the nautical sense but owing to my elevated mood following a lengthy conversation with a journalist from the Sunday Times Style magazine on Friday afternoon. I am, by all accounts, newsworthy. Someone with a story to tell. Someone the great British public may be interested in. That said, given the level of achievement of many nouveau celebrities, it's not exactly a demanding standard to meet these days....
Bobbing about in buoyant fashion, I sent Duz a text message asking him how he felt about being famous. Naturally I'm expecting a surge of interest from the nationals sometime very soon, and being at the epicentre of the saga, he needed to be alerted to the fact that he may need to quickly learn the necessary techniques to dodge and fool the paparazzi. That's not even mentioning the hoards of mail he'll be getting asking, nay telling him to re-engage with his senses, hunt me down and to pull me to his manly chest in the manner of a latter-day Rhett Butler.
Of course, the message came back "I'd like to read it".
OK.
What now?
I had not bargained for this. A few friends reading it? Yes, and their ensuing messages of support were all welcomed.
Duz reading it? No. Not this side of this millennium, or the next, for that matter.
Then I was reminded of something a friend said a short while ago, "you can't say the wrong thing to the right person" Very insightful, and loaded with wisdom. Of course you can't; the right person will take it on board. Right?
I message him back "OK- here goes......" and the web link.
Silence.
More silence.
Then a bit more silence.
Actually, it was ten minutes to be fair, but you know how long those darned minutes can be at times.....
And then it came........"The best thing I've read in a long time x"
We talked a lot yesterday about everything that alludes to "us". We talked until 2am, which I don't really do these days, except at times of extreme longing and with a heart fit to burst.
Is he now adopting a more positive approach? Well, when asked "Are you going to make sure this has a happy ending?", he responded with "We can only hope...."
Oh come on Duz.... step up to the mark....this girl's in love with you (thanks again, Burt) Gotta love those lyrics....and you gotta love a man who doesn't mind you showing the world his bruises.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Credit Crunch Chaos
Frequently I will read the papers and at some point (sometimes at several points, in truth) I will shake my head in disbelief at what I'm reading. Perhaps a celebrity has just had her eighteenth boob job or a Big Brother housemate has been promised a book deal to write his autobiography when he's evicted...
But this morning there is one story on the front page of the Mail on Sunday that defies belief.
A city banker, aged 47, threw himself in front of a train yesterday at Taplow in Berkshire because of the mounting pressures he was facing due to the credit crunch. He leaves behind a wife and an 8 year old son.
I don't need to write very much on this topic because the facts very clearly speak for themselves.
What sort of world have we crafted? I expect his son will ask the same question one day.
But this morning there is one story on the front page of the Mail on Sunday that defies belief.
A city banker, aged 47, threw himself in front of a train yesterday at Taplow in Berkshire because of the mounting pressures he was facing due to the credit crunch. He leaves behind a wife and an 8 year old son.
I don't need to write very much on this topic because the facts very clearly speak for themselves.
What sort of world have we crafted? I expect his son will ask the same question one day.
Friday, September 26, 2008
The Father-Daughter Thing...
It was recently pointed out to me by Adrian that I am all but a little girl deep down inside.
I need constant strokes, I need to be to be praised and if I don't get either of these things, I quickly gravitate towards a sharp decline.
It all stems from the relationship I had with my father as a little girl.
I was studious and rather serious little girl who loved to escape into a land of make-believe. Short in the self-confidence stakes, I made up for it by working hard at school in a desperate attempt to make my Dad proud of me.
My Dad. He was to me the most wonderful man that could possibly have ever walked the earth. Everything he said was somehow gilded with brilliance, I adored him. It seemed my raison d'etre was to make him proud of me or perhaps in retrospect, to hear him tell me how proud of me he was.
There's a line in the film Dirty Dancing where Baby talks about every girl wanting to meet a man who made her feel as special as her Dad did. For me that was never going to be possible because no man would ever do that. He was the most unique and special of men; he was my Dad.
Of course it wasn't until I got into my thirties that I realised that cracking a half-way decent gag would get you through most trials in life. Being studious was rather hard-going compared to piling on the lip gloss and propelling yourself into the middle of the room as the life-and-soul...
But some things stay with you. The need to impress, the need to have someone pat you on the head and tell you how brilliant, how creative, how funny you are.
In my marriages I was never made to feel that special because it became a competition all to quickly. I was projecting myself as the capable independent woman, they were busy at being the alpha male. I was screaming "look at me! See how capable and fabulous I am! Love me more because of it!" Not what your typical alpha male is hoping for; it's hard to bring anything to the table that a would-be Superwoman might be even vaguely interested in.
