I suppose I knew it wasn't going to be a great week when I decided to start my detox regime only to find that Walkers crisps were on offer (£1.99 for eighteen packets....) at my local supermarket. Given my penchant to "bag a bargain", they managed to find their way into my basket and, admittedly with some coaxing, into my kitchen cupboard (an eighteen-packet bag takes some manipulation, let me tell you)
When all is said and done they don't need to be eaten straight away, do they? And all other such ridiculously futile reasons and excuses like that.
Half-term week with my boy, and an hour into Monday morning and he is announcing he is bored, he wants to know what the Red Arrows are doing and if Girls Aloud love him (I should mention that the Red Arrows are based and practice locally....it's a chore but they have to do it somewhere).
Of course Girls Aloud love him, I announce. They phone me frequently to tell me.
I wonder how it must feel to have "blimey! which one of them do I marry?" as the biggest concern in life. Then I remember how I have sprinkled many notions into his little mind; that the Red Arrows turned out on the day he started school just for him, that Shrek lives in Market Rasen and that there are no ghosts around here (secretly, I'm hoping the last one is true).
As a relatively upbeat kind of girl I've never coped well with the darker moments in life. Nothing too drastic, just those "straw that broke the camels' back" moments blended with the right monthly hormonal levels and- bingo! I can self-deprecate with the best of them. Everything that was positive is now of no significance, because my life is such a load of it that it doesn't matter.
And it's better to let me rant when I'm like that because when this particular Duracell bunny gets going, she will screech that you know nothing if you dare to stop her in her tracks. That's if she can hear you amidst the beating of chest and wailing that ensues.
And this, my friends, is roughly approaching the state I found myself in yesterday afternoon.
Thankfully I had some sense gently prized into me by one who, despite knowing me a relatively short time, has mastered the art of switching my mood control from dim to lighter, and then to sparkling. His style is not to pander to my bottom-lip to any great extent; too much of that and I turn into Shirley Temple without the attitude.
So, today dawns and, though still wobbly, I feel brighter and closer to normal. I can hold my head above water to at least get a lung full of air which is a marked improvement on where I was twenty-four hours ago.
During a slight submersion this afternoon, there is a knock at my door. It is my very considerate and pleasant neighbour who has taken in a parcel from Amazon for me. I thank him and laugh as he remarks that I must read a lot; this, you understand, is not the first time he has done this favour for me. Then I recall that the last time the box was actually open (not, I am sure, the work of said neighbour) and that it contained books on tarot cards and the study thereof. This time the parcel was sealed firmly shut. It did not contain books about tarot but they were not of a nature that you would necessarily want to share with anyone that you were likely to bump into in Tescos.
I closed the door and sat down again at my desk. Pleasant neighbur walks back to his house; I wonder if he has any inkling of the various topics of my reading matter, tarot-related or otherwise. Suddenly I imagine my reputation on "The Close" may be developing as the raven haired, wild and wanton divorcee at number one.... Someone who casts spells to entice and hypnotise. A woman who is devoid of all inhibitions, who has bid farewell to conforming in order to re-engage with her inner sensual being....
Someone a bit like Kate Bush, but with more melody and sultry smiles.
Eyes open, and I'm back.
Escapism in the right dose is better than anything the doctor could prescribe.
My quantum of solace. And I didn't even need Daniel Craig to apply it.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Unfaithfulness, pt. 2...
A couple of people have suggested to me that this blog (and others of a similar ilk, I'm sure) really ignites with interest only when the topic of relationships is raised, and preferably in a manner that depicts some wrong-doing on the part of one who is involved. Given the barrage of comments to yesterday's posting, I'm convinced that they were entirely correct.
Maybe the comments are borne out of some unsavoury memory, or maybe we just like to defend and uphold the rights of the wronged party.
During the course of yesterday I also received a number of e-mails regarding the posting, one of which came from Sue. It's not good practice to reproduce such an e-mail in a posting like this, but I discussed it with Sue and she agreed to let me pass on some of her comments which you may agree make for interesting reading:
"As a couples counsellor and sex therapist I sadly see many couples and individuals who are facing the turmoil that infidelity brings in the same way that your friend Jen currently is.
Firstly, can I address the subject of “looking for signs” of infidelity?
In the early stages of a relationship there is invariably tremendous uncertainty; as your feelings start to grow for your partner the realisation sets in that they may be gaining the capacity to hurt you deeply. An obvious “check” that people make in this regard is “is she/he cheating on me?” It is completely normal to ask this question, but never forget that many “signs” of infidelity will not necessarily be all that they appear.
Take the champagne glasses, for example. There could be all sorts of reasons why they were in his dishwasher, and none of them connected to him having another woman to stay the night. They are circumstantial, not conclusive, evidence.
That said, the “intuition” you speak of is valid, but it is usually picking up on your partner’s behaviour and any very slight changes that will alert you to the fact that she/he may be cheating rather than suggestive signs such as champagne glasses in a dishwasher."
This is such a valid point. I know from experience that the desire to not get hurt within a new and untested relationship can drive you to the point of distraction. Sometimes you don't even need the "signs" Sue speaks of; you can invent them using your over-active and fertile imagination, i.e. "why hasn't he rung? I expect he's out for dinner with another woman. That has to be the reason, because he always rings me....."
It's like pulling at a loose thread. Once you start on that track, it is well nigh impossible to stop.
Of course, there is a world of difference between unreasonable conjecture, and knowing the signs are there and choosing to do nothing about them, both of which I have been guilty of so I speak from a position of experience.
I discussed with another friend yesterday Jen's point about him hiding his mobile phone. My friend commented that it was overly secretive and suspicious.
When I mentioned that I always have my phone on silent and keep it tucked away in my handbag when I see my man because I don't want us to be disturbed, he commented "that's just being courteous"
Where's the difference? You see my point?
Sue went on to comment:
"I completely understand why you reacted as you did given your friend’s predicament, and the three options are possibly valid where self-protection for the innocent party is paramount, save for option three which I believe would do none of the parties involved any favours in the long run (unless Jen terminates the relationship first)
I would, however, like to echo one of the comments left by Veronica; cheating is all about power.
Your friend appears to have an understanding of why her partner may be cheating on her. In this instance, she may want to consider perhaps helping him work towards the empowerment Veronica speaks of, i.e. feeling secure, comfortable and invigorated in the relationship, rather than embarking on a course of action that will possibly send him into more destructive behaviour. She should only do this, of course, if she believes the relationship is worth her further investment."
This, I suspect, will cause a huge intake of breath......!
But Sue is entirely right. If you love someone (and I mean not just "like them a lot") then you will want them to feel amazingly happy and safe with you. To me that is what love is; it's about giving with no regard for what you may or may not get back.
Almost certainly many will see this as acting like the proverbial doormat, others will think it shows strength, fortitude and character. I opt for the latter.
Thirteen years ago I found out my then boyfriend was cheating and it sent me to a place I never want to go back to; I was totally distraught for days. But at thirty-two I only saw the rejection, and I firmly believed it was my fault. Ignoring the "signs" gave me what I wanted; a few more days or weeks successfully kidding myself that we were "OK". At thirty-two you can afford to throw a few more logs of pointless hope onto the fire of your dreams.
At forty-five I see things very differently. I see that I should never have got involved with him in the first place for one, but secondly I see that knee-jerk responses to the subject of infidelity are inappropriate in certain cases, yet at the same time entirely understandable.
For the record, I still have my doubts about Ben, but I do now see this from both sides of the coin. If he makes my friend happy and he is prepared to embark on the long haul with her to reset the foundations of their relationship, then he may be not so bad after all.
The wrath of the coven isn't so hideous, is it? ;-)
Maybe the comments are borne out of some unsavoury memory, or maybe we just like to defend and uphold the rights of the wronged party.
During the course of yesterday I also received a number of e-mails regarding the posting, one of which came from Sue. It's not good practice to reproduce such an e-mail in a posting like this, but I discussed it with Sue and she agreed to let me pass on some of her comments which you may agree make for interesting reading:
"As a couples counsellor and sex therapist I sadly see many couples and individuals who are facing the turmoil that infidelity brings in the same way that your friend Jen currently is.
Firstly, can I address the subject of “looking for signs” of infidelity?
