Getting Back On Top

Change of address ...

2009-06-29T12:09:00.003+01:00

Please join me on my new blog; similar topics with a 2009 coating...

Simply click on the title of this post!

Why you should always aim high where men are concerned.

2009-01-15T15:17:00.017Z

2009 is now well underway and so far, so good! I am still on track in terms of focus, determination and studiously avoiding all things of an emotionally-charged, relationship-type slant. And the good news is that I'm not even having to try; it's like 2008 Debsy has well and truly left the building......or maybe that should be pre-2009 Debsy.

For a whole host of reasons I've decided that this will be my last entry in this blog. I'm going to carry on writing, but this blog is now too visible and public to the point when I have to be careful what I write, and there ain't no fun in that ;-)

I don't know if I ever really engaged before with this relaxed, pragmatic and self-sufficient girl before, but I really like her and I've decided she should stay. She is the girl I always said I was, but deep down I still yearned for approval from everyone except myself. She lives life in 3D and she isn't afraid to look over the edge of the cliff.

And all this necessitates a look at where my life is heading, and the parameters that must pre-exist to make the journey viable.

The numero uno parameter......no relationships with men of even the slightest emotional nature (that would be in respect of "maybe we might get married one day....", not as in "he's a good pal, we should go out and get trolleyed") Because I have now decided that I will under no circumstances get married again. In fact, as things stand today, I doubt I will ever co-habit again. But I do like having male friends, even though that can get a bit tetchy sometimes.

Of course I do realise people will conjecture that by saying "I'll never get married again" the seal of fate is fairly and squarely on me walking down the aisle one last time. But those words I just typed........ well, let's just say there's more chance of me being selected for the 2012 Olympics than shopping for a trousseau again.

One thing that is certain is that when I do take the plunge again, there will be no compromising at all (I should qualify that by "take the plunge", I mean dating exclusively) And especially no compromising in terms of how he treats me.

There's no easy way to say this folks, I have been treated pretty abysmally in my relationships, and 2008 was a vintage year. But of course, I allowed it to happen so no-one else to blame on that one. For so long I have struggled to reconcile the fact that I've been emotionally kicked to the floor more times than I care to remember, but now I've managed it.

Now I realise that once you are self-sufficient in every area of your life that matters and you treat yourself with respect, you won't take being dicked around by man, vegetable or mineral.

Of course, I can talk in such grandiose tones because I'm sat in front of the most beautiful new iMac that, quite frankly, I love more than any bloke I may have chanced upon.

Together I know we can conquer the world, and then I can have my Audi TT.

So the moral of this story is that as women, we should always aim high where men are concerned.

A Red Arrows pilot is good, as long as he is single and the squadron leader.

A plastic surgeon performing miracle work on disfigured children from war-torn and third world countries. Nice.

A leading human rights barrister who champions the underdog to the end, putting morals and ethics before everything. Swoon.

Or simply men who aren't threatened by us, who don't attempt to manipulate and who love us for who we are.

Actually, option 4 sounds the best now I've read through them again. The first three sound like they'd have ego issues ;-)

That's me done. All that's left to say is:

Love unconditionally, live each day to the full and be utterly fabulous xxx

That's really bad Tom, isn't it......?

2009-01-05T19:37:00.010Z

My pal Tom and I go back a very, very, very long way. Not in respect of sharing a bath together at the age of two, but we have shared life experience aplenty, and consequently have discussed the heck out of said experiences (more me talking at him if the truth be told, ladies and gentleman).

We worked together many moons ago and struck up a close bond, based fairly solidly around the fact that to start with, we both liked a smoke and a latte of a morning when we worked in the cut-and-thrust world of corporate sales in London. Actually we liked several smokes and accompanying lattes. That was in the day when you got paid for sitting around and having a good time very occasionally.

