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....

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.

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.

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?

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.

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?

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.