In the early stages of a relationship there is invariably tremendous uncertainty; as your feelings start to grow for your partner the realisation sets in that they may be gaining the capacity to hurt you deeply. An obvious “check” that people make in this regard is “is she/he cheating on me?” It is completely normal to ask this question, but never forget that many “signs” of infidelity will not necessarily be all that they appear.
Take the champagne glasses, for example. There could be all sorts of reasons why they were in his dishwasher, and none of them connected to him having another woman to stay the night. They are circumstantial, not conclusive, evidence.
That said, the “intuition” you speak of is valid, but it is usually picking up on your partner’s behaviour and any very slight changes that will alert you to the fact that she/he may be cheating rather than suggestive signs such as champagne glasses in a dishwasher."
This is such a valid point. I know from experience that the desire to not get hurt within a new and untested relationship can drive you to the point of distraction. Sometimes you don't even need the "signs" Sue speaks of; you can invent them using your over-active and fertile imagination, i.e. "why hasn't he rung? I expect he's out for dinner with another woman. That has to be the reason, because he always rings me....."
It's like pulling at a loose thread. Once you start on that track, it is well nigh impossible to stop.
Of course, there is a world of difference between unreasonable conjecture, and knowing the signs are there and choosing to do nothing about them, both of which I have been guilty of so I speak from a position of experience.
I discussed with another friend yesterday Jen's point about him hiding his mobile phone. My friend commented that it was overly secretive and suspicious.
When I mentioned that I always have my phone on silent and keep it tucked away in my handbag when I see my man because I don't want us to be disturbed, he commented "that's just being courteous"
Where's the difference? You see my point?
Sue went on to comment:
"I completely understand why you reacted as you did given your friend’s predicament, and the three options are possibly valid where self-protection for the innocent party is paramount, save for option three which I believe would do none of the parties involved any favours in the long run (unless Jen terminates the relationship first)
I would, however, like to echo one of the comments left by Veronica; cheating is all about power.
Your friend appears to have an understanding of why her partner may be cheating on her. In this instance, she may want to consider perhaps helping him work towards the empowerment Veronica speaks of, i.e. feeling secure, comfortable and invigorated in the relationship, rather than embarking on a course of action that will possibly send him into more destructive behaviour. She should only do this, of course, if she believes the relationship is worth her further investment."
This, I suspect, will cause a huge intake of breath......!
But Sue is entirely right. If you love someone (and I mean not just "like them a lot") then you will want them to feel amazingly happy and safe with you. To me that is what love is; it's about giving with no regard for what you may or may not get back.
Almost certainly many will see this as acting like the proverbial doormat, others will think it shows strength, fortitude and character. I opt for the latter.
Thirteen years ago I found out my then boyfriend was cheating and it sent me to a place I never want to go back to; I was totally distraught for days. But at thirty-two I only saw the rejection, and I firmly believed it was my fault. Ignoring the "signs" gave me what I wanted; a few more days or weeks successfully kidding myself that we were "OK". At thirty-two you can afford to throw a few more logs of pointless hope onto the fire of your dreams.
At forty-five I see things very differently. I see that I should never have got involved with him in the first place for one, but secondly I see that knee-jerk responses to the subject of infidelity are inappropriate in certain cases, yet at the same time entirely understandable.
For the record, I still have my doubts about Ben, but I do now see this from both sides of the coin. If he makes my friend happy and he is prepared to embark on the long haul with her to reset the foundations of their relationship, then he may be not so bad after all.
The wrath of the coven isn't so hideous, is it? ;-)
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Unfaithfulness, friendship and choices
The fabulous thing about having friends is their unswerving support at your hour of need, coupled with the fact that your friendship is never affected when you choose to completely ignore their well-meaning advice and head off in the direction they're telling you to avoid.
I have one particular friend (whom I won't name for fear of embarrassing her) who I am confident would weather any storm with me. She is also not afraid of imparting advice that cuts you to the bone, particularly in the area of relationships, but on my refusal to act on anything she says, she will simply respond with "as long as you're happy, I'm happy". Friends like that are rare; they shouldn't be, but they are.
The same friend recently accompanied me through a very worrying time during an illness which was rather spectacularly misdiagnosed by my GP. The supposed condition would have meant a lifetime of relapses, and the symptoms were quite miserable. She regularly called to support me and let me know about some more information she had uncovered on the internet. Unwittingly she is the best friend a girl could have; quick to rush to your side when you need her and just as quick to pick you up, clean your cuts and grazes and give you a hug even when you think you don't need her.
Of course, there comes a time when as a friend, you have to play this role yourself. And this happened five days ago in my case, not with the friend I've mentioned but for Jen who called me in a state of upset and confusion following some rather unpleasant discoveries at her boyfriends' house.
Jen has been seeing him for around six months now; it's been an up-and-down relationship but she is besotted with him. As her friends we all secretly despise him; he is guilty of the worst possible social crime, arrogant without a valid reason.
So, my phone rings at around 8pm and it's Jen.
"I stayed at Ben's last night and I know he had a woman there the night before"
Why?
"Telltale signs. Nothing obvious, just things like two champagne glasses in the dishwasher. He hates champagne."
I guess a logic-led person would say this was all conjecture, but I knew exactly what she meant because a similar thing happened to me around thirteen years ago and I chose to ignore it.
No matter how well men clear away the evidence, what they don't realise is that they cannot clear away the stench of the fact that it happened, and that is what gives them away.
"What do I do? I told him I thought someone had been there, but he says I'm wrong, it was a work colleague"
"OK, as I see it you have three choices here.
Firstly, you walk away. There will always be the doubt in your mind that, even if he admits it, and you patch it up, he could do it again. So walking will shield you from that"
"I don't want to walk away"
"I suspected you would say that. Secondly, you tell him you know (and add that his protestations are pathetic so he should just shut up). Ask him on what basis did he think it was OK to do this. He'll probably say he doesn't know why he did it (which he may not). Tell him to sort this out and get rid of her or else you are out of there."
"Hmmmm. OK..."
"Thirdly, accept the fact that he has now put your relationship onto a new footing. You start seeing other guys; sleep with them if you feel like it. You don't need to discuss it with him because he didn't consult you, did he?"
"What would you do if you were me?"
"If it happened to me in my current relationship, the second or the third, depending on if he approached me to discuss it. But you have to act, otherwise you will tell yourself you need firmer evidence so you'll start looking for it, driving past his house at midnight, for example. You will definitely find it and then your heart will be smashed to pieces. Act now"
Jen rang off shortly after and said she was going to consider the options. I have no idea yet what she's decided as she's not answering her phone.
It got me wondering why people do this to each other in relationships, especially relatively new ones? Why did he bother to start something with Jen when he knew she wanted commitment? There are plenty of women out there (according to the internet) who appear to want no-strings sex, so why bother going through the motions?
This type of episode makes my heart very heavy; I certainly feel like running a key down his car because I know Jen won't. She is so stoically defensive of him that it makes you want to cry.
It's one of life's ponderables that will never be fully answered, I have no doubt. One thing I am sure of is that he will feel much worse about this than Jen does in the final analysis.
Good. I hope he chokes on it. That's what friends are for.
I have one particular friend (whom I won't name for fear of embarrassing her) who I am confident would weather any storm with me. She is also not afraid of imparting advice that cuts you to the bone, particularly in the area of relationships, but on my refusal to act on anything she says, she will simply respond with "as long as you're happy, I'm happy". Friends like that are rare; they shouldn't be, but they are.
The same friend recently accompanied me through a very worrying time during an illness which was rather spectacularly misdiagnosed by my GP. The supposed condition would have meant a lifetime of relapses, and the symptoms were quite miserable. She regularly called to support me and let me know about some more information she had uncovered on the internet. Unwittingly she is the best friend a girl could have; quick to rush to your side when you need her and just as quick to pick you up, clean your cuts and grazes and give you a hug even when you think you don't need her.
Of course, there comes a time when as a friend, you have to play this role yourself. And this happened five days ago in my case, not with the friend I've mentioned but for Jen who called me in a state of upset and confusion following some rather unpleasant discoveries at her boyfriends' house.
Jen has been seeing him for around six months now; it's been an up-and-down relationship but she is besotted with him. As her friends we all secretly despise him; he is guilty of the worst possible social crime, arrogant without a valid reason.
So, my phone rings at around 8pm and it's Jen.