So imagine my glee and delight when we agreed that he would come and crash chez Debsy last weekend so that we may hit the town in order for me to consume mucho vino and Tom could perform the role that he performs so ably, that of my confessor. Tom the Confessor to the fallen Debsy. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it, and Tom is a master at it. Of course, I should qualify that by "confessor" I refer to the spiritual type that you divulge your not-so-fabulous admissions to, rather than it be the other way around (as in "confessee", which isn't a word at all, but you get my drift).

It doesn't matter how I dress up any justification to Tom, he always sees straight through it and to it's very core. After my latest admission of rather huge shock and ample accompanying horror, he looked me straight in the eye and said:

"Deb, you crack me up. Whenever you divulge your latest misgiving to me, after giving me the gory detail you look half sideways at me, dip your head and say "that's really bad, Tom.....isn't it?" as you bite your bottom lip"

Spot on. I always do it.Partly because I think that by adopting a little girl stance I may get judged lightly, or hey, let's not beat around the bush here, there could even be a total pardon on the cards if I play it right.

But not with Tom. No way Jose.

He scored me 8.6 out of 10 on the Totally Unacceptable Behaviour chart on Saturday night after hearing my full and detailed evidence.

Bless his heart, he did go on to recall a past misdemeanour of his own that we agreed warranted a 9 out of 10.

I am practically a novice at the side of Tom, it seems.

It also gave me great pleasure in sharing my new found passion for crystal therapy with Tom; something newly discovered in the Rainbow Room in Market Rasen, which is now my favourite hang-out.

When I explained how I needed to place an abundance crystal in my wealth corner and a rose quartz in my relationship corner, he commented "Deb, I know you're really into this but I can't tell you how hard I'm trying not to laugh right now....."

The man will eat his words when I display my newly acquired abundance to him in the coming months....

Newly-acquired with the help of my new love..... a new acquaintance that has actually demonstrated to me that I am sure to fall apart whenever I am in the presence of my love's beauty and greatness.

My new iMac.

Everyone who has seen it has marvelled at it's beauty, poise and gravitas. Thankfully it is easily unplugged so that I can carry it tenderly up the stairs each night to my bedroom where I tuck it under my duvet. I am totally besotted.

And so my friends.....I have to get back to Mac right now, but not before adding this totally fabulous track currently playing at my place of work.

Gotta find way to get into your heart.

Why do all men make hair removal jokes about the iMac?

2008-12-29T10:37:00.006Z

You could put money on it and get a reasonable return; I knew once I had posted on Facebook "Debsylee is so excited to be getting her iMac and Adobe CS4 software; how sad is that??!" that the old hair removal gag would be aired again (well, not that old given that the iMac hasn't been around too long....)

Tom did not disappoint with "I thought it had been rebranded as Veet" scrawled across my wall on Boxing Day night, closely followed with a volley exchange of quick-fire gags which ended with a legend shot from me.

I think I must have offended TomBob with that one because I haven't heard from him since.

Come back Tom; it's usually me who spits her dummy out ;-)

So, Christmas is all but over in the house of Debsy, save for a turkey lunch with all the trimmings at my parents' house today in honour of my boy who returned to the fold on Saturday.

To be fair the festive season has this year been rather entertaining, very philosophical and not quite so laden with food and drink as is the norm. Entertaining in that there were some very interesting (and a few eye-opening) texts from around the globe, philosophical in that I had to prepare for the internal investigation on my recent handling of a certain situation that I knew would start around now, but hey, at least I don't have to go on a diet this year.

My lovely Mum and Auntie spoiled me with some gorgeously fab pressies, and my wonderful Dad rode in on his white charger (metaphorically speaking) and offered to put up the money I needed to buy the new iMac and all-singing Adobe software I have been yearning for with my whole being.

I had actually espied a MacPro recently acquired by a friend of mine at his abode and I am ashamed to say I think I actually dribbled. Further to a rather half-baked pathetic attempt to persuade him to part company and upgrade, I conceded defeat and accepted that his thing of beauty was not destined for my grasp, hence the Christmas Day conversation with my papa. I do, however, think that once the threat of abduction is gone with the purchase of a Debsy iMac, I could nip in there like a ninja and be off with his goods in an instant. Be very careful, my friend; sometimes the girl will stop at nothing to get her hands on Cinema display....that's all I will say.