See how this happens? The little shy girl who only wanted her daddy's attention became so driven that she managed to become the one thing men don't want if they are absolutely honest; a woman who doesn't "need" them.
In many ways I have to thank him, my Dad. How else would I have coped all these years?
Bizarrely my Mum worries herself to sleep at night that life will eventually get the better of me unless a man steps in to save the day. She seriously underestimates the effect a constant desire for paternal approval has on a girl in the long-term.
Today I see my Dad for who he is; a man with faults like the rest of us, but a rather remarkable person all the same.
He is older, greyer and he tires easily, but that never stops him from loading his petrol-driven lawnmower into the back of his car on the hottest of days and driving round to cut my rather substantial lawn. He asks with remarkable regularity how my business is performing, have I "got much on"? And my son looks at him with the same adoring gaze that I had all those years ago.
You can't beat the father-daughter thing; it's unbreakable.
I need constant strokes, I need to be to be praised and if I don't get either of these things, I quickly gravitate towards a sharp decline.
It all stems from the relationship I had with my father as a little girl.
I was studious and rather serious little girl who loved to escape into a land of make-believe. Short in the self-confidence stakes, I made up for it by working hard at school in a desperate attempt to make my Dad proud of me.
My Dad. He was to me the most wonderful man that could possibly have ever walked the earth. Everything he said was somehow gilded with brilliance, I adored him. It seemed my raison d'etre was to make him proud of me or perhaps in retrospect, to hear him tell me how proud of me he was.
There's a line in the film Dirty Dancing where Baby talks about every girl wanting to meet a man who made her feel as special as her Dad did. For me that was never going to be possible because no man would ever do that. He was the most unique and special of men; he was my Dad.
Of course it wasn't until I got into my thirties that I realised that cracking a half-way decent gag would get you through most trials in life. Being studious was rather hard-going compared to piling on the lip gloss and propelling yourself into the middle of the room as the life-and-soul...
But some things stay with you. The need to impress, the need to have someone pat you on the head and tell you how brilliant, how creative, how funny you are.
In my marriages I was never made to feel that special because it became a competition all to quickly. I was projecting myself as the capable independent woman, they were busy at being the alpha male. I was screaming "look at me! See how capable and fabulous I am! Love me more because of it!" Not what your typical alpha male is hoping for; it's hard to bring anything to the table that a would-be Superwoman might be even vaguely interested in.
See how this happens? The little shy girl who only wanted her daddy's attention became so driven that she managed to become the one thing men don't want if they are absolutely honest; a woman who doesn't "need" them.
In many ways I have to thank him, my Dad. How else would I have coped all these years?
Bizarrely my Mum worries herself to sleep at night that life will eventually get the better of me unless a man steps in to save the day. She seriously underestimates the effect a constant desire for paternal approval has on a girl in the long-term.
Today I see my Dad for who he is; a man with faults like the rest of us, but a rather remarkable person all the same.
He is older, greyer and he tires easily, but that never stops him from loading his petrol-driven lawnmower into the back of his car on the hottest of days and driving round to cut my rather substantial lawn. He asks with remarkable regularity how my business is performing, have I "got much on"? And my son looks at him with the same adoring gaze that I had all those years ago.
You can't beat the father-daughter thing; it's unbreakable.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Seeing is believing...
I've always thought that the time comes to celebrate our mistakes in life; often our mistakes are what lead us to our destiny. This undoubtedly is only apparent during the later acts, but we can see how critical moments and events that we thought were earth-shatteringly awful at the time actually come to steer us in the direction that we need to go.
Last night I met with Duz for the first time since "the split", "the split" being my rather dramatic e-mail to him of a few weeks ago entitled "closure". He rather interestingly drew attention to my love of all things drama-laden by saying I had actually penned "closure!" I pointed out that the word "closure" needs no exclamation mark; the mere sight of the word would strike fear into the bravest of men. He fell silent. Motion carried.
Break-up assessment meetings are by nature the most volatile of beasts. You agree to turn up hoping that your partner's agenda and motives will be broadly similar to your own. Indeed, why else would you both be there? Why take time out to discuss at length something that was ebbing away silently without you both deciding to prod and poke, unless you think there may be life left there after all...
And so I sat and waited for him to arrive. He is not the sort to take time out, to drive over on the eve of most probably losing his licence (101mph on the motorway.....court tomorrow) unless there are matters of great significance to discuss.
I was right. I usually am, but rarely for the reasons I thought I would be.
