We’re off to Devon with the children’s and the Evanses parental types on Friday. In my usual, ridiculous style, I’m stressing mysen out about it. Why? Why? Well, I’ll tell you why. The children could get grumpy and bored and shouty in the car. Drew’s parents, while absolutely fan-bloody-tastic, are a little overplanny for my tastes…for a month his mom has been talking loudly* about suitcases, car-packing, lists of things to take with us for the children, boardgame planning (yes, there’s a boardgame schedule) and so on and so forth. This level of planning gives me palpitations. I’ll be happy once I’m there, but the build-up makes me hyperventilate, as will the car journey.
Shhh…small people sleeping…
The children are knackered. Alex is meant to get them home for around 5-5.30 when he’s bringing them back, or 6 at the latest if he wants to give them their tea first. They’re both like me; they really need their sleep and both have to be in bed by 6.45 at the latest, else they’re good for nowt the next day.
I’d texted Alex yesterday lunchtime to ask when he was getting the kids back. No answer. At 4pm I sent an ever so slightly snotty message, repeating my earlier words and pointing out that I’d asked the question three hours before. He finally answered:Aiming for 6-6.30″. Great. I’ve tried to talk to him about this – it’s not fair for them to walk in and go straight to bed, if he gets them back at this time they inevitably have a late night. Does he care? Apparently not. Apparently, it’s not fair on him to cut the weekend short like that. Er…he walked out on us, he’s leaving the kids knackered by bringing them back late…but what he wants is more important? Hokay…
For added fun I’ve been trying to get him to collect a collosal TV from in my house for the past couple of weeks, and he finally managed to get his brother over with his transit yesterday.
Add to this the fact that he then didn’t turn up until 6.50, AND he brought his new woman to whom I’ve not even been introduced properly (y’know, the one he had an affair with, the one I’ve met once at Heather’s birthday party) to my front door for reasons known only to himself, then they took ages to get the blasted TV into the van. I sigh, I do. The kids went to bed after 8. They’re both floppy and exhausted today, poor little things. Charlie’s napping now, Heather and Drew have just had a Tom & Jerry marathon, now Drew’s gone out to do some work-related type majiggeries (he’s a guitar tutor and he also does wedding videos**) we’re watching Spongebob Squarepants and nomming on ham sandwiches. Or ham and jam, as Heather and her bestest bud Freya call them for some inexplicable reason.
No means no.
I’m still having a clear out after Alex left in September last year. Seriously, he hoarded to such an extent it’s taking a while to get through all the rooms (especially with the limited time two kidlets under the age of five leave for you; when they’re awake you can’t get a huge amount done, when they’re asleep you need to keep the noise down. Tricky!) but I’m getting organised bit by bit. The best, and most rewarding, way I’ve found to clear out more bulky stuff that I don’t want to sell is to put it on freecycle and give it to someone who can make use of it. However. HOWEVER. There are some people who just ask for everything. And, AND, there are people who simply send emails saying “U still got? Whts ur adress i colect 2day thnx”, which doesn’t really make me want to give my belongings that, really, I could sell for a leedle bit of extra cash to them. Maybe I’m just picky.
Anyway. Back to the hoardes of emails requesting my white goods.
*she’s very loud. She shouts at all times, even when you’re sat roughly a foot away from her. She shouts more when other people are talking; who needs to wait to speak when you can just drown everyone else out? It’s kind of endearing, but also kind of headache-inducing.
**Because teaching people to play guitar and filming weddings go hand in hand. Obviously.
Filed under: Uncategorized
Oh! Hello there! Fancy seeing you here…come here often? No? Well, I don’t blame you, seeing as I last updated this here bloggy type malarkey sometime around MAY. May – August is a. not acceptable and b. kicking up a vague memory of a song. Is there a song with something about May to some month further down the line?
*googles*
Ah, I see. It was a TV show called May to December, shown in the UK in the early 90′s. Sounds awesome.
Onto the excuses.