So that's the hardware and software issues sorted for the next couple of years (one hopes); now I need to work on my ability to bring matters of the heart to a close in an appropriate way as they head towards the final scene.

Sadly I have to admit that when Mr Enough looks at his own image in the mirror and says "yep, that's Enough alright", I turn into the iciest ice queen this side of the ice mountain.

I know my well-informed posse will say it was deserved and appropriate given the circumstances, but I had hoped for better from myself if I'm honest.

Everyone has their own coping mechanisms, I guess; mine is to erase all memory of a person in the hope that tomorrow I'll wake up and it won't even be a memory anymore. It's a bit childish, slightly irrational and a tad unrealistic but you know what they say about animals being at their most dangerous when they're injured. I don't think we have evolved much beyond that, especially women.

Sometimes it's just better to say nothing at all.

However, as this year draws to an end and I realise that it's unlikely I'll pen another posting before we say "bonjour" to 2009, I do need to say a this:

I am ending this year on a high; many of you have helped me, supported me and, most importantly, made me laugh like a drain this year, and for that you have a special place in my heart. I'm very privileged to call you my friends.

I wish you all lots of love, health and prosperity for the New Year that is almost upon us.

Now... go forth, and party like you just don't care ;-)

If you don't believe in Father Christmas, you ain't coming in....

2008-12-23T21:40:00.004Z

Around two months ago now I purchased a moldavite crystal pendant after reading that, if worn regularly, it can "change your life at breakneck speed"....but in a good way, I was reassured. And I have to say that has so far held true.

Whilst I haven't exactly had to hold onto my seat, there have been a few events that have winded me, but hey, life goes on, friends come, some go, and so forth. And whilst I'm not exactly dancing a jig right now, I can see why certain movements need to take place to make way for the coming experience.

My pal Ullie says you should expect nothing from the people who come into your life, and I would say that is the best approach I've heard in a long time. It does, however, become a bit of a test of will when you invest months of effort and hope in certain relationships and they still go poof! in front of your eyes..... but I can see where she is coming from.

I like to think the universe has big plans for me this coming year, and it has decided that, owing to my total ineptitude and inability to clear my decks of complicated issue-related stuff and messy bits and pieces, it will do it for me.

POOF! it's all clear now. Bring on 2009.

I am, of course, talking about the universe dressed in seasonal Father Christmas garb, and shouting "ho! ho! ho! little Debsylee!! Have you been a good girl?? Of course you haven't....some things never change. Here's our present to you any way...you're not going to like it, but touch, feel, smell......it will grow on you, we promise..."

And to make the bitter pills easier to swallow, the universe sends great stuff to me to make me laugh, like this morning on my local radio station... A chap is interviewing stone masons who work at Lincoln Cathedral (aforementioned great building of outstanding beauty and imposing magnificence).

He continues his interview..."so, Fred Smith, you started work here as a stone mason three years ago after finishing college. Is working at Lincoln Cathedral a bit like playing for Man U?"

Sorry???

Now, I get where he was going with that question, but can you think of any job that is less like playing for Manchester United than being a stone mason at Lincoln Cathedral?

I am loving the local radio stations around here, I have to tell you.

So the moldavite seems to be doing it's thang. And with a bit of universally-applied comedic stuff, I seem equipped to slay the odd dragon of life's challenges.

The piece de resistance this Christmas has to be the fact that my boy is at that peak of excited anticipation that this time of year brings, totally buying into the whole magic of it and asking with unnerving regularity "is it Christmas tonight?"

And because he laps up every bit of detail, I tend to go overboard with the tales of the intricate plans that are afoot to reward him with special presents for being a good boy this year. My masterpiece is that the Red Arrows have got a very special treat in store for him.....