My opening gambit in any type of "drains up" discussion is always "so, what happened here?" It is masterful in it's simplicity. It implies a yearning desire to get to the root of the calamity, it resonates with importance and it sounds vaguely like it was uttered on Hill Street Blues, which is undoubtedly why I've retained it for regular usage.
He shook his head, closed his eyes. "I'm not sure. I know only part of it". Time to outline that part, I think.
To say I was in shock following his account would be totally inadequate. He cited all the feelings, all the thoughts and all the fears I had experienced during my time with him.
It was as if he had reached inside my mind and stolen my thoughts, my fears, my paranoid tendencies. How can we mirror fear like that in relationships? How did I not see it happening? Because we never acknowledged it.
We never verbalised any of it at the time that it really mattered, before it was possibly too late. I tried to point out to him that the last time we met I had driven over to see him in a last-ditch attempt to resuscitate what we had. I reminded him of a glib comment he made, "don't give up the the tenancy on your house anytime soon". He couldn't remember saying it, but I remember the hurt it generated all too well.
He described me last night as "cool, together, guarded". Of course, this is an alien concept to me as I sit and type this post, but I know that is the image I have strived so hard to craft over the years. Never the push-over, a resilient survivor who barely feels hurt at times of relationship crisis. A victim of my own success, it seems; I actually managed to fool someone who was meant to see past that persona.
We stayed up til late talking. He needs time to get his head around what was said as he had come to terms with the fact that it was all over, that I had moved on (I play my part to perfection, it seems)
Duz looked very fragile and strangely smaller last night. And vulnerable too; that most attractive of qualities when displayed in the right amount and at the right time.
The waiting line beckons, I think.
relationships
Last night I met with Duz for the first time since "the split", "the split" being my rather dramatic e-mail to him of a few weeks ago entitled "closure". He rather interestingly drew attention to my love of all things drama-laden by saying I had actually penned "closure!" I pointed out that the word "closure" needs no exclamation mark; the mere sight of the word would strike fear into the bravest of men. He fell silent. Motion carried.
Break-up assessment meetings are by nature the most volatile of beasts. You agree to turn up hoping that your partner's agenda and motives will be broadly similar to your own. Indeed, why else would you both be there? Why take time out to discuss at length something that was ebbing away silently without you both deciding to prod and poke, unless you think there may be life left there after all...
And so I sat and waited for him to arrive. He is not the sort to take time out, to drive over on the eve of most probably losing his licence (101mph on the motorway.....court tomorrow) unless there are matters of great significance to discuss.
I was right. I usually am, but rarely for the reasons I thought I would be.
My opening gambit in any type of "drains up" discussion is always "so, what happened here?" It is masterful in it's simplicity. It implies a yearning desire to get to the root of the calamity, it resonates with importance and it sounds vaguely like it was uttered on Hill Street Blues, which is undoubtedly why I've retained it for regular usage.
He shook his head, closed his eyes. "I'm not sure. I know only part of it". Time to outline that part, I think.
To say I was in shock following his account would be totally inadequate. He cited all the feelings, all the thoughts and all the fears I had experienced during my time with him.
It was as if he had reached inside my mind and stolen my thoughts, my fears, my paranoid tendencies. How can we mirror fear like that in relationships? How did I not see it happening? Because we never acknowledged it.
We never verbalised any of it at the time that it really mattered, before it was possibly too late. I tried to point out to him that the last time we met I had driven over to see him in a last-ditch attempt to resuscitate what we had. I reminded him of a glib comment he made, "don't give up the the tenancy on your house anytime soon". He couldn't remember saying it, but I remember the hurt it generated all too well.
He described me last night as "cool, together, guarded". Of course, this is an alien concept to me as I sit and type this post, but I know that is the image I have strived so hard to craft over the years. Never the push-over, a resilient survivor who barely feels hurt at times of relationship crisis. A victim of my own success, it seems; I actually managed to fool someone who was meant to see past that persona.
We stayed up til late talking. He needs time to get his head around what was said as he had come to terms with the fact that it was all over, that I had moved on (I play my part to perfection, it seems)
Duz looked very fragile and strangely smaller last night. And vulnerable too; that most attractive of qualities when displayed in the right amount and at the right time.
The waiting line beckons, I think.
relationships
Thursday, September 18, 2008
How to not get over your ex and annoy your friends..pt 1
So much for hard words and the beating of my chest in fierce condemnation of anything that related to him. So much for parading around like some latter day version of Boadicea, laughing at the mere mention of his name.