"I stayed at Ben's last night and I know he had a woman there the night before"
Why?
"Telltale signs. Nothing obvious, just things like two champagne glasses in the dishwasher. He hates champagne."
I guess a logic-led person would say this was all conjecture, but I knew exactly what she meant because a similar thing happened to me around thirteen years ago and I chose to ignore it.
No matter how well men clear away the evidence, what they don't realise is that they cannot clear away the stench of the fact that it happened, and that is what gives them away.
"What do I do? I told him I thought someone had been there, but he says I'm wrong, it was a work colleague"
"OK, as I see it you have three choices here.
Firstly, you walk away. There will always be the doubt in your mind that, even if he admits it, and you patch it up, he could do it again. So walking will shield you from that"
"I don't want to walk away"
"I suspected you would say that. Secondly, you tell him you know (and add that his protestations are pathetic so he should just shut up). Ask him on what basis did he think it was OK to do this. He'll probably say he doesn't know why he did it (which he may not). Tell him to sort this out and get rid of her or else you are out of there."
"Hmmmm. OK..."
"Thirdly, accept the fact that he has now put your relationship onto a new footing. You start seeing other guys; sleep with them if you feel like it. You don't need to discuss it with him because he didn't consult you, did he?"
"What would you do if you were me?"
"If it happened to me in my current relationship, the second or the third, depending on if he approached me to discuss it. But you have to act, otherwise you will tell yourself you need firmer evidence so you'll start looking for it, driving past his house at midnight, for example. You will definitely find it and then your heart will be smashed to pieces. Act now"
Jen rang off shortly after and said she was going to consider the options. I have no idea yet what she's decided as she's not answering her phone.
It got me wondering why people do this to each other in relationships, especially relatively new ones? Why did he bother to start something with Jen when he knew she wanted commitment? There are plenty of women out there (according to the internet) who appear to want no-strings sex, so why bother going through the motions?
This type of episode makes my heart very heavy; I certainly feel like running a key down his car because I know Jen won't. She is so stoically defensive of him that it makes you want to cry.
It's one of life's ponderables that will never be fully answered, I have no doubt. One thing I am sure of is that he will feel much worse about this than Jen does in the final analysis.
Good. I hope he chokes on it. That's what friends are for.
Friday, October 24, 2008
City lights on country lanes...
Some weeks pass by relatively quietly, and yet others seem to teem with so many events and coincidences that even the most staunch believers in the lessons of life are left scratching their heads in disbelief.
A few years ago I remember watching the Oprah Winfrey show (in the days when I had the time to do that....) and she had a guest whose name escapes me, but I seem to think he was called Jim for some inexplicable reason (I'm pretty sure he has a surname too, but surnames have never been my forte). Jim talked about the lessons that life shows us on a daily basis, and he explained that there was a lesson in everything that happened in our lives, but it was up to us to decide whether we wanted to take notice of that lesson or not. In other words, seek, and ye shall find.
His words touched me to the point that they still echo around my head at times. At times like this last week.
It all started on Tuesday evening when I had a very pleasant evening recalling with my paramour our lost youths and the people we knew. I should point out this is not an over-populated county, so it was a bit of a surprise, but not a huge one, when we discovered that many of our "friends" had been mutual. He commented that it was amazing that we hadn't met in that previous existence, and if I had been sufficiently illuminated I'm sure I would have said that fate had determined that the time was not right and we had our respective spiritual paths to tread first, but I'm almost certain I didn't so I probably just nodded in agreement.
And I probably just nodded in agreement because I was recalling the rather uncomfortable feeling I had all those years ago, simply because I didn't quite fit into the "set" we were talking about. The "set" had the right surnames, the benefit of a private education and their families had land. I had none of those things but I had a reasonably pretty face which goes a long way in most circles, but never quite far enough in the one we were talking about.
My paramour, needless to say, was part of the "set".
Two rather large glasses of wine into the conversation and I'm feeling like I've been sent straight back to nineteen years of age, insecurity, wide eyes and all.
The morning breaks however, and I'm forty-five again, and I've recaptured the gloriously unyielding twenty-six years that took that wide-eyed nineteen year old and turned her into the woman I am today. Given the choice I would have preferred an easier ride, but I have no issue with who I've become, because today I see the outmoded class system we have in the UK as just that, outmoded.
Yesterday at precisely 9.37a.m. I skipped onto a train at Newark and skedaddled down to London for the day. I had a couple of meetings lined up; the first with a business contact I had been networking with and the second was an altogether glamorous affair, a photo shoot for a glossy women's monthly to accompany an interview I had already given.
As I alighted from the train (remembering to take all my belongings with me and minding the gap...) I wondered how the day was going to pan out. You see the last time I was in London in a work capacity was over five years ago, before my son was born, when I was working in a corporate sales job that I was quite good at but that I secretly hated. I earned lots of money, but the relentless commuting, the pressure and the perpetual inter-company politicking that went on was enough to dull the sparkle of the city for me.
I drove off in the taxi along the Marylebone Road and passed some of my familiar landmarks; the bust of JFK by Great Portland Street tube, the Globe pub opposite Madame Tussuad's where I and a colleague had celebrated a particularly good sales pitch, and the Landmark Hotel where I had met my much-missed colleague Jane Minnick a few times to discuss sales strategies.
Jane was a very loud, opinionated American who worked as an account manager for our chief supplier. She was outspoken to the point of occasionally being obnoxious, but when she laughed you could not help but laugh with her. She drove me nuts with her arrogance, but when you were in on her joke, it would make you cry with laughter. I recall one time when she called me bearly able to speak because she was laughing so hard at an e-mail I had sent her; I can't recall detail but I believe the e-mail was titled "Who is Jack Schitt" and Jane laughed like a drain. It was, in fairness, a pretty hilarious little ditty, but that is how I remember her, because two years later Jane was killed in a car crash. Yes, she was loud, but she was also larger than life, and sadly a life that is no longer with us.
So, I'm on the Marylebone Road heading out towards Ealing for my first meeting with Corinne. As I'm passing through the streets I'm realising that the heavy heart I had the last time I was here has gone; now it is all exciting, full of promise and allure.
I spend a fascinating hour with Corinne who, as a talented musician, producer and businesswoman, cannot fail to inspire. She tells me of the wealth dynamics profiling system that has enabled her to identify that she is a "creator", someone who is constantly bombarded with new ideas that sadly don't see implementation and fruition because the next set of ideas nudge them off the board. This sounds so strangely familiar. Corinne tels me that wealth dynamics profiling enables you to slay your demons in whichever quarter they may lurk.
This is something I need to do. And pronto....
On to meeting number two, said photo shoot which takes place at a very plush house (the residence of a highly respected actor). I know I am going to like it as I am shown through the house and there are hairstylists and makeup artists at work and lots of ladies shouting "fabulous, love!"
Sharon, the rather gorgeous picture editor of the mag, takes one look at me and says to her stylist "I'm thinking that little silver Ben di Lisi number for Deborah..."
I respond with "I'm liking the sound of that a lot.."
Two hours then commence of dressing, accessorising, hair being styled, makeup applied and the flash of the bulb as I'm asked to give it my all to the camera. In this respect, dear readers, I had no problem; treat me like I'm someone special and I am that person.
And that is who I was as I sat in the chauffeur-driven Mercedes back to Kings Cross; I was someone special. I realised that someone who maybe thought she wasn't quite good enough at nineteen was actually more than good enough now.
Now it's time to prove just how good.
The bright lights of the city continued to illuminate the road home from Newark station last night, all the way back to my front door. City lights on country lanes...I never thought I'd see it, but it is so very clear to me now.
A few years ago I remember watching the Oprah Winfrey show (in the days when I had the time to do that....) and she had a guest whose name escapes me, but I seem to think he was called Jim for some inexplicable reason (I'm pretty sure he has a surname too, but surnames have never been my forte). Jim talked about the lessons that life shows us on a daily basis, and he explained that there was a lesson in everything that happened in our lives, but it was up to us to decide whether we wanted to take notice of that lesson or not. In other words, seek, and ye shall find.
His words touched me to the point that they still echo around my head at times. At times like this last week.