He has a special card to open in the morning with the Red Arrows on the front adorned by glittery snowflakes, and a message inside that reads:

"Dear Ben, we hear that you have been a very good boy for your Mummy this year, so Ben Murphy (Red 7) is flying in his Red Arrow to the North Pole to take some special presents from us to Father Christmas for you....Happy Christmas! Love from the Red Arrows xxx"

Sometimes, having a bespoke card business pays dividends, I can tell you.

I just know that tomorrow morning he is going to be overcome with excitement when he gets that card. That is what Christmas is all about. It's magic.

I need to end on another giggle-fest....Gavin and Stacey.

I never really paid too much attention to this programme, initially thinking it was another series fashioned in the same style as Two Pints of Lager et al (i.e. not my cup of Darjeeling) But it is quite different.

This trailer in no way conveys the true brilliance of the programme, but it makes me laugh every time....

2009......the year of living dangerously

2008-12-19T10:08:00.015Z

As Christmas approaches I am filled with an overwhelming desire to get the thing over with; fast forward to New Years Eve, do the "rah rah" thing and just get stuck straight into 2009.

I normally love Christmas, but this year my cracker has lost it's snap. My Ben won't be with me until 27th December. I relinquish him to his father on Christmas Eve, at which point I intend to crank the heating up, put my shorts on and pretend it's the height of summer. Pimms, anyone?

The most obvious part of being a parent is that you have to be responsible, to do the right thing and to be an example to your child. But this year I have realised the following:

* The one song guaranteed to get me dancing after a few drinks is Mr Loverman by Shabba Ranks,
* You should only watch the news these days if you are on some form of medication,
* A second cup of tea never tastes as good as the first...
* If you get a bad feeling about someone there will be a good reason for it,
* Always acknowledge and pay homage to your inner child; otherwise she will go crazy, do something stupid and get you into deep doo-dah,
* When people speak to you in an undeserved disdainful tone, delete them with lightening speed from your contacts, phone and your life in general,
* Robbie should rejoin Take That.......how great would that be? Seriously... fantastic.

None of these things are particularly logical or responsible, but neither is taking out a mortgage or buying a new car........when it was possible to do those things, that is.

I have made some huge life changes in 2008, but they have all been safe changes. As a result, I am now in "safe mode"......which I have to say is not Debsylee in the slightest. I am boxed in with nowhere to run, or so it seems. I never liked having to run my PC in safe mode, so running my life in a similar manner is not exactly setting me on fire.

So 2009 is the year to mix it up a bit and take it to the edge more often.

It's time to calculate the risk of living dangerously, against the risk of doing nothing.

Sadly I never met Friedrich Nietzsche, given that he died in 1900 and was a famous German philosopher, but all that time ago he was effusing...

Believe me! The secret of reaping the greatest fruitfulness and the greatest enjoyment from life is to live dangerously....

You've convinced me, Herr Nietzsche.

Lightning strikes......maybe once, maybe twice.

2008-12-17T14:43:00.004Z

I'm very fortunate that my life has been filled with people and experiences that, in the main, I have loved, enjoyed and am very grateful for. Some admittedly I could have done without, but hey, how can you appreciate the really good stuff unless there's a bit of cack in there too?

But I think that without music, my appreciation of life would have fallen short of it's eventual mark. I don't have a collection of music, I have a wardrobe, and every morning I select what best fits my mood du jour. Often when I go out in my car I curse the fact that I haven't brought a few particular CDs with me and am still listening to the same ones that I placed in the player some six months ago. It's like going on a fortnights holiday and only remembering to take two pairs of shoes. Unthinkable.

Those of you who have a similar penchant and attachment to music will know how this feels; it can be more effective than any other mood enhancer I know of (not that I am that knowledgeable on the subject of mood enhancers, save for alcohol.....of which I have still not imbibed some three days later after my last excursion to the edge and back).

And so today I got to thinking.....what song would I chose to define my life?

I love conundrums like this; it's like desert island discs but you only get to pick one..... The pressure of it is immense.

My song found it's way again on to my airwaves today, over and over. That's a very annoying feature of mine; I will play a particular favourite song over and over and over.....the repeat button gets well used chez debsylee.

Gypsy by Fleetwood Mac.