Sooo…I’ve not been updating because:
- My wireless internet was failing at being either wireless or internetty. The only way I could get online from my flaptop was to piggyback on one of the neighbour’s, a practice which led to somewhat shaky internet connections. There’s nowt worse than writing an entire blog entry and clicking ‘publish’ only to have the screen go blank and your network connection majiggery to pop up a box informing you that it couldn’t connect to t’internet. Yes yes, I know I could write my posts in Word first, but it just ain’t the same. MS Word makes me overthink. I like it not. But anyway!
- There was no room in my dining room, or indeed in my house, for the desktop PC. To combat this I took it all apart, sold the computer desk and relocated it all onto shelves in the dining room. Hey presto; I still have a PC, I can still use it for printery type activities and wotnot, but it takes up far less room. Clever! However, it’s also virtually unusable in this position.
- I’m lazy.
News from my uterus!
I’m now over 18 weeks pregnant, being given a sound internal beating from the most recent of the midget clones and beginning to look like a potato. The Evans type person (aka father of aforementioned internal midget) is determined to call the baby Wolfgang.
News from Shropshire!
I was destined to have a very bad Friday last week, so after first (subtley) checking my plans for the weekend* and demanding I not have any, the Evans type surprised me with a trip to Shropshire to stay on a working stud farm, in a restored Ringmaster’s caravan. It was awesome, all of the weird and definitely much needed!
Here, look at this picture. This be the wagon of weirdness.
The building directly behind it was a barn filled with HUGE horses with MASSIVE penises. I know, it’d probably be considered unnecessary to comment on a horses penis, but they really were very, very large.
There was no running water in the wagon, so the toilet and shower were in a little shed next door. All fine and dandy, apart from the fact that:
- There was an enormous mirror directly behind the toilet. I don’t like mirrors, not because of a crippling self-hatred and a refusal to look at my own reflection, but because I fear I might see something move in one of them. For someone who writes horror stories I’m one hell of a pussy.
- There was a normal, full sized window directly in front of the toilet, covered only with a thin net curtain. At night, with the light on…well, you’re pretty much pissing out in the open. If someone from the farm or say, for example, Drew walked past, there you are; pissing in all your glory, illuminated by a naked 40 watt bulb. I’m a private bathroom person. I don’t like feeling watched, and I don’t like to be staring at the ominous, black window in front of me whilst simultaneously worrying about the oversized mirror behind me when I’m trying to empty my bladder. Stage fright? Don’t mind if I do!
To add to the fun of the bathroom of terror, I didn’t realise that it not only backed onto the barn but was actually part of it. So. One evening, when I had braved the toilet of doom and decided to leave the light off on the basis that it was far less creepy that way, I was a little startled to say the least when I heard a collosal stallion snort down my ear. Seriously. It must have been right on the other side of the wall. Let’s just say it’s a good job I was sat on the toilet and leave it at that, shall we?
*Ridiculous ex-husband person now has the kids Thursday and Friday every week. He’s still threatening to take me to court for more, though…because every Thursday and Friday plus every other weekend simply isn’t giving him, the man who had an affair and walked out on us all, enough quality time. We’ll ignore the fact that he works Monday – Wednesday and couldn’t have them then, eh? Moron…
Filed under: Relationship Shizzle | Tags: affair, birthday party, child custody, divorce, NHS, pregnancy
Well, I’m officially pregnant. The NHS knows. The NHS is keeping it’s beady eye* on me and my (apparently grape-sized) baby.
So, I’ve got my green notes, I’ve got my preachy pamphlets about healthy eating** and I’ve got my Emma’s Diary. For the most part it’s great – informative, helpful, reassuring, detailed…what more could you ask for a free publication distributed by the almighty NHS?
But. BUT. Seriously, the actual diary element of the whole affair? Emma; the fictional stick woman with oh so common emotions and fears, typical footie-mad husband, working in a typical office, with a nice culturally diverse/politically correct social life? Oh Emma, how well I can relate to you! You’re just like me! Why, that’s how I feel at 8 weeks pregnant!
Ok, this may be a touch of sarcasm. I mean, really; the fictional girl needs to get a grip and quit moaning. She’s been trying for a baby for five months then when she finally finds herself up the duff, she realises that she’s a. an emotional wreck and b. clueless about the whole thing. I’m surprised she even knew how to get pregnant in the first place.