There must have been some potent planetary alignment going on yesterday because I woke feeling that the day would see events unfold that would take me on to the next chapter (or perhaps back to the previous one, depending on your viewpoint)
I decided mid afternoon that his actions needed to be answered for; he needed to account for his appalling conduct. Simply "losing motivation" in a relationship that showed such promised made no sense; explanations were in order. Me slinking off into the shadows was letting him off the hook.
To be fair, it would not be the first time this has happened. Very early on in our relationship (I'm talking days rather than months in..) I was alerted to the fact that he was still fishing around on a dating website. He was caught red-handed and held his hands up straight away. I was hurt, but certain friends counselled that really it was too early to expect exclusivity. Maybe it was me rushing the process?
We agreed a few days later to see each other. He came to pick me up and, having not even pulled away from the top of my road and in a very contrite and humble fashion, he stopped the car, took my hand, looked at me and said "I've been an idiot. Please forgive me." I asked him to never hurt me like that again; he agreed he would not.
We later picked over the bones of what had happened. He threw a few comments in like "I don't know why I do this" and "I'm a mess". A better person than me would have heard the alarm bells ringing at this stage, but not me. I admired his honesty and the fact that he had laid himself at my feet, asking for mercy. I felt all-powerful. The notion that he had tried to sabotage our relationship because he sensed that it was potentially bigger than anything he had witnessed gave me a sense of smugness. Perhaps a warped kind of smugness, in retrospect.
So, this time we had moved a fair way down the road and it was altogether a more complex and dour scenario that faced me. But I remembered that boyish pleading in his eyes from before.
I sent him a text message at 16.53hrs saying simply "we need to talk". The first communication in 10 days. Within 3 minutes he phoned me; this was game on.
In the meantime I spoke to Adrian, Natalie and Sue, all of whom offered very different advice...
Adrian- "Make a list of all his wrongs, coldly communicate them to him, then ask him what he intends to do to put it right. Then walk away"
Natalie- "I don't even know why you are giving this guy headroom. Forget him. Don't even waste oxygen speaking to the low life"
Sue- "Oh honey, I know how much he meant to you. Talk to him but take care of yourself emotionally"
What does a girl do? I need clarity and certainty, but what I'm getting is mixed messages because that's what I'm giving out....
He called later. I start off very curt. I don't want to discuss this on the phone, he is cagey about when he's going to be back in the country. He asks me to tell him what it's about, I give him the outline, but nicely and with the venom removed. He says he thinks Monday would be a good day; Tuesday he is in court for doing 101mph on the motorway, he thinks he will get a ban. We end the conversation by him jokingly asking me if I fancy being his chauffeur for a few weeks.
The man has no shame, and I fear that I have no common sense.
relationships
There must have been some potent planetary alignment going on yesterday because I woke feeling that the day would see events unfold that would take me on to the next chapter (or perhaps back to the previous one, depending on your viewpoint)
I decided mid afternoon that his actions needed to be answered for; he needed to account for his appalling conduct. Simply "losing motivation" in a relationship that showed such promised made no sense; explanations were in order. Me slinking off into the shadows was letting him off the hook.
To be fair, it would not be the first time this has happened. Very early on in our relationship (I'm talking days rather than months in..) I was alerted to the fact that he was still fishing around on a dating website. He was caught red-handed and held his hands up straight away. I was hurt, but certain friends counselled that really it was too early to expect exclusivity. Maybe it was me rushing the process?
We agreed a few days later to see each other. He came to pick me up and, having not even pulled away from the top of my road and in a very contrite and humble fashion, he stopped the car, took my hand, looked at me and said "I've been an idiot. Please forgive me." I asked him to never hurt me like that again; he agreed he would not.
We later picked over the bones of what had happened. He threw a few comments in like "I don't know why I do this" and "I'm a mess". A better person than me would have heard the alarm bells ringing at this stage, but not me. I admired his honesty and the fact that he had laid himself at my feet, asking for mercy. I felt all-powerful. The notion that he had tried to sabotage our relationship because he sensed that it was potentially bigger than anything he had witnessed gave me a sense of smugness. Perhaps a warped kind of smugness, in retrospect.
So, this time we had moved a fair way down the road and it was altogether a more complex and dour scenario that faced me. But I remembered that boyish pleading in his eyes from before.
I sent him a text message at 16.53hrs saying simply "we need to talk". The first communication in 10 days. Within 3 minutes he phoned me; this was game on.
In the meantime I spoke to Adrian, Natalie and Sue, all of whom offered very different advice...