So I'm back, to the velvet underground
Back to the floor, that I love
To a room with some lace and paper flowers
Back to the gypsy that I was...

There is a part of me that is a bit boho. People often don't believe me on that, but seriously, if long flowing skirts had suited me better than pencil skirts, I would have given Kate Bush a run for her money.

Fleetwood Mac always, always, always puts me in a good mood, particularly this track. It is the ultimate free spirit song; tales of flying into life's experience and taking your leave when you need to....

And it all comes down to you
Well, you know that it does
Well, lightning strikes, maybe once, maybe twice
Ah, and it lights up the night
And you see your gypsy....

You see I've decided that it's only good to remain a part of people's lives if you're enhancing them; once you stop doing that it's time to fly off. If you light up their night, then you stick around and ignite a few more torches.

It all sounds very transitory, but really it isn't at all. Some nights can last a whole lifetime if you both want them to.

Lightning strikes, maybe once, maybe twice
And it all comes down to you...

Everybody thinks Dreams was their best track, but if you're not familiar with Gypsy, give this a whirl.........magical. Stevie Nicks at her best.

What this girl wants for Christmas......and other reflections

2008-12-15T17:13:00.012Z

It may seem derisory to a few that I still refer to myself as a "girl"...but the truth is I often feel more like a child now than I probably ever did. I was quite a serious little thing growing up, often pondering life's variables and seeking my fathers' praise at every twist and turn. Now I ponder and seek far less.....I make a cursory effort but I don't get bent out of shape any more over it.

So the end of 2008 draws near, and I'm sitting and contemplating lessons learnt, and also new friends found and those I've lost.

Life's lessons learnt....that is always the good old roasted chestnut, isn't it? My number one eureka moment I'd have to partly credit my friend Dean with.

We were discussing the law of attraction and other nuggets from "The Secret" when he uttered something quite brilliant in it's simplicity:

"If you keep failing in a particular direction, it's because you are on the wrong track and you should change course".

There is one direction that I felt sure was the right one for me this year, and yet I have been unseated, unnerved and altogether miserable in pursuit several times. Maybe it's been bad timing or poor judgment, or maybe both, but I now realise I need to reverse out of the cul-de-sac I've found myself in and accept it was never going anywhere.

Biggest 2008 lesson learnt? Giving unconditionally is fine, as long as people appreciate it. If they don't, get in that car, reverse like there is no tomorrow and deposit some rubber, baby.

As for friends lost, plenty of people will tell you that you can't keep everyone happy all the time, and we all make an effort to disprove the theory, but sadly it is very true. One thing I've learned this year is that seeking to elevate your profile and hence your business via the media hacks a lot of people off. Exactly why that would be I'm not entirely sure. Apparently the done thing is to keep your lips sealed tightly shut and say nothing; say nothing, that is, after you've explained to your child why there is no supper on the table and the house is freezing cold. Some people call it maintaining a dignified silence; I call it plain stupidity.

So in opting to go down the "publish and be damned" route, I find a few so-called 'friends' have fallen by the wayside. I suppose the true test of what constitutes a friend is their acceptance or otherwise that your motives are reasonable and justified. Some will choose to castigate you on the basis that you have acted dishonourably. I'd be lying if I said that this didn't hurt me when it happened fairly recently, but seeing as I can still look myself in the mirror without squirming I'd say their opinions are of no significance to me.

Number one on my list would therefore to eliminate self-righteousness. I realise we can all be guilty of it, but seriously, until you've walked in a person's shoes you have absolutely no right to judge, comment or berate. Ever.

The great thing is that for every person that chose to delete me as a Facebook friend (the shame of it...), probably twenty altogether fabulous friends replaced them.

Which leads me very neatly onto the very best bits of 2008....the bits that made it into my year-end highlights.

And the biggest highlight is that there are too many mini-highlights to list here...

But the nicest one was my journey back to the slightly indulgent and mischievous side of me that remains hidden most of the time, but when the timing is right and I come into contact with one similar, I won't hold back.