I quote in your general direction. In this ‘diary entry’ Nick has decided to quit smoking. Emma is 7 weeks pregnant…like me! We’re practically sisters! (Ok, I’ll stop with the pseudo-emoting, I promise).
“I’m so proud of him – and very glad that I managed to quit when we last tried a couple of years ago! Seeing as he’s being so noble, I’ve decided that I’m going to stop drinking – which isn’t a problem at the moment as the thought of alcohol makes my stomach churn. Anyway, I don’t want to take any chances and it’ll be good for me too. Nick says it’ll give my liver a break – he’s so charming! Looks like pregnancy is going to be tough on the both of us.”
Oh Nick, you’re such a joker! Oh Emma, you’re so understanding…poor Nick, giving up his fiery death sticks. Woman, have you considered that you have to, under your own power, get an entire human out of an orifice barely big enough to pass a walnut in nine months?
Please tell me someone else reads this and develops an overwhelming urge to gnaw on their own arm.
(Calms self).
Ex-husband related nonsense
So. A-hole man is still using the house as blackmail…and now he’s saying that he wants an exact 50/50 custody split…and he wants to be able to live FORTY MINUTES MINIMUM DRIVE AWAY FROM THE SCHOOL. And why does he need to live that far away? Because that’s where his new girlfriend/the woman he’s bee seeing since long before he moved out owns a house. I’ve said no. He won’t sign the house over to me unless I agree. I won’t agree to this because it’s not right for the kids, so myself and the midgets are at risk of homelessness. Can I get a “WTF!?”
Also. ALSO. It was Heather’s birthday on Saturday and her birthday party on Sunday. On Saturday I found out that actually, yes, Emma (the woman who he was clearly having an affair with which he still won’t admit to) went on holiday with him and my kids. I also found out that they are now in a relationship…apparently this had been going on for about a week.
On Saturday night, as he was just walking out of the door, he dropped a tiny fact on me. “Oh, by the way, Emma’s coming to Heather’s party tomorrow”.
I flipped out – I’d paid for the party entirely on my own (despite being on benefits while he earns £30000/year) and his contribution wasn’t forthcoming, I’d done all the invitations and everyone had contacted me to RSVP, I’d bought and filled the party bags, I’d got the cake…and besides which, I’ve never met this woman before, supposedly he’s only been with her for about a week, and it’s my daughter’s birthday party.
We had an argument that lasted all night. He brought her along anyway. It was uncomfortable for all concerned.
I’m sick to death of this man. This selfish, cowardly, lying man.
Anyway! I feel like death, I depart.
Good day to you sir.
*Just the one eye. Like that eye in Lord of the Rings. Y’know, the big flaming one. Hang on, I’ve gone all dyslexic and forgotten. Wikipedia ho! It’s awful that I’ve actually read the books roughly eighty seven times and still can’t remember key facts. Oh dear oh dear. Ah yes, the Eye of Sauron. That’s the badger.
**Seriously, I have about half an hour a day when I can ingest things. Usually those things are pieces of dry bread or mini cheddars. Everything makes me sick right now. Stick your healthy eating pamphlets up your proverbial bottom, NHS; I’d rather just nom on carbohydrates and not vomit, thank you very much.
Filed under: Uncategorized
Catspoon/Cat-Get-Down/The Artist Formerly Known as Carrott has been put on freecycle.
I know, I know; it sounds awful, but hear me out. You there! Take the hat of judgement off! Replace it with the hat of patient, open-minded listening*, then settle down and harken. Ready? Good.
I’ve had Cat-Get-Down for five years, since he was a tiny kittycat. I picked Carrott because he was clearly a character, and I picked his sister (Flea) because she was possibly the cutest kitten the world has ever seen (and remained so for the rest of her life).
Unfortunately, Carrott also kept his “being a bit of a character” personality traits…and what’s adorable in a pocket-sized, blue-eyed kitten loses some of it’s charm when the cat weights 4.7kg, eats roughly fifteen times a day, is all up in your space approximately 90% of the time and refuses to be trained otherwise.
He wasn’t always such a problem. When Flea was around he was much calmer and seemed to enjoy nothing more than a cuddle with his midget sister. Flea was hit by a car and died a couple of years back, though, and Carrott seemed to take it a lot harder than I did.