It all started on Tuesday evening when I had a very pleasant evening recalling with my paramour our lost youths and the people we knew. I should point out this is not an over-populated county, so it was a bit of a surprise, but not a huge one, when we discovered that many of our "friends" had been mutual. He commented that it was amazing that we hadn't met in that previous existence, and if I had been sufficiently illuminated I'm sure I would have said that fate had determined that the time was not right and we had our respective spiritual paths to tread first, but I'm almost certain I didn't so I probably just nodded in agreement.
And I probably just nodded in agreement because I was recalling the rather uncomfortable feeling I had all those years ago, simply because I didn't quite fit into the "set" we were talking about. The "set" had the right surnames, the benefit of a private education and their families had land. I had none of those things but I had a reasonably pretty face which goes a long way in most circles, but never quite far enough in the one we were talking about.
My paramour, needless to say, was part of the "set".
Two rather large glasses of wine into the conversation and I'm feeling like I've been sent straight back to nineteen years of age, insecurity, wide eyes and all.
The morning breaks however, and I'm forty-five again, and I've recaptured the gloriously unyielding twenty-six years that took that wide-eyed nineteen year old and turned her into the woman I am today. Given the choice I would have preferred an easier ride, but I have no issue with who I've become, because today I see the outmoded class system we have in the UK as just that, outmoded.
Yesterday at precisely 9.37a.m. I skipped onto a train at Newark and skedaddled down to London for the day. I had a couple of meetings lined up; the first with a business contact I had been networking with and the second was an altogether glamorous affair, a photo shoot for a glossy women's monthly to accompany an interview I had already given.
As I alighted from the train (remembering to take all my belongings with me and minding the gap...) I wondered how the day was going to pan out. You see the last time I was in London in a work capacity was over five years ago, before my son was born, when I was working in a corporate sales job that I was quite good at but that I secretly hated. I earned lots of money, but the relentless commuting, the pressure and the perpetual inter-company politicking that went on was enough to dull the sparkle of the city for me.
I drove off in the taxi along the Marylebone Road and passed some of my familiar landmarks; the bust of JFK by Great Portland Street tube, the Globe pub opposite Madame Tussuad's where I and a colleague had celebrated a particularly good sales pitch, and the Landmark Hotel where I had met my much-missed colleague Jane Minnick a few times to discuss sales strategies.
Jane was a very loud, opinionated American who worked as an account manager for our chief supplier. She was outspoken to the point of occasionally being obnoxious, but when she laughed you could not help but laugh with her. She drove me nuts with her arrogance, but when you were in on her joke, it would make you cry with laughter. I recall one time when she called me bearly able to speak because she was laughing so hard at an e-mail I had sent her; I can't recall detail but I believe the e-mail was titled "Who is Jack Schitt" and Jane laughed like a drain. It was, in fairness, a pretty hilarious little ditty, but that is how I remember her, because two years later Jane was killed in a car crash. Yes, she was loud, but she was also larger than life, and sadly a life that is no longer with us.
So, I'm on the Marylebone Road heading out towards Ealing for my first meeting with Corinne. As I'm passing through the streets I'm realising that the heavy heart I had the last time I was here has gone; now it is all exciting, full of promise and allure.
I spend a fascinating hour with Corinne who, as a talented musician, producer and businesswoman, cannot fail to inspire. She tells me of the wealth dynamics profiling system that has enabled her to identify that she is a "creator", someone who is constantly bombarded with new ideas that sadly don't see implementation and fruition because the next set of ideas nudge them off the board. This sounds so strangely familiar. Corinne tels me that wealth dynamics profiling enables you to slay your demons in whichever quarter they may lurk.
This is something I need to do. And pronto....
On to meeting number two, said photo shoot which takes place at a very plush house (the residence of a highly respected actor). I know I am going to like it as I am shown through the house and there are hairstylists and makeup artists at work and lots of ladies shouting "fabulous, love!"
Sharon, the rather gorgeous picture editor of the mag, takes one look at me and says to her stylist "I'm thinking that little silver Ben di Lisi number for Deborah..."
I respond with "I'm liking the sound of that a lot.."
Two hours then commence of dressing, accessorising, hair being styled, makeup applied and the flash of the bulb as I'm asked to give it my all to the camera. In this respect, dear readers, I had no problem; treat me like I'm someone special and I am that person.
And that is who I was as I sat in the chauffeur-driven Mercedes back to Kings Cross; I was someone special. I realised that someone who maybe thought she wasn't quite good enough at nineteen was actually more than good enough now.
Now it's time to prove just how good.
The bright lights of the city continued to illuminate the road home from Newark station last night, all the way back to my front door. City lights on country lanes...I never thought I'd see it, but it is so very clear to me now.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
My secret self by the other me...
One of my most annoying traits is that I can change my mind at the drop of a hat on an issue that I could have been one hundred per cent sold on five minutes beforehand. Some see this as inconsistent and unpredictable; I prefer the terms "flexible" and "accommodating".
If you speak to any of my inner circle they will happily list lots of other equally annoying traits, but the "switching horses mid-race" habit does secretly hack me off too. I can be happily plowing my way through a business project, and then WHAM! I have a new idea that is so over-poweringly brilliant that everything else fades away into an insignificant backdrop.
It gets particularly annoying when said new idea involves not only a new range of products, but also a new website and a new blog. I sometimes forget that I don't yet have a support team of ten fabulous and self-starting assistants that can help with the ensuing tasks; I live some way off in the future you see, which is also vexing for my accountant and bank manager. Some people have no vision.
Recently I decided to spice things up a bit with my event stationery business; years of working with ivory ribbon and dreamy themes leaves you wanting to break out the black satin and raunch it up a notch or two. I was so excited at the prospect that I neglected to sit and determine where the three extra days per week I would need were going to come from...
So far the website is established; it looks rather saucy and full of promise, but sadly it is only that- just saucy, no meat underneath (I hope that doesn't conjure up any inappropriate images- it isn't that kind of site)
I've always loved the term "work in progress" because it implies continued growth and improvement; unfortunately in this case it means what it means, "under construction".....
On a very light, airy and positive note, Lincolnshire life improves by the day. I'm starting to realise that the improvements I'm noticing are not recent, they were always there, but now my eyes are rested and I hope I've lost part of the Southern attitude that must have annoyed the heck out of everyone, so I can see more clearly.
Most recently on the drive back from taking my boy to school I noticed a wheelbarrow outside someones' house full of cooking apples (clearly from their orchard...). There was a sign by it that read "Free apples- help yourself".
A missed opportunity to make a few quid? Very possibly.
But this is Lincolnshire. Thank heavens.
If you speak to any of my inner circle they will happily list lots of other equally annoying traits, but the "switching horses mid-race" habit does secretly hack me off too. I can be happily plowing my way through a business project, and then WHAM! I have a new idea that is so over-poweringly brilliant that everything else fades away into an insignificant backdrop.
It gets particularly annoying when said new idea involves not only a new range of products, but also a new website and a new blog. I sometimes forget that I don't yet have a support team of ten fabulous and self-starting assistants that can help with the ensuing tasks; I live some way off in the future you see, which is also vexing for my accountant and bank manager. Some people have no vision.
Recently I decided to spice things up a bit with my event stationery business; years of working with ivory ribbon and dreamy themes leaves you wanting to break out the black satin and raunch it up a notch or two. I was so excited at the prospect that I neglected to sit and determine where the three extra days per week I would need were going to come from...
So far the website is established; it looks rather saucy and full of promise, but sadly it is only that- just saucy, no meat underneath (I hope that doesn't conjure up any inappropriate images- it isn't that kind of site)
I've always loved the term "work in progress" because it implies continued growth and improvement; unfortunately in this case it means what it means, "under construction".....
On a very light, airy and positive note, Lincolnshire life improves by the day. I'm starting to realise that the improvements I'm noticing are not recent, they were always there, but now my eyes are rested and I hope I've lost part of the Southern attitude that must have annoyed the heck out of everyone, so I can see more clearly.
Most recently on the drive back from taking my boy to school I noticed a wheelbarrow outside someones' house full of cooking apples (clearly from their orchard...). There was a sign by it that read "Free apples- help yourself".
A missed opportunity to make a few quid? Very possibly.
But this is Lincolnshire. Thank heavens.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
The Promise
Do you ever consider events, circumstances or aspects of life that are guaranteed to put a smile back on your face? Those things that for some occasionally inexplicable reasons put you back on track and make you grow just a couple of inches taller so that you can see over the barrier in front of you?