Adrian- "Make a list of all his wrongs, coldly communicate them to him, then ask him what he intends to do to put it right. Then walk away"
Natalie- "I don't even know why you are giving this guy headroom. Forget him. Don't even waste oxygen speaking to the low life"
Sue- "Oh honey, I know how much he meant to you. Talk to him but take care of yourself emotionally"
What does a girl do? I need clarity and certainty, but what I'm getting is mixed messages because that's what I'm giving out....
He called later. I start off very curt. I don't want to discuss this on the phone, he is cagey about when he's going to be back in the country. He asks me to tell him what it's about, I give him the outline, but nicely and with the venom removed. He says he thinks Monday would be a good day; Tuesday he is in court for doing 101mph on the motorway, he thinks he will get a ban. We end the conversation by him jokingly asking me if I fancy being his chauffeur for a few weeks.
The man has no shame, and I fear that I have no common sense.
relationships
Thursday, September 11, 2008
How to get over your ex, pt. one.......
The thing that has always astounded me when I've broken up with someone is how I veer from spewing venom at the mere mention of his name one moment to sending semi-optimistic texts the next in the hope that he will respond with a message that says "I'm the most stupid man in world; forgive me....take me back, I beg you..."
That was where I found myself, fairly and squarely, a few days ago. I had been in regular contact with my friend Adrian, who happened to be in a fairly similar situation with his lady. We were propping each other up emotionally as friends do, providing much needed validation to each other, a critically important service to offer your friends at their darkest relationship hour.
Although I kind of despised Duz for how he had treated me, i.e. with Disdain (note the all-telling capital D), there was a part of me that was desperate to hear from him and to pick up where we left off (albeit picking up in a fairly remote wasteland of relationship backdrop).
I missed him, I missed his voice, I missed seeing his name flash up on my phone, I missed not talking to my friends about him in glowing terms. What we had was now just smoking embers; it was finished. And I was hurting.
Under normal circumstances, and had I been still in Berkshire, I would have hit the town with my girls. We would have consumed ridiculous amounts of alcohol and almost certainly made fools of ourselves with boys who would have labelled us "Mrs Robinson" in later years. I would have woken the next day with a monumental hangover, yet still smiling at the previous evening's antics. Possibly the girls would have exchanged text messages congratulating each other on surpassing ourselves in terms of our outraged-ness.
And then in the cold light of the afternoon, I would have realised that nothing had actually changed. I was still alone, and to cap it all, I was probably about a hundred quid lighter.
That was then, this is now.
During one of our chats that possibly started with me pleading with Adrian to help me get out of my Duz-induced hangover, he said simply "write a list".
"A list of what?" I cautiously enquire.
"A list of all his qualities/faults that, in a perfect world, you would not choose in a partner. And then keep it to hand to read at the time you feel yourself faltering"
Hmmm. Interesting concept, I thought. Interesting in that I knew there were a few things that I had chosen to ignore (as you do when you fancy someone rotten)
So I set about writing my list. Cup of coffee, comfortable chair and a slight feeling of concern that there may not be that many things on the final list that would serve to strengthen my resolve at my hour of need.
I need not have worried. My pen almost took on a life of it's own.
I stopped, as a mark of respect to the brief relationship I had enjoyed.......perhaps that should have been "endured" having read the list.
Since then I have not felt one split-second of desire to contact him; the thought of seeing his name flash on my phone has a lesser affect. I mean, when all is said and done, making quips about my height may not be that bad, but couple it with his tendency to ignore me for days on end, well that simply becomes a deal-breaker.
I believe I may well have laid his memory to rest, thanks to Adrian's list.
relationships
That was where I found myself, fairly and squarely, a few days ago. I had been in regular contact with my friend Adrian, who happened to be in a fairly similar situation with his lady. We were propping each other up emotionally as friends do, providing much needed validation to each other, a critically important service to offer your friends at their darkest relationship hour.
Although I kind of despised Duz for how he had treated me, i.e. with Disdain (note the all-telling capital D), there was a part of me that was desperate to hear from him and to pick up where we left off (albeit picking up in a fairly remote wasteland of relationship backdrop).
I missed him, I missed his voice, I missed seeing his name flash up on my phone, I missed not talking to my friends about him in glowing terms. What we had was now just smoking embers; it was finished. And I was hurting.
Under normal circumstances, and had I been still in Berkshire, I would have hit the town with my girls. We would have consumed ridiculous amounts of alcohol and almost certainly made fools of ourselves with boys who would have labelled us "Mrs Robinson" in later years. I would have woken the next day with a monumental hangover, yet still smiling at the previous evening's antics. Possibly the girls would have exchanged text messages congratulating each other on surpassing ourselves in terms of our outraged-ness.