His behaviour has been slowly deteriorating. He’s gone from a relatively demanding but manageable cat to one who needs attention all of the time; even when you’re fussing him he’s wanting more. He scavenges constantly, despite being fed a combination of damned expensive wet and dry foods, with supplements of treats and cat milk**, and I can’t leave anything, anywhere. Vegetables, bread, soup, plastic…he’ll nom on anything. Besides which, I have to disinfect the surfaces and tabletop every time I want to use them, even if I’ve only done it ten minutes before. Why? Why? No, it’s not because I have severe OCD and can’t bear the thought of a single germ being anywhere, ever…it’s because Catspoon won’t stop jumping on the motherloving surfaces. And he’s like a contamination ninja; he’s vile, he makes things unclean, but you never see him doing it.
So.
I’ve made the horrible decision to find a new home for Cat-Get-Down. I’ve been trying to get a friend or acquaintance to have him. “Anyone want my a-hole cat?” Cue epic-cat-rehoming-fail. A friend suggested freecycle on the basis that a. it’s not a sanctuary where he could end up staying for ages and b. people that offer to have him off there are generally nice, do-gooder types. Good thinking batman!
That said, so far the only response I’ve had is from a woman who has two dogs (I’ve said he’s territorial and needs to be the only pet) and who lost her cat a couple of weeks ago. The cat didn’t die, it’s just missing. 1. No, what part of “only pet” did you interpret as “but he’ll be fine with dogs” and 2. No. Your cat is missing. My cat isn’t a replacement, and besides which, what if your cat comes home? It’d be like you were cheating on your cat with my cat, and that’s just a feline soap opera nobody wants.
Onto something completely different
Im feeling all conflicted today. On one hand, I’m all motivated and want to take stuff down to the garage*** and tidy and scrub and make the house shine, gleam, sparkle and other ridiculous adjectives of cleanliness. On the other hand, since Alex moved out I’ve been working on getting the house sorted bit by bit, and to be honest, it’s a mammoth task. I know I need to break it down into small, bite-sized cleaning chunks, but every now and again the amount of work I still have to do, alongside the usual washing, ironing, bathroom and kitchen cleaning, vacuuming, bedlinen changing, cooking for children jobs…well, sometimes I just look at it all and want to put my face into a pile of baby bunnies**** and ignore the whole silly mess.
Really…I’m a gonna post this ‘ere rambling nonsense and go get on with it. Besides which, the ex of doom is coming round later to see childrens and I don’t want there to be anything for him to spy or steal. Seriously – last week he came to see kids and borrowed my keys (despite having his own, which he refuses to return). When he came back, he’d stolen the AK47 round I use as a keyring. I actually had to ask him for it back and, when he lied, made him check his pockets and give it back. I mean, really. A keyring? The tenancy agreement was an annoying theft, but at least it made some kind of sense. Damned fool.
I depart! Forsooth! The house shall not clean itself! Yea, verily, I shall post henceforth and go hither to be a responsible adult.
*That hat looks great on you, by the way. No, seriously, you can really carry it off. Do they do any in other colours? You look hot. No no, don’t thank me, I’m just being honest.
** Mmm, fresh from the teat of the cat.
***It’s at the bottom of the (somewhat lengthy) garden, with the access on the outside of my garden gate. It’s the most sensible place for a garage. Obviously.
****Best idea for escaping/forgetting a problem EVER.
Filed under: Relationship Shizzle, Say What You See, Uncategorized | Tags: creative, love, poem, relationships, rhyme
Drew ent this to me out of the blue one day, when he thought I needed cheering up. He’d likely implode if he knew i’d put it here, but hell, I think it’s awesome.
My name’s in there. Use it and I’ll end you. Seriously.