Perhaps I'm going through an epiphany; the whole Randy episode yesterday had me wondering last night if he was in fact an angel. But actually it goes a little deeper than that.
I made a promise to someone a couple of days ago because I had, albeit unintentionally, gravely upset them.
Promises, to me, are very fragile things. They can be very easily broken, and if they are, you can never repair them; once they are destroyed a bond of trust dies forever.
So for that reason I keep my promises very safe.
In this instance, my promise has caused me to take my focus away from one area of my life and look at the others. I had to admit that I was a little alarmed at the prospect; what if the other areas weren't that riveting? What if my promise became my jailer?
No need for concern, because my angel showed up and sprinkled his magic all around my house yesterday.
I realised that many of the conversations I'd been having over the past few weeks were so laden down with importance that it was time to forget them; it was time to turn the music up, draw the blinds and dance it out of my system. Just for now.
Goodness knows that life can be as tough as it's ever been right now, but some people, some music and some events make it so exhilarating that it's worth it.
And if this next clip of the nations' darlings, Girls Aloud, from last night's X Factor doesn't get you dancing like you just don't care, then nothing will....
Perhaps I'm going through an epiphany; the whole Randy episode yesterday had me wondering last night if he was in fact an angel. But actually it goes a little deeper than that.
I made a promise to someone a couple of days ago because I had, albeit unintentionally, gravely upset them.
Promises, to me, are very fragile things. They can be very easily broken, and if they are, you can never repair them; once they are destroyed a bond of trust dies forever.
So for that reason I keep my promises very safe.
In this instance, my promise has caused me to take my focus away from one area of my life and look at the others. I had to admit that I was a little alarmed at the prospect; what if the other areas weren't that riveting? What if my promise became my jailer?
No need for concern, because my angel showed up and sprinkled his magic all around my house yesterday.
I realised that many of the conversations I'd been having over the past few weeks were so laden down with importance that it was time to forget them; it was time to turn the music up, draw the blinds and dance it out of my system. Just for now.
Goodness knows that life can be as tough as it's ever been right now, but some people, some music and some events make it so exhilarating that it's worth it.
And if this next clip of the nations' darlings, Girls Aloud, from last night's X Factor doesn't get you dancing like you just don't care, then nothing will....
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Sunshine, directions and misquotes
I woke ridiculously early this morning, which I do on a daily basis. At 6.34a.m. I peered at my bedside clock and sighed with resigned acceptance that my day was beginning whether I liked it or not, which frankly I didn't, given that I have a Ben-free weekend and the after-effects of the wine I had consumed last night was now manifesting in a way I wasn't happy with.
We had attended the annual grand banquet of a local professional body (as a guest rather than a member I'd like to offer more information, but if I did I'd be making it up) The guest speaker was Sir Ranulph Fiennes who, it has to be said, probably has more hair-raising moments eating his weetabix in the morning than I ever, ever want to experience. Ever.
Everyone sat enraptured by his speech, as was I, yet I have to admit a part of me wanted desperately to know why any sane person would want to do any of it. My fellow diner Louise lent over to me at one point and remarked how supportive his wife was opening the books for him to sign at the end, adding "and then I realised he has no fingers left to do it himself".......
Of course, it would never do for us all to be cut of the same cloth; I more of a "built for comfort, not for speed" kind of girl. I think to be fair I always was; the terms "back-packing" and "camping" have never held any special allure for me, given my taste for champagne and five-star hotels complete with their marble-lined bathrooms.
So, despite the shaky start this morning I was fairly certain the day was going to be special. A glimpse at the blue sky through the blind promised a beautiful day; my friend Ruth had stayed the night so we resumed our gossip-fest over bacon sandwiches and tea.
Ruth and her family came to this country around five years ago after being thrown off their farm in Zimbabwe. To hear her speak of it makes you realise that the word "crisis" is woefully overplayed these days. She is a straight-forward, no nonsense girl; her ability to take control of a terrible situation and transform it is quite breathtaking. Let me give a minor example; when she arrived yesterday after driving up from Burton on Trent she was covered in oily marks. She'd had a problem with the car on the way up so had pulled over to sort it out.
Hats off, girl. I would have been anxiously looking for an unsuspecting man to help (have you any idea how difficult it is to get oil from under your fingernails?)
Then it occurred to me that Ruth had mentioned last night having a stove in her car...... In a rather bemused fashion I asked for confirmation; she gave it. She had brought it with her as the recent winner of said stove on Ebay lived near Louth (around fifteen miles away). It was, thankfully, a stove top, rather than the full item.
During a conversation on her mobile phone with the stove winner, she asks me if she can leave it with me for him to collect. Of course, no problem. I speak to Randy (the winner) and direct him to my house. Randy is from Birmingham and he knows the big old house in my village that used to be an antiques shop; this makes directions a piece of madeira. He will be there between twelve and one.
Ruth leaves and I embark on my weekly mammoth vacuuming expedition, trying to reignite the adventurous spirit that "Sir Ran" talked of last night as I scaled the stairs.
A little before one o'clock there is a knock at the door; it's Randy. I open it and see him stood before me, looking exactly as I expected him to look. He is around five foot ten, slim, happy eyes and coffee skin.
To say the next hour was a revelation would be an understatement; we talked of life and it's idiosyncrasies, we talked of aspirations, hopes, fears and love.
He told me of his ex partner Jeff, we talked about being single and of being a parent. Randy is sunshine in human form.
Every so often you gel with someone so instantly that it knocks you off your feet; today was such a day for me. An already beautiful day was now glorious.
Randy told about his gift to heal people, and of a fairly insignificant yet charming thing he said he was sure would occur to me in the near future. When it happens I am to call Ruth and ask her to confirm it to him, then he will get back in touch with me.
I'm confident it will happen. I know it will.
Yesterday Doug, one of my business contacts and someone else full of sunshine, told me that he liked a quote I had recently posted on my online profile, "it's true, women want to be loved, not understood. Amen to that" he laughed.
Actually the quote was from Oscar Wilde and it goes "women are made to be loved, not understood".
I think I like Doug's version better. Sometimes misquotes head in the very direction they should, into the sunshine.
We had attended the annual grand banquet of a local professional body (as a guest rather than a member I'd like to offer more information, but if I did I'd be making it up) The guest speaker was Sir Ranulph Fiennes who, it has to be said, probably has more hair-raising moments eating his weetabix in the morning than I ever, ever want to experience. Ever.
Everyone sat enraptured by his speech, as was I, yet I have to admit a part of me wanted desperately to know why any sane person would want to do any of it. My fellow diner Louise lent over to me at one point and remarked how supportive his wife was opening the books for him to sign at the end, adding "and then I realised he has no fingers left to do it himself".......
Of course, it would never do for us all to be cut of the same cloth; I more of a "built for comfort, not for speed" kind of girl. I think to be fair I always was; the terms "back-packing" and "camping" have never held any special allure for me, given my taste for champagne and five-star hotels complete with their marble-lined bathrooms.
So, despite the shaky start this morning I was fairly certain the day was going to be special. A glimpse at the blue sky through the blind promised a beautiful day; my friend Ruth had stayed the night so we resumed our gossip-fest over bacon sandwiches and tea.
Ruth and her family came to this country around five years ago after being thrown off their farm in Zimbabwe. To hear her speak of it makes you realise that the word "crisis" is woefully overplayed these days. She is a straight-forward, no nonsense girl; her ability to take control of a terrible situation and transform it is quite breathtaking. Let me give a minor example; when she arrived yesterday after driving up from Burton on Trent she was covered in oily marks. She'd had a problem with the car on the way up so had pulled over to sort it out.
Hats off, girl. I would have been anxiously looking for an unsuspecting man to help (have you any idea how difficult it is to get oil from under your fingernails?)
Then it occurred to me that Ruth had mentioned last night having a stove in her car...... In a rather bemused fashion I asked for confirmation; she gave it. She had brought it with her as the recent winner of said stove on Ebay lived near Louth (around fifteen miles away). It was, thankfully, a stove top, rather than the full item.
During a conversation on her mobile phone with the stove winner, she asks me if she can leave it with me for him to collect. Of course, no problem. I speak to Randy (the winner) and direct him to my house. Randy is from Birmingham and he knows the big old house in my village that used to be an antiques shop; this makes directions a piece of madeira. He will be there between twelve and one.