And then in the cold light of the afternoon, I would have realised that nothing had actually changed. I was still alone, and to cap it all, I was probably about a hundred quid lighter.
That was then, this is now.
During one of our chats that possibly started with me pleading with Adrian to help me get out of my Duz-induced hangover, he said simply "write a list".
"A list of what?" I cautiously enquire.
"A list of all his qualities/faults that, in a perfect world, you would not choose in a partner. And then keep it to hand to read at the time you feel yourself faltering"
Hmmm. Interesting concept, I thought. Interesting in that I knew there were a few things that I had chosen to ignore (as you do when you fancy someone rotten)
So I set about writing my list. Cup of coffee, comfortable chair and a slight feeling of concern that there may not be that many things on the final list that would serve to strengthen my resolve at my hour of need.
I need not have worried. My pen almost took on a life of it's own.
I stopped, as a mark of respect to the brief relationship I had enjoyed.......perhaps that should have been "endured" having read the list.
Since then I have not felt one split-second of desire to contact him; the thought of seeing his name flash on my phone has a lesser affect. I mean, when all is said and done, making quips about my height may not be that bad, but couple it with his tendency to ignore me for days on end, well that simply becomes a deal-breaker.
I believe I may well have laid his memory to rest, thanks to Adrian's list.
relationships
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
The Joy and Pain of Being a Mother...
I always felt from the moment I found out I was pregnant with Ben that motherhood was going to be a series of "letting go" moments.
The thought of being pregnant had always horrified me; being so huge that you had to hoist yourself in and out of a car and, horror of horrors, wear elasticated waist maternity clothes...well, it simply did not bear thinking about. In fact, the reality for me was that I loved every minute (well, every minute after week 13 when I lost the constant nauseous feeling that followed me everywhere I turned).
The bigger I got, the more I loved it. I was subconsciously screaming out to the world "look at me! I am hugely pregnant with child! Spell my name W-O-M-A-N".
It occurred to me at around month seven that I was loving the fact that it was just me and this little tiny being inside of me. I was his everything; I was giving him life. We were joined in every sense possible. Nothing prepared me for the experience of creating another human being.
I commented to my mother towards the end of my pregnancy that I loved the fact that whilst I was pregnant, it was just me and the baby. Once that cord was cut and he was here, I was losing part of him.
And that is how it has continued. Today he started school for the very first time.
He looked resplendent in his tiny uniform; grey pressed trousers, pale blue polo shirt, smart polished black shoes. My boy. Ready to take on the next big adventure in life.
I fully expected that I would shed a bucket full of tears at the moment that I left him with Miss Cook, his new teacher, but there were none.
After four and a half worrying yet blissful years I realise it is a mother's lot to prepare her child as best she can, and then let him go.
However, sat here with my glass of Rioja, I can feel those postponed tears welling up.
Here's to my magnificent boy.
The thought of being pregnant had always horrified me; being so huge that you had to hoist yourself in and out of a car and, horror of horrors, wear elasticated waist maternity clothes...well, it simply did not bear thinking about. In fact, the reality for me was that I loved every minute (well, every minute after week 13 when I lost the constant nauseous feeling that followed me everywhere I turned).
The bigger I got, the more I loved it. I was subconsciously screaming out to the world "look at me! I am hugely pregnant with child! Spell my name W-O-M-A-N".
It occurred to me at around month seven that I was loving the fact that it was just me and this little tiny being inside of me. I was his everything; I was giving him life. We were joined in every sense possible. Nothing prepared me for the experience of creating another human being.
I commented to my mother towards the end of my pregnancy that I loved the fact that whilst I was pregnant, it was just me and the baby. Once that cord was cut and he was here, I was losing part of him.
And that is how it has continued. Today he started school for the very first time.
He looked resplendent in his tiny uniform; grey pressed trousers, pale blue polo shirt, smart polished black shoes. My boy. Ready to take on the next big adventure in life.
I fully expected that I would shed a bucket full of tears at the moment that I left him with Miss Cook, his new teacher, but there were none.
After four and a half worrying yet blissful years I realise it is a mother's lot to prepare her child as best she can, and then let him go.
However, sat here with my glass of Rioja, I can feel those postponed tears welling up.
Here's to my magnificent boy.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Horror Haircuts.....
My boy starts at a real life, proper school tomorrow; how can a mother bear it?
One minute the midwife is passing me him, he is still slightly blue around the gills and he is peering at me with these pleading little dark eyes that say "your life changes beyond measure from this point on", and the next minute I'm preparing to hand him over at the school gate, all the while holding back the tears. From angelic newborn to cheeky schoolboy with too much attitude in the blink of an eye; how can that be fair?