One rainy morning Drew turned around, to find a small monkey sat down on the ground
He sat down beside her and kissed her round cheeks, he seized one small ear and played ’til she squeaked
“Hands off me Evans, I’m in no mood to play, let go of my ears and f*ck off you g@y”
Drew cocked an eyebrow, an outrageous reply! He’d been threatened by duckling and didn’t know why
“Tell me miss Katie; why the bad mood? You’ve offended myself, you’re so chuffing rude”
“Sorry” said Katie, suddenly meek, “I’m fed up, unhappy, my mind needs a tweak”
“You see..” she continued “…since I’ve been alive, I’ve never been taller than five foot and five”
Drew hugged her gently “now there’s no need for that, come dry your tears and stop being a tw@t”
Munchkin sniffed once and was still feeling blue, when the handsome one cried, “I know just what to do”!
Grabbing cute Katie he sped from the house, she sat in his pocket as small as a mouse
“Where are we going?” she whined at the Drew, distracted he countered, “that’s enough out of you”
They walked through a forest so dark it was black, ’til they saw in the distance a candle-lit shack
“Good lord” whispered sweet pea as loud as she dared, “where have you brought us? Drewby I’m scared”
“Worry not baby!” the hero did shout “…No one dare hurt you lest I give ‘em a clout”
“See that there small shack is a wizards’ abode, he owes me a favor and he’ll do it by Jove!”
Eyes wide with wonder she followed behind, as Drew started forward and picked up his stride
With self-righteous fervor he knocked on the door, one knock, then two knocks, then fourteen times more
From inside the shed a grumble was heard, “Who knocks at this hour? 6.30? Absurd”
Clicking and popping the door was unlocked, and out stepped a hermit his face one of shock
“I just don’t believe it” the wizard declared, “My lord and my sovereign, is it you standing there?”
“Eschewing such small talk Drew answered, “Hello Keith, now grant us a wish or I’ll knock out your teeth”
“Anything O great one”, the weaker man cowered, “Of course I will do it if I can muster the power”
“See this rare beauty?” Drew asked the quack, “Her happy went walking and can’t find a way back”
“She’d like to be taller and that is quite all, she finds it not easy being smallest of all”
Keith stammered, “Sorry, I cannot my lord, that magic’s too expensive for me to afford”
“To alter a woman who cannot be improved, would result in my magic being removed”
“Your Katie is perfect and that is a fact, with beautiful eyes and a great bl00dy rack”
Giggling, the small one said with she blush, “You saucy old charmer, shut up your mush”
Katie was smiling, her happy restored, Drew kissed her once then said, “Keith I am bored”
“You still owe me wishes and I won’t go away, till you’ve sorted us both with a nice holiday
Like a rabid old badger Keith conjured his spell, sweat poured from his eyes and he started to smell
He threw around potions and mystical sand, till the lovers woke up in the great Disneyland.
Filed under: Midget Clones, Say What You See | Tags: cat, dancing, James Brown, soul, toddler
Cat-Get-Down is sitting in the middle of the floor, uncharacteristicaly quiet and calm, like. Placid, you might say.
Charlie just charged into the room, skidded to a halt roughly a foot infront of the, now slightly bewildered, Cat-Get-Down, before pulling his dummy out of his mouth with an audible pop and bellowing “CAT! GET! DOWN!”
Cat has nowhere to get down from. It occurs to me that maybe, just maybe, Charlie isn’t instructing the cat to seat himself at a slightly diminished elevation. Maybe, MAYBE, he wants the cat to dance.
Kitty got soul, baby.
Filed under: Uncategorized
Charlie has a new party trick, which is simultaneously the cutest, most pathetic, most heart-rendingly sad thing I’ve ever heard/seen EVER. I may be biased, but sod it; he’s my bubba, it’s allowed. If you do anything, ANYTHING with which he even vaguely disagrees (such as changing his nappy, pulling the plug out of the bath, serving him a dinner which is not to his taste) he immediately starts shaking his head and chanting “no no no no….ohhhh no no no no no mommy no no no…” in a fit of baby despair.
The boy’s dramatic, you have to give him that.
Feline Related Tangent
He’s also taken to calling Carrott (aka Catspoon, Big Gay Cat and That Fucking Cat) “Cat-Get-Down”. I heard somewhere* that children need to hear a phrase hundreds of times before they understand and repeat it. This isn’t all that surprising with Cat-Get-Down. Cat-Get-Down is an a-hole.