Ruth leaves and I embark on my weekly mammoth vacuuming expedition, trying to reignite the adventurous spirit that "Sir Ran" talked of last night as I scaled the stairs.
A little before one o'clock there is a knock at the door; it's Randy. I open it and see him stood before me, looking exactly as I expected him to look. He is around five foot ten, slim, happy eyes and coffee skin.
To say the next hour was a revelation would be an understatement; we talked of life and it's idiosyncrasies, we talked of aspirations, hopes, fears and love.
He told me of his ex partner Jeff, we talked about being single and of being a parent. Randy is sunshine in human form.
Every so often you gel with someone so instantly that it knocks you off your feet; today was such a day for me. An already beautiful day was now glorious.
Randy told about his gift to heal people, and of a fairly insignificant yet charming thing he said he was sure would occur to me in the near future. When it happens I am to call Ruth and ask her to confirm it to him, then he will get back in touch with me.
I'm confident it will happen. I know it will.
Yesterday Doug, one of my business contacts and someone else full of sunshine, told me that he liked a quote I had recently posted on my online profile, "it's true, women want to be loved, not understood. Amen to that" he laughed.
Actually the quote was from Oscar Wilde and it goes "women are made to be loved, not understood".
I think I like Doug's version better. Sometimes misquotes head in the very direction they should, into the sunshine.
Monday, October 13, 2008
La douleur exquise....pts. 1 and 2
Into every seemingly blissful life, a little pain must fall.
I collected my tiny, tiny little boy from school on Friday afternoon to find fingernail scratch marks down his left cheek. Actually he is nowhere near being a tiny, tiny little boy but I've never forgotten that moment when I first held him and I scared myself rigid that he would break. A friend at the time wisely commented that it was statistically far more likely that he would break me. It never really came to that but I soon realised she had a point.
As a moderately over-protective parent I strode up to his teacher and asked what had happened, and the only explanation I was given was that there had been some playground altercation although it was all a bit foggy as to what had happened...
Uncharacteristically he was very quiet when asked about how he got them, but I managed twenty-four hours later to extract from him that two of his classmates had chased him and scratched him on purpose.
When asked if he had told a teacher about it, he said no. When I asked if he had cried, he said no.
Then he looked pleadingly at me and asked if I was cross with him. Like a knife into my chest, I decided that this job is really too hard at times......
Rather predictably my father said he needed to learn how to deliver a sly punch on the quiet; I pointed out that, whilst I could see the need to defend himself, it may be difficult to explain the peculiarities and vagaries of self-defence to a four year old.
Sometimes, however, the universe decides it isn't just going to put you to the test in one area (in this instance it was resisting the temptation to pin my son's teacher against the wall and demand an explanation as to why she could not explain his lacerated face.....). Sometimes it decides that you've scraped through the audition, so you're off to boot camp. Oh goodie.
A phone call. That's all it takes.
"If you have an issue with something I've done, can you tell me before you publish it on the internet?"
Oh. Hmmm.
You can see his point, I guess......
Then I remembered the tortured state of disarray I was in on Friday evening and I, thankfully, came to my senses.
"This, you have to understand, is therapy to me; twenty years ago I would have written everything in a diary and stuffed it under the bed" He concedes that point; the world, I point out, has moved on.
Thirty years ago and it would have been in the diary and hidden in a place where I thought no-one went. No-one, that is, except my mother, apparently.
I feel I should point out that the disarray was caused by a brusque comment made by him to me to my entirely vacuous question "are you OK?"
Not that big a deal in the scheme of things, and I know that, all things being equal, I should have cast it off in the manner in which it was intended. Yes, I know I should have.....
So the pain here is actually twofold as the brusque episode and the ensuing shaking of the head and the soul searching seems to go on for hours, days..... And then the squirming on realisation that publishing your pain on the internet may be more than a little unfair when it involves your paramour, someone that you would take a bullet for.
(Don't get too excited; I fired the bullet into that last comment for dramatic effect)
The wild and obtuse tangents caused by misunderstandings can always be solved by one thing. Every time.
A phone call. That's all it takes.
I collected my tiny, tiny little boy from school on Friday afternoon to find fingernail scratch marks down his left cheek. Actually he is nowhere near being a tiny, tiny little boy but I've never forgotten that moment when I first held him and I scared myself rigid that he would break. A friend at the time wisely commented that it was statistically far more likely that he would break me. It never really came to that but I soon realised she had a point.
As a moderately over-protective parent I strode up to his teacher and asked what had happened, and the only explanation I was given was that there had been some playground altercation although it was all a bit foggy as to what had happened...
Uncharacteristically he was very quiet when asked about how he got them, but I managed twenty-four hours later to extract from him that two of his classmates had chased him and scratched him on purpose.
When asked if he had told a teacher about it, he said no. When I asked if he had cried, he said no.
Then he looked pleadingly at me and asked if I was cross with him. Like a knife into my chest, I decided that this job is really too hard at times......
Rather predictably my father said he needed to learn how to deliver a sly punch on the quiet; I pointed out that, whilst I could see the need to defend himself, it may be difficult to explain the peculiarities and vagaries of self-defence to a four year old.
Sometimes, however, the universe decides it isn't just going to put you to the test in one area (in this instance it was resisting the temptation to pin my son's teacher against the wall and demand an explanation as to why she could not explain his lacerated face.....). Sometimes it decides that you've scraped through the audition, so you're off to boot camp. Oh goodie.
A phone call. That's all it takes.
"If you have an issue with something I've done, can you tell me before you publish it on the internet?"
Oh. Hmmm.
You can see his point, I guess......
Then I remembered the tortured state of disarray I was in on Friday evening and I, thankfully, came to my senses.
"This, you have to understand, is therapy to me; twenty years ago I would have written everything in a diary and stuffed it under the bed" He concedes that point; the world, I point out, has moved on.
Thirty years ago and it would have been in the diary and hidden in a place where I thought no-one went. No-one, that is, except my mother, apparently.
I feel I should point out that the disarray was caused by a brusque comment made by him to me to my entirely vacuous question "are you OK?"
Not that big a deal in the scheme of things, and I know that, all things being equal, I should have cast it off in the manner in which it was intended. Yes, I know I should have.....
So the pain here is actually twofold as the brusque episode and the ensuing shaking of the head and the soul searching seems to go on for hours, days..... And then the squirming on realisation that publishing your pain on the internet may be more than a little unfair when it involves your paramour, someone that you would take a bullet for.
(Don't get too excited; I fired the bullet into that last comment for dramatic effect)
The wild and obtuse tangents caused by misunderstandings can always be solved by one thing. Every time.
A phone call. That's all it takes.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Unacceptable behaviour; how far is too far?
I don't think I've given this question much thought at all over the past few years. I have blindly accepted some atrocious treatment, some rather expectedly doled out by business rivals, other times, more disappointingly, by so-called friends.
And, of course, who could forget the apology for manners and good grace displayed by ex-partners? This, I would have to say, has not usually been owing to their innate bad character; it's been more a case of an inability to tell the truth. Perhaps they had previously dated bunny-boiling tyre-slashers and preferred to run for the hills as a result rather than utter phrases such as "it's over", "there's someone else" or "it's not you, it's me"....
I never have felt the need to wreak revenge; why do people do that? Why bother wasting more time on someone who clearly doesn't want to be with you? Which is why it has always disappointed me when men are not honest; the silent treatment is, to be perfectly frank, far more annoying. Now that does stir up a need to damage something dear to the offending party, preferably his ego.
My girls and I have sat for many an evening and lamented this issue. Our theories have ranged from men never wanting to truly burn their bridges (our favourite), to them being too cowardly (also a strong contender) right across to he is probably seeing someone else, possibly several, and he's not going silent, he just doesn't have time to call in between dates and planning his next conquest.
In the final analysis it doesn't matter a jot to me; going silent is unacceptable behaviour irrespective of the reason. There really is no excuse; if someone is old enough to vote that means that technically they are an adult. You would hope.
So, how do I define unacceptable behaviour? Very simple; the old-fashioned way. I expect to be treated the way same way I treat others; that is a very fair arrangement. In truth I believe most of us overlook the fact that usually what we tolerate is way below that standard.