So, last afternoon before school starts; it has to be time to visit the hairdresser.
I decide I'm not trailing into Lincoln to the traditional (yet excellent) Salvatore gent's hairdressers; the 20 mile round trip seems a tad pointless. I grab the yellow pages and decide a trip to Market Rasen, the local market (obviously) town has to yield a half-way decent hairdresser.... I opt for Top Notch Unisex Hairdressers on the High Street. Unisex has to be reasonably OK, right......?
We turn up and I feel that at some point on the A46 into Market Rasen, we have been caught in a time suction vacuum that has catapulted us right back to 1958.
The salon is run by two ladies of...advanced years. Their (one) client is sat with a digestive, sipping a mug of tea with her perm rollers in (on her head, clearly not in the mug of tea...)
Ben takes a seat, I'm now wondering was this a great idea? Of course, it'll be fine- his hair grows really quickly....
It was all fine until she started asking him to keep still because she didn't want to cut his ear off... Don't they train hairdressers how to not cut kid's ears off???? Is this not a technique they learn on day one? Or was she so old when she trained that cutting kid's ears off was seen as an unavoidable hazard?
At this point she has cut way too much hair off, it is looking decidedly wonky but, as he still has both his ears, I look to my watch and say "goodness! We need to be off; that'll be fine, thank you- how much???"
We bolt from said shop and then are ping'd straight back into 2008 when we enter an eco-friendly health food shop run by a ruggedly attractive tall man who knows everything there is to know about local alternative therapists, it seems. He says the number for the Thai masseuse is at home.....he will call me later if I leave my number.
I leave it with him and pay an extortionate amount for a breakfast energy shake for vegetarians.
Well, it can't hurt...can it?
One minute the midwife is passing me him, he is still slightly blue around the gills and he is peering at me with these pleading little dark eyes that say "your life changes beyond measure from this point on", and the next minute I'm preparing to hand him over at the school gate, all the while holding back the tears. From angelic newborn to cheeky schoolboy with too much attitude in the blink of an eye; how can that be fair?
So, last afternoon before school starts; it has to be time to visit the hairdresser.
I decide I'm not trailing into Lincoln to the traditional (yet excellent) Salvatore gent's hairdressers; the 20 mile round trip seems a tad pointless. I grab the yellow pages and decide a trip to Market Rasen, the local market (obviously) town has to yield a half-way decent hairdresser.... I opt for Top Notch Unisex Hairdressers on the High Street. Unisex has to be reasonably OK, right......?
We turn up and I feel that at some point on the A46 into Market Rasen, we have been caught in a time suction vacuum that has catapulted us right back to 1958.
The salon is run by two ladies of...advanced years. Their (one) client is sat with a digestive, sipping a mug of tea with her perm rollers in (on her head, clearly not in the mug of tea...)
Ben takes a seat, I'm now wondering was this a great idea? Of course, it'll be fine- his hair grows really quickly....
It was all fine until she started asking him to keep still because she didn't want to cut his ear off... Don't they train hairdressers how to not cut kid's ears off???? Is this not a technique they learn on day one? Or was she so old when she trained that cutting kid's ears off was seen as an unavoidable hazard?
At this point she has cut way too much hair off, it is looking decidedly wonky but, as he still has both his ears, I look to my watch and say "goodness! We need to be off; that'll be fine, thank you- how much???"
We bolt from said shop and then are ping'd straight back into 2008 when we enter an eco-friendly health food shop run by a ruggedly attractive tall man who knows everything there is to know about local alternative therapists, it seems. He says the number for the Thai masseuse is at home.....he will call me later if I leave my number.
I leave it with him and pay an extortionate amount for a breakfast energy shake for vegetarians.
Well, it can't hurt...can it?
Monday, September 1, 2008
You can take a girl out of Berkshire.....
You know, here's the really strange thing; I was born in Lincoln, I have family here, I have visited the place many, many times over the years. Lincoln, to me, is akin to a comfort blanket; always there, familiar in a safe kind of way.
So you would think that when we moved back here a few months ago I would take to the place as you would if you had a catch-up drink with your first love. I was expecting warm, safe and inviting; after all, it's my home town....
What I find in fact, is that the city (yes, city....not many people know that, apart from those who live here) has changed almost beyond recognition. Gone is the slightly tired looking city centre, replaced by quaint eatery, coffee-bar and nail bar laden boulevards and walkways. This is Lincoln 2008; no more a depressed Northern backwater; it easily struts it's way into any self-respecting tourist brochure.