Amazing music, great company, honest exchanges and lots of side-splitting laughter. That is the photograph of 2008 I want to keep as a memento.

Why so big a deal? I hear you ask.

Little Feat, Average White Band and the Doobie Brothers.....a rare combination, but I found it. And I was more than impressed, let me tell you.

Some may think it peculiar, but it was exactly what this girl wanted for Christmas.

The Lincoln Imp....and indecorous intrigue

2008-12-12T17:03:00.009Z

There is a little known fact about Lincoln (well, technically, about Lincoln's famous landmark) that many do not know of.......the little imp that resides inside the cathedral. On many a school trip I would search for it as we walked round; I often wonder if I could find it today (perhaps that can be a summer holiday activity to enjoy with Ben next year if I can manage to persuade him that Grandad doesn't actually sing there at all during the day..)

There are many stories about how the imp came to be there, but this is my favourite:

"...A version of the story with two imps is that they were sent by the devil to cause trouble in the cathedral and they soon started to annoy the angels in the cathedral. The angels told the two imps to leave but the first started to throw things at the angels and the second hid. The angels turned the first imp to stone but this gave the second imp a chance to escape. The second imp is said to have escaped with the help of a witch. The imp went off with the witch on her broomstick but the witch was so fond of the imp she turned the imp into a black cat...."

Of course, anything that involves witches and broomsticks and I'm sold; add a black cat to the mix and there is no contest.

So, that said, imagine how an imp situated in the city of your birth might impact on your character... As this dawned on me this afternoon I have to say much became clearer to me, if only I had thought to blame my life's' transgressions on that little stony scamp. When all is said, there has to be some implication, does there not? A reasonably engrained desire to seek an imp out must influence somehow over the years...

So my albeit relaxed fascination this week became slightly clearer....

How do you go from thinking there is little to attract you to a place, to retain your interest, to stir up intrigue....to being fully engaged with your present and immediate future? Somewhere there has to be an imp up to no good.

My silver dress....and the silver lining

2008-12-11T10:30:00.003Z

Thank you so much to everyone for your concern over the last few days; I am absolutely fine and dandy despite a few curved balls being thrown my way (and some not quite so curved.....)

Today, however, is a day for kicking off my heels and cracking open the bubbly because.... Woman and Home has hit the shelves (Jan 09 edition) and I am on the whole of page 45!!

I can barely type with the excitement of it.....so here endeth this posting ;-)

Congested optimism.... (and why the camera never lies)

2008-12-07T04:14:00.011Z

Along with his boundless energy, never ending curiosity and flawless skin, there is one more thing about my son that I am deeply envious of, and that is his ability to sleep through illness.

When he first displayed signs of a cold around a week ago, I knew it was only a matter of time before a dreaded sore throat took hold of me and sent me into a sniffling nosedive. And so here I am, box of tissues by my side, tapping away on my laptop at some unearthly hour on a Sunday morning.

Of course, tossing and turning, wrestling with the duvet and sneezing and spluttering for a couple of hours is the perfect recipe for yet another soul-searching "why me?" kind of post, but having already deleted one from yesterday for being too obscure, I am determined that this shall be clear, concise and to the point.

That's the intention; I feel sure the end result may not match it, but here goes nothing...

I've talked a few times about Patricia, my psychic friend, who has imparted to me much wisdom and cause for reflection over the years. Whether you believe in all things mystical or not, Patricia has the capability to decipher and decode an emotionally confusing mess, particularly those which concern the opposite sex. She has a clear mind and an all seeing talent that cuts through swathes of histrionic wreckage in a manner that instantly clarifies your thinking.

When she delivered my yearly astrological reading on my birthday earlier this year, there were two aspects that made an immediate impression. One was that it was gong to be a difficult year for me financially, and the second was that I would not hesitate to cut away anything that wasn't beneficial. My heart sank at the financial comment, but having realised just a few minutes ago that I have a little over two months left to my next reading, I feel sure that I can limp to the finishing line.