You may wonder why I'm debating this point at length; it has, of course, to do with Duz. I have to offload here as Adrian has this morning announced he will not respond or communicate any further with me on the subject of "the D word". I find that a little stern, I have to say....
But the time has come to make a decision here; too much angst-ridden wringing of hands has taken place on the subject of Duz already. This time it's serious.
He is pulling back again, not communicating, the usual story. And so the pattern repeats itself.
This time however, things are slightly different. A couple of business projects are taking off; I am off my starting blocks and ready to fly.
When it's good, it's fabulous, but when it's bad, it is unbearable. The pleasure and the pain.
Why, oh why?
And, of course, who could forget the apology for manners and good grace displayed by ex-partners? This, I would have to say, has not usually been owing to their innate bad character; it's been more a case of an inability to tell the truth. Perhaps they had previously dated bunny-boiling tyre-slashers and preferred to run for the hills as a result rather than utter phrases such as "it's over", "there's someone else" or "it's not you, it's me"....
I never have felt the need to wreak revenge; why do people do that? Why bother wasting more time on someone who clearly doesn't want to be with you? Which is why it has always disappointed me when men are not honest; the silent treatment is, to be perfectly frank, far more annoying. Now that does stir up a need to damage something dear to the offending party, preferably his ego.
My girls and I have sat for many an evening and lamented this issue. Our theories have ranged from men never wanting to truly burn their bridges (our favourite), to them being too cowardly (also a strong contender) right across to he is probably seeing someone else, possibly several, and he's not going silent, he just doesn't have time to call in between dates and planning his next conquest.
In the final analysis it doesn't matter a jot to me; going silent is unacceptable behaviour irrespective of the reason. There really is no excuse; if someone is old enough to vote that means that technically they are an adult. You would hope.
So, how do I define unacceptable behaviour? Very simple; the old-fashioned way. I expect to be treated the way same way I treat others; that is a very fair arrangement. In truth I believe most of us overlook the fact that usually what we tolerate is way below that standard.
You may wonder why I'm debating this point at length; it has, of course, to do with Duz. I have to offload here as Adrian has this morning announced he will not respond or communicate any further with me on the subject of "the D word". I find that a little stern, I have to say....
But the time has come to make a decision here; too much angst-ridden wringing of hands has taken place on the subject of Duz already. This time it's serious.
He is pulling back again, not communicating, the usual story. And so the pattern repeats itself.
This time however, things are slightly different. A couple of business projects are taking off; I am off my starting blocks and ready to fly.
When it's good, it's fabulous, but when it's bad, it is unbearable. The pleasure and the pain.
Why, oh why?
Friday, October 10, 2008
The economic downturn, and all who sail in her...
It's getting to be practically impossible to watch the news without feeling some wave of darkness come over you these days; there seems to be little to no good news left. I know the famous adage is that "bad news sells" but if the media are to be believed and we are heading towards a depression, where does that leave us, not just in financial terms,but emotionally, mentally and spiritually?
I cannot help but think this is a yin and a yang scenario. What goes up must come down. Make hay while the sun shines. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.
Maybe tomorrow has come. But "die" should not be taken literally, of course....
It would be downright inappropriate of me to suggest that some deserve it, but can I be the only one who, having worked in the South East for a number of years, thinks that a lot of people have made a lot of money over the years for doing very little?
Sadly, the shock waves will extend well beyond those individuals, and we are seemingly going to all have to lose the "disposable society" attitude many of us have acquired over the years. Instead of throwing something away simply because it no longer fits with the new decor, perhaps we should throw away our fickle and changeable approach instead.
And what is to become of that recently identified phenomenon, "retail therapy"? How will we lose the urge temporarily forget our woes by flashing the plastic on a Saturday afternoon?
I would hazard a guess that entering a buy-and-sell market to recycle any unwanted items might work; it will satisfy the need to "de-clutter" and also the urge to pick up a bargain.
Ebay. You know it makes sense.
I cannot help but think this is a yin and a yang scenario. What goes up must come down. Make hay while the sun shines. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.
Maybe tomorrow has come. But "die" should not be taken literally, of course....
It would be downright inappropriate of me to suggest that some deserve it, but can I be the only one who, having worked in the South East for a number of years, thinks that a lot of people have made a lot of money over the years for doing very little?
Sadly, the shock waves will extend well beyond those individuals, and we are seemingly going to all have to lose the "disposable society" attitude many of us have acquired over the years. Instead of throwing something away simply because it no longer fits with the new decor, perhaps we should throw away our fickle and changeable approach instead.
And what is to become of that recently identified phenomenon, "retail therapy"? How will we lose the urge temporarily forget our woes by flashing the plastic on a Saturday afternoon?
I would hazard a guess that entering a buy-and-sell market to recycle any unwanted items might work; it will satisfy the need to "de-clutter" and also the urge to pick up a bargain.
Ebay. You know it makes sense.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
The fall and the rise...
Whenever life starts to get interesting I have to pinch myself. It's akin to a massive change in weather conditions; one minute you're battening down the hatches hoping to keep the wind and rain out, then the sun comes out and you marvel at the sudden warmth on your skin, all the while carefully eying your galoshes in case there's another unexpected outburst.
In the space of two weeks I've given three interviews, all concerning various aspects of my life to date. I guess three marriages, a dose of plastic surgery, an upheaval to a part of the country that most residents of the South East think warrants carrying a phrasebook at all times and meeting my very own version of Carrie's Big is enough to send a journalist reaching for a notepad.
In isolation none of this seems extraordinary, but I had a moment of truth dawn on me yesterday; I don't tolerate boring, staid and uninteresting. If it can be improved, I will give it my very best shot and then some. I don't believe in reinventing the wheel; stay with it and put it right. If you pour every ounce of yourself into it and nothing changes, turn around and show a clean pair of heels.
My marriages took every ounce of effort, several times over. But I put the weight back on again, thankfully.
The plastic surgery just took nerve and vast amounts of cash. If you add into the mix a charming surgeon who tells you that he is going to make you pretty, then that works too (actually he didn't say that, but if they ever make the film, that is definitely going to be the line that has Debsy reaching for her chequebook....)
The move to Lincolnshire was the sensible thing to do given the circumstances. It is slower here in every sense of the word, but there are hidden treasures that make up for the feeling that some days you are wading through treacle. One of those treasures is the post office at a place called Middle Rasen (entirely a different place to Market Rasen; never confuse your Middle with your Market).
Said post office is so much more than just that, a post office. It cannot occupy much more than 100 square feet, but somehow it seems to function as a greengrocer, a newsagent, a hardware store, a confectioners and a freezer centre. Oh, and did I mention the post office? Not just a post office, but one that actually wants to offer a level of service that impresses you to the point that you tell others of it, rare phenomenen that it is. That, my friends, you do not find in the South East. I remember my local post office in Berkshire; acres of dusty half-empty shelves laden with tat, simply because the miserable owners made enough from selling tax discs and doling out pensions once a week.
And so I come to Duz (or Carrie's Big). I have made comment often that I have never been in love, not properly. Not that heart-stopping, yearning and all-consuming feeling that renders everything in it's wake insignificant.
No, he's not an easy man, but when did I ever expect for one moment that an easy man was right for me? When he's beside me sleeping I absorb the feeling and take it to a place in my mind that I can easily call on when he isn't there. When he pulls me to him and puts his arms around me it makes everything go away, just for that moment. To me, that is my completion.
Is my completion also love? If it isn't, I'm not sure what other description would do it justice.
A media-savvy friend told me the other day to leave my relationships out of this blog if I wanted them to survive. Posting your inner most thoughts and fears for the world to prod and poke is leaving yourself vulnerable to attack.
I understand that, but isn't that what the "delete" button is for?
In the space of two weeks I've given three interviews, all concerning various aspects of my life to date. I guess three marriages, a dose of plastic surgery, an upheaval to a part of the country that most residents of the South East think warrants carrying a phrasebook at all times and meeting my very own version of Carrie's Big is enough to send a journalist reaching for a notepad.
In isolation none of this seems extraordinary, but I had a moment of truth dawn on me yesterday; I don't tolerate boring, staid and uninteresting. If it can be improved, I will give it my very best shot and then some. I don't believe in reinventing the wheel; stay with it and put it right. If you pour every ounce of yourself into it and nothing changes, turn around and show a clean pair of heels.