And that's the thing; I feel the brochure doesn't quite match expectation. You know how people say that no matter how much you love a holiday destination, living there 24/7 is a different kettle of fish? Actually, I feel I should point out at this juncture that I'm not aligning Lincoln with Bermuda; there are some things even the most skilled town planners cannot achieve.
I guess the real crux of the matter is that the people have not welcomed me open arms (which I suppose is not the fault of the smart boulevards and walkways). Most are friendly enough on the face of it, but don't expect being invited into the inner sanctum of their social lives within 5 years of meeting them. Perhaps I have relocated from a highly social part of the country, where networking both on a social and business level, was done automatically, and that has not made it's way this far north yet...
Let me quote an example (a fairly extreme one, granted): a couple of weeks ago I had a very painful upper back so set about scouring yell.com for a local beauty salon that could administer a much needed back massage. I found one only a couple of miles away, located at what seemed to be a residential address.
I make the call, a fairly brusque man answers with "Geoff Burnett", I stutter "oh, sorry, I thought I was calling Xanadu..."
"She's here, hang on".......phone clunks onto the table, muttered voices in background.
Then said "she" comes onto the line "hello?"
I, as my polite self, explain that I am looking for a local salon where I can get a massage; is this something that is offered at Xanadu?
"No"
"Oh.......I see........well......thanks for your help......"
Click.
I am left, phone in hand, ever-so-slightly bemused.
Now....forgive me. I don't think, although I will happily be corrected, that a make-shift salon in someones dining room in a village north of Lincoln is so overrun with appointments from A, B and C list celebs that it can afford to alienate a potential customer with a real skill for knotting her back and shoulders up like me?? Or perhaps she thought I was an undercover reporter, or perhaps someone from environmental health?
Part of me wants to call back and ask precisely what it is that Xanadu offers, as it clearly must be extraordinarily good to override an attitude akin to one of Hitler's generals.
The other part of me will just limp on, sore shoulders and all as I swallow another ibuprofen, lamenting the days when I could make a call and be on the therapists' couch within an hour...
So you would think that when we moved back here a few months ago I would take to the place as you would if you had a catch-up drink with your first love. I was expecting warm, safe and inviting; after all, it's my home town....
What I find in fact, is that the city (yes, city....not many people know that, apart from those who live here) has changed almost beyond recognition. Gone is the slightly tired looking city centre, replaced by quaint eatery, coffee-bar and nail bar laden boulevards and walkways. This is Lincoln 2008; no more a depressed Northern backwater; it easily struts it's way into any self-respecting tourist brochure.
And that's the thing; I feel the brochure doesn't quite match expectation. You know how people say that no matter how much you love a holiday destination, living there 24/7 is a different kettle of fish? Actually, I feel I should point out at this juncture that I'm not aligning Lincoln with Bermuda; there are some things even the most skilled town planners cannot achieve.
I guess the real crux of the matter is that the people have not welcomed me open arms (which I suppose is not the fault of the smart boulevards and walkways). Most are friendly enough on the face of it, but don't expect being invited into the inner sanctum of their social lives within 5 years of meeting them. Perhaps I have relocated from a highly social part of the country, where networking both on a social and business level, was done automatically, and that has not made it's way this far north yet...
Let me quote an example (a fairly extreme one, granted): a couple of weeks ago I had a very painful upper back so set about scouring yell.com for a local beauty salon that could administer a much needed back massage. I found one only a couple of miles away, located at what seemed to be a residential address.
I make the call, a fairly brusque man answers with "Geoff Burnett", I stutter "oh, sorry, I thought I was calling Xanadu..."
"She's here, hang on".......phone clunks onto the table, muttered voices in background.
Then said "she" comes onto the line "hello?"
I, as my polite self, explain that I am looking for a local salon where I can get a massage; is this something that is offered at Xanadu?
"No"
"Oh.......I see........well......thanks for your help......"
Click.
I am left, phone in hand, ever-so-slightly bemused.
Now....forgive me. I don't think, although I will happily be corrected, that a make-shift salon in someones dining room in a village north of Lincoln is so overrun with appointments from A, B and C list celebs that it can afford to alienate a potential customer with a real skill for knotting her back and shoulders up like me?? Or perhaps she thought I was an undercover reporter, or perhaps someone from environmental health?
Part of me wants to call back and ask precisely what it is that Xanadu offers, as it clearly must be extraordinarily good to override an attitude akin to one of Hitler's generals.
The other part of me will just limp on, sore shoulders and all as I swallow another ibuprofen, lamenting the days when I could make a call and be on the therapists' couch within an hour...
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