The second "de-cluttering" observation has come to pass also, although not without a disorienting moment or two. I still maintain that relationships and circumstances should be given the time and opportunity to develop and flourish, with some reasonable timeframes agreed upfront. Sometimes you just have to hold on to your belief when something feels right.

There is, I believe, a lot to be said for optimism. Frequently these days you hear the term "cautious optimism" which to me is like saying "a little bit hot" or "sort of sweet". Either it is or it isn't; don't stick a precursor in there as a get-out clause. Commit or don't bother at all.

It puts me in mind of people who say "I want to keep my options open". Oh, really? In that case would you please go and join the camp over there marked "no courage of our convictions".

So, hopefully, that has cleared up the small point of being optimistic. I am so. Not slightly or cautiously, but totally. The basis for such being that most days I don't see how things could get much worse....perhaps that qualifies as "inverted pessimism" or "retrograde despair". It helps me to maintain the perverse streak of humour running through my being, as I am sure you will have noticed.

I have already alluded to being a big believer in fate, but I now realise that, even if you sit at home with your front door well and truly bolted, it will come and find you. Fate will, as it were, come knocking.

Take Randy the angel for instance, who appeared at my front door back in October. And yesterday another significant meeting took place on my doorstep, this time in the form of Steve the photographer, who came to capture images of my family and I at the behest of a woman's magazine in which we are to appear.

I don't think it can be mere coincidence that I know and have known quite a few photographers over the years. Two of my very good friends are photographers and I enjoyed a brief but passionate dalliance with another some time ago. I have effortlessly networked and worked alongside a number of others over the years; it must be down to similarly creative and enquiring minds.

There is something about the photographic image which I think surpasses any other medium, other than perhaps painting, which I suppose you could argue was the predecessor of photography.

When the lens opens for the briefest moment, it comes and takes a part of you away to be stored for posterity. Even silly little snaps taken on your mobile phone are little records of time, emotion, feeling.....proof of the moment, proof that it existed and that you didn't dream it. And then the lens shuts as quickly as it opened and it's taken you away.

Steve arranged us in poses that exemplified the piece that the photos are to accompany, namely familial, supportive stances. I am surprised to hear myself say that some of them felt strange and uncomfortable, namely the ones where I stood flanked by my parents who each would have a hand on my arm. It doesn't read oddly, so I'm not at all sure why it felt that way....We were never an overly demonstrative family but we had our moments, so it is a little puzzling.

There is an honesty about a photograph, and I would hazard a guess that is why I've never had a problem having the camera pointed at me. I don't feel I've anything to hide and I'm quite happy to be judged on the resulting image, especially if it's taken by Steve with a most impressive range of cameras, lenses and supporting capability to airbrush and touch-up back at base.

I suppose that this piece gives rise to the question are we regarded for what we say or how we look? That is one of the reasons I love to write because I know we live in an image-driven society, a society that I admit to being a fully paid-up member of. Writing allows people to look into your soul and see the parts that the camera can't reach.

Very occasionally I scare myself with my openness; I worry that someone may take advantage by adopting a false persona that will irresistibly appeal to me. It's not difficult to draw up a list of do's and don'ts when someone is an open book.

I have no doubt that I have been and will be taken advantage of, but I know the fact that I've never deceived or coerced to get what I want will see me as the better person when all comes to pass.

Truth, openness and honesty will never be regrets of mine, about that I am very optimistic. And I will soon have the photos to prove it.

Help! I have a blockage.....again

2008-12-02T13:53:00.016Z

A few months before I left the leafy pastures of Berkshire I had one almighty leak in my bathroom that resulted in a total refit. I can somehow hear some of you sniggering at that beautifully penned sentence, so let me clarify that by "I had one almighty leak" I am referring to a leakage of water behind my shower which resulted in much blackness and rotting to the walls and surrounding area.

On or around that time I discussed the aquatic horror with my friend Patricia who is knowledgeable and learned in all things psychic, and she shrugged her shoulders and said "I'm not too surprised..."

As someone who doesn't do upheaval too well, even on a good day, I asked her to elaborate.