My marriages took every ounce of effort, several times over. But I put the weight back on again, thankfully.
The plastic surgery just took nerve and vast amounts of cash. If you add into the mix a charming surgeon who tells you that he is going to make you pretty, then that works too (actually he didn't say that, but if they ever make the film, that is definitely going to be the line that has Debsy reaching for her chequebook....)
The move to Lincolnshire was the sensible thing to do given the circumstances. It is slower here in every sense of the word, but there are hidden treasures that make up for the feeling that some days you are wading through treacle. One of those treasures is the post office at a place called Middle Rasen (entirely a different place to Market Rasen; never confuse your Middle with your Market).
Said post office is so much more than just that, a post office. It cannot occupy much more than 100 square feet, but somehow it seems to function as a greengrocer, a newsagent, a hardware store, a confectioners and a freezer centre. Oh, and did I mention the post office? Not just a post office, but one that actually wants to offer a level of service that impresses you to the point that you tell others of it, rare phenomenen that it is. That, my friends, you do not find in the South East. I remember my local post office in Berkshire; acres of dusty half-empty shelves laden with tat, simply because the miserable owners made enough from selling tax discs and doling out pensions once a week.
And so I come to Duz (or Carrie's Big). I have made comment often that I have never been in love, not properly. Not that heart-stopping, yearning and all-consuming feeling that renders everything in it's wake insignificant.
No, he's not an easy man, but when did I ever expect for one moment that an easy man was right for me? When he's beside me sleeping I absorb the feeling and take it to a place in my mind that I can easily call on when he isn't there. When he pulls me to him and puts his arms around me it makes everything go away, just for that moment. To me, that is my completion.
Is my completion also love? If it isn't, I'm not sure what other description would do it justice.
A media-savvy friend told me the other day to leave my relationships out of this blog if I wanted them to survive. Posting your inner most thoughts and fears for the world to prod and poke is leaving yourself vulnerable to attack.
I understand that, but isn't that what the "delete" button is for?
Saturday, October 4, 2008
My marriages: the best laid plans.......
I had a very conventional upbringing; the eldest of two children, I was taught to respect my elders and not to answer back. I worked hard at school and I fully expected to marry reasonably young, to have two children and to broadly have the updated version of the life my mum had.
It's funny how life never really pans out as you expect.
Instead I was married at twenty-two to a man who was the first adult to really show me attention; I was so grateful I let him put a ring on my finger. It broke my dad's heart; my mum told me the day I got married was the second of the two times she has ever seen him cry. The marriage lasted less than two years; I returned home to my parents.
At twenty-eight I was married for a second time to a man three years younger than me; he worked hard and our backgrounds were similar. He had told me he wanted children so imagine my surprise and frustration when, eighteen months into the marriage, he announced he didn't want them. He sat and watched my heart break in front of his eyes; I pleaded and begged him to change his mind but he refused to budge. Marriage number two was over.
I met my last husband in my early thirties having recently relocated from Sheffield to Harrogate. He was tall, handsome and seven years younger than me. We had a matchmaker, Jenny, who worked for him as a receptionist at the local swimming pool where he was the manager. We quickly became an item.
A year after meeting we were married in the Caribbean; this time I felt I had met someone who doted on me and who would look after me. He looked after me in the practical sense; the rubbish was always put out, he could vacuum a carpet to within an inch of it's life and Saturday morning saw him cleaning the bathroom with remarkable regularity. My mum frequently commented on how unusual it was to find a man so domesticated; it was like having a built-in housekeeper. Lucky me.
There is always a trade-off, though. In this instance it was emotional immaturity for a spic-and-span house. I remember having an argument about six months into our marriage during a week we had taken off to spend with each other. His friends had called and asked him to go out to play golf and I made it known I wasn't happy; we were newly weds when all was said and done. He told me he thought I was being totally unreasonable and that he wanted a divorce.
I finally realised when our son was two years old that we were never going to be happy. At this point we had slept in separate beds for seven of the nine years we were married; our evenings were spent in different rooms in the house. The realisation dawned on me that our son was going to grow up thinking this was what a relationship looked like. Coupled with that, if we continued in the same vain he would leave home at eighteen and I would sit and wonder how on earth I would fill my life up from thereon.
Many people say they stay together for the sake of their children, and I think that is admirable. For me that was never an option. If we had done that I would have become a sullen, drawn and embittered mother; someone very different from the girl who existed deep down.
We parted; it was painful and, if I'm honest, it still is at times even though two years has passed.
But now my son and I laugh on a daily basis, we regularly dance around the kitchen at breakfast time and we are forever hugging and kissing each other. If I wear something new or do my hair differently, he tells me how pretty I am; he effortlessly makes my eyes water with tears of joy. I am now the mother I was meant to be, not a miserable shadow of someone who felt burdened and old beyond her years.
So when people have commented that I selfishly bailed out of my marriage and should have thought more about Ben, I reply that it was because of Ben that I did it. A happy, empowered and strong mother is what my son needs, that is the sort of mother he is likely to remember fondly in years to come.
What comes next? A journalist recently asked me if I would ever get married again and rather bizarrely I had to stop and think about it.
The truth is that getting the relationship right is what is important to me now. And if I really felt deep down that this time I had done that, then hell yes, why not?
There ain't nothing like the real thing, to quote Aretha Franklin.
It's funny how life never really pans out as you expect.
Instead I was married at twenty-two to a man who was the first adult to really show me attention; I was so grateful I let him put a ring on my finger. It broke my dad's heart; my mum told me the day I got married was the second of the two times she has ever seen him cry. The marriage lasted less than two years; I returned home to my parents.
At twenty-eight I was married for a second time to a man three years younger than me; he worked hard and our backgrounds were similar. He had told me he wanted children so imagine my surprise and frustration when, eighteen months into the marriage, he announced he didn't want them. He sat and watched my heart break in front of his eyes; I pleaded and begged him to change his mind but he refused to budge. Marriage number two was over.
I met my last husband in my early thirties having recently relocated from Sheffield to Harrogate. He was tall, handsome and seven years younger than me. We had a matchmaker, Jenny, who worked for him as a receptionist at the local swimming pool where he was the manager. We quickly became an item.
A year after meeting we were married in the Caribbean; this time I felt I had met someone who doted on me and who would look after me. He looked after me in the practical sense; the rubbish was always put out, he could vacuum a carpet to within an inch of it's life and Saturday morning saw him cleaning the bathroom with remarkable regularity. My mum frequently commented on how unusual it was to find a man so domesticated; it was like having a built-in housekeeper. Lucky me.
There is always a trade-off, though. In this instance it was emotional immaturity for a spic-and-span house. I remember having an argument about six months into our marriage during a week we had taken off to spend with each other. His friends had called and asked him to go out to play golf and I made it known I wasn't happy; we were newly weds when all was said and done. He told me he thought I was being totally unreasonable and that he wanted a divorce.
I finally realised when our son was two years old that we were never going to be happy. At this point we had slept in separate beds for seven of the nine years we were married; our evenings were spent in different rooms in the house. The realisation dawned on me that our son was going to grow up thinking this was what a relationship looked like. Coupled with that, if we continued in the same vain he would leave home at eighteen and I would sit and wonder how on earth I would fill my life up from thereon.
Many people say they stay together for the sake of their children, and I think that is admirable. For me that was never an option. If we had done that I would have become a sullen, drawn and embittered mother; someone very different from the girl who existed deep down.
We parted; it was painful and, if I'm honest, it still is at times even though two years has passed.
But now my son and I laugh on a daily basis, we regularly dance around the kitchen at breakfast time and we are forever hugging and kissing each other. If I wear something new or do my hair differently, he tells me how pretty I am; he effortlessly makes my eyes water with tears of joy. I am now the mother I was meant to be, not a miserable shadow of someone who felt burdened and old beyond her years.
So when people have commented that I selfishly bailed out of my marriage and should have thought more about Ben, I reply that it was because of Ben that I did it. A happy, empowered and strong mother is what my son needs, that is the sort of mother he is likely to remember fondly in years to come.
What comes next? A journalist recently asked me if I would ever get married again and rather bizarrely I had to stop and think about it.
The truth is that getting the relationship right is what is important to me now. And if I really felt deep down that this time I had done that, then hell yes, why not?
There ain't nothing like the real thing, to quote Aretha Franklin.
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