Just last week I spent £96 (YES, NINETY-SIX MOTHERHUMPING GREAT ENGLISH POUNDS) on Cat-Get-Down. AND he had to have a steroid injection. I don’t like the idea of Catspoon on steroids. He’s big, he’s ginger, he eats roughly the same amount of food as the population of Southern Wales every day, he won’t budge when you try to remove him from his inevitably inconvenient sitting/viewing area. And, he’s an a-hole. Imagine a-hole cat on steroids? It doesn’t bear thinking about.
But, at least now he’s a healthy huge ginger a-hole. Prior to his collossal vets bill he looked like he’d been partially eaten. Or like he was a badly made-up zombie cat from a low budget** film.
Heatherism of the Day (Belated).
Me: Eat your dinner.
Heather: (disgusted) …but what’s this?
Me: A piece of potato. Eat it please.
Heather: (sighs in exasperation) …but…how much do I have to eat?
Me: (eyeing the strategically tiny portion I’ve dished up) ALL OF IT
Heather: (again, disgusted) …but. But…look at it.
Cheers for that H. You’re having spaghetti hoops and fish fingers from now on. Chav-fare extraordinaire. All we’ll need is a velour jogging troo’s for me and some serious under-eye bags for the children. And greasy hair. But this is an unnecessary tangent, which I will cease pursuing with immediate effect.
Fin.
* Degree in English Language, English Linguistics and Drama. I can’t imagine where I would pick up these snippets of information. It’s a veritable mystery.
**Not low budgie. Now you’re just being silly.
Filed under: Midget Clones, Relationship Shizzle, Uncategorized | Tags: 4 year old attitude, divorce, love, pregnancy, single-parenting
Gad Zeus Heather is driving me mental. It’s like having the world’s smallest teenager in the house. She’s intelligent well beyond her years and puts this unnatural, freakish intelligence to very good use.
Heather: Can we go to the park?
Me: Not today Heather, we need to get home.
Heather: For a little bit?
Me: Sorry Heather, not today.
Heather: I’m not your friend then.
Me: Well, if you’re rude to me I won’t take you to the park at all.
Heather: Daddy would
Me: (exasperated) I’ll tell Daddy not to
Heather: Well…don’t tell him then.
Me: (Throttles eldest child)
It’s entertaining, but infuriating.
Oh, by the way…
Did I mention? I didn’t think the whole mama to two kids, husband moved out, in process of getting divorced, unemployed because I can’t afford to work* and all that jazz was really enough. Other people’s plates seemed fuller, I was jealous/greedy, Iwanted more on my own. So. SO.
(tangent of procrastination)
My best bud, Louble, says that I am a. like the banks of the Nile after a flooding** and that I b. have cum-slut ovaries. What she’s trying to say in her unique, eloquently revolting manner, is that I am ridiculously fertile.
What I’m trying to say, in a very roundabout “almost as though I was breaking the news to my parents” kind of way, is that I’m pregnant.
Now then. Now. Listen to me. You there, stop judging. Stop it. I don’t appreciate that tone of eyebrow raising. Pack that right in immediately. Stopped? Good.
Yes, I’m in the process of divorce. Yes, technically, I’m a single mom. I live alone, I pay my own bills, I have sole responsibility for the childrens. However. HOWEVER.
(Noodle looks off up to the left with a glazed expression, everything goes fuzzy round the edges before switching to a memory-signifying sepia tone).
When I was a smaller person than I am now, at the tender age of 9, I went to a drama group, to “improve my confidence” (because shy kids LOVE being thrust onto a stage and told to make complete twazzocks of themselves in front of large groups of people).*** While I was there, I met a yound lad two years my senior, with whom I became friends. I later left the group, lost touch with the young bespectacled little bod, and thought not much of it.
So.
Almost eight years ago now, I went to my local pub to meet some friends. When I arrived, a uniquely attractive**** bespectacled gentleman was seated at a table staring intently into his beer and doing a good impression of miserable personified. Being a gentle sort, I was concerned; especially seeing as nobody appeared to be paying much attention. So. I spoke to him. I found out what was wrong. We got on, he was going through a rough time, we exchanged numbers so we could stay in touch.