"Water signifies the emotions. You have an emotional blockage and this is manifesting in the problem with your bathroom. Not only has there been a leak, but now you can't get the insurance claim sorted. You need to unblock your emotions"

All interesting stuff I pondered, as indeed I had been at loggerheads with Big Useless Insurance Company plc (or BUIC plc...) for around six months in pursuance of a claim settlement. I deduced that the emotional stalemate Patricia referred to was owing to the fact that I needed to move on, in every sense of the word. The south east for me had seen the birth of my son and the discovery of some amazing friends, but beyond that I was struggling to find anything going in its' favour.

I cannot remember the actual day that I decided to relocate to Lincolnshire, but it would have been early in November 2007. I should remember the date because on the very same day I had the idea to take my Nokia N95 mobile phone into the bathroom and make a short film with accompanying narrative, showing the decrepit conditions my young child and I had to endure and how if anyone was thinking of switching to BUIC plc, they should think again. Long and very hard.

One quick download on the internet and voila, it was on YouTube under the brilliant title, "Insured With BUIC plc? Thinking Of Making A Claim? Good Luck".

I thought a few key players at BUIC plc should enjoy the production that had been inspired by their gross inability to function as anything like an insurance company, so I sent them the link via e-mail.

As it generated over four hundred hits in twenty-four hours and started to generate less than complimentary comments about BUIC plc, they not only increased their settlement figure from £970 to £4,400 but they also posted me a cheque within three working days.

I can therefore offer double dose of advice here, firstly if you are in dispute with any large conglomerate and are heading to "Nowhere Central" fast, get yourself on YouTube. There is nothing more painful and incalculable to these types than bad publicity. Secondly, if you are emotionally blocked and your domestic plumbing proves it, sit and wait for the answer to come to you; it will if you give it time.

So, somewhere around a year later and we are now in residence in Lincolnshire, altogether happier and grateful for the fresher air, the quieter roads but not altogether enamoured with the horrific council tax....(I am the only person alive, to my knowledge, that managed to relocate from the second most expensive council to the numero uno council).

Like everyone I have the odd emotional blockage still, but these days my emotions are reasonably free-flowing and positive. So imagine my grand displeasure this morning when I discover my kitchen ceiling is leaking water from the overhead en suite...... I swiftly call my landlord to report the less than great news, and as we speak on the phone, I look out of the kitchen window to snowflakes the size of dinner plates cascading from the heavens. More water designed to cause me grief, this time of a frozen variety design to create maximum chaos for the imminent school run.

At this point I remember a winter some thirty years ago when the village I grew up in was cut off from civilisation thanks to a fairly monumental snowfall. I recall my mother opening the lounge curtains and the room remaining in total darkness because the snow had drifted up the side of the house. We walked into the village to buy milk from the back of a local dairy farmers' trailer, straight from the cow, not treated and we all survived......remarkable.

I think back to those halcyon days and realise they probably only amounted to maybe ninety-six hours or so, but we had the most fantastic adventure. Once the Louth bus made it's way through, however, the party was well and truly over.

Thankfully this mornings covering was all but a distant memory by twelve o'clock, by which time I had returned back to Patricia's theory of emotional blockages and problems with water in the home. In keeping with my tendency to analyse the pips out of every incident, it occurred to me that this was slightly different....

This was water leaking out of one room (en suite) into another (kitchen), and both rooms have water. There has to be one big emotional blockage going on somewhere chez nous....and I know exactly where it is.

Do you know how sometimes you miscommunicate with someone close to the point that it's like watching a very bad slapstick comedy? But instead of flinging custard pies into the faces of unsuspecting clowns, this time you manage to make everything you say sound crass, uncaring and definitely not what you intended? That was your writer yesterday, and it has caused one big emotional blockage.

So am I surprised that water was seeping through my kitchen ceiling this morning? Not at all. Not now.

I tried briefly to unblock it last night, to no avail.

So, I'm hoping that sitting tight will make it better. Failing that, a few bashes with a monