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?