At the time I was with an a-hole who was cheating on me and generally being emotionally abusive. He was with a girl who he’d been with for seven years but kind of didn’t want to be with any more…but he wasn’t sure so hadn’t knocked it on the head yet. We started off as friends. I fell in love with him. We had what is probably one of the most emotionally intense , strangely innocent affairs in the history of ever. In case you haven’t guessed, my bespectacled gentleman was the young lad with whom I had enjoyed a friendship as a child. Cute.
Drew (for that is his name) did the honourable thing and knocked our ‘relationship’ on the head, because he couldn’t do that to his girlfriend, even if he was thinking of ending it. He’s a decent guy.
We lost touch for a few years. I got married. I got internet-cheated-on by my husband. I got ignored by my husband. I got knocked up by my husband. I was fucking miserable.
Suddenly. Oh! Hello Drew! Here’s Drew! We’re back in touch!
We kept a friendship going for bloody ages, all very innocent and nice. Ok, we only saw each other a couple of times a year, but we were frequently in contact with each other. And every time we did meet up, it was always easy and comfortable. And I won’t lie, I was hugely attracted to him. What can I say? The boy’s my kryptonite. Nowt happened, of course…marriage, no matter how unhappy, needs to be taken seriously.
So.
When Alex started arsing about (I suspected an affair two months before he even said anything about wanting to leave) Drew and I were in one of our lulls of contact. When Alex told me he wanted to leave, I asked him whether there was someone else and, in true guilt-related-aggression, told me he thought there was something going on with myself and Drew.***** Because I’m an easily controlled mug (or I was at the time, in my vulnerable state), I deleted Drew from off my facebook and removed his number from my phone, to prove a point.
Meanwhile, Alex was still texting/going out with/staying in hotels with the woman who it was looking increasingly like he was having an affair with (worst grammar ever, apologies, sorry, I should know better). When Drew sent me a text message about a month later, I sat on it.****** I waited. I thought. Considered. Pondered, if you will. And then finally told Alex that it was all totally unfair and that I was going to respond.
I told Drew what was happening. He used to come round and visit; single parenting is a lonely affair, he kept me company. Again, all friendly – he was encouraging me to work on my marriage, helping me to keep my spirits up. It was all platonic; we sat on the sofa watching True Blood and chatting, he’d give me a hug (we’re both touchy feely people, nothing off there).
There came a point whereby I told Alex I couldn’t try any more, because he wasn’t.
Drew and I hadn’t done anything untoward, nowt naughty, no flesh had been viewed, no lips had touched any part of each other’s respective bodies. Then we did. Then we really did. Then we didn’t stop. Then it turned out that he feels as intensely for me as I did/do for him, we’re in love, I’m happy, he’s happy, Alex knows and is comfortable with the situation.
And now I’m up the kermit, as Drew likes to say. Up the bracket. Heavy with child. He’s an odd one with the linguistic quirks. I’m about 7 weeks gone, I’m knackered, I’m emotional, I’m terrified, I’m tentatively happy.
Drew’s family are amazingly supportive, my family are absent (I’ll explain another time, that’s a whole psychological nightmare that would just take WAY TOO LONG), I have some great friends…and I have the man I should have been with since I was old enough to be with a man.
Soppy? Yes. Sickening? Probably. Too loved up to care? Oh hell yes.
I depart! The abode looks like a toy and satsuma******* bomb has exploded. I want, nay, need to clean.
Love! On! Your! Face!
*Seriously. UK Government = legendary. I actually want to work, but if I do I’ll end up with less money that I have now. I’m an unwilling dole-monkey and I hate it.
** Not “floofing” as I originally typed, altthough this is an excellent non-word which you should try to use in conversation at least once today.
***Actually, it works. Did for me, anyway. Magic! Beautiful, illogical magic!
**** Uniquely attractive…hell, I like geeky guys. Attractive geeky looking guys. And Drew has a Ned Flanders thing going on. Nom.
*****Worst affair in history. Sporadic contact and seeing each other once every six months. For the love of God: Affair – ur doin it rong.
******Not literally, though I’m sure the vibrations would have been somewhat pleasant.
*******Confused? Me too. In explanation: three years old, one year old and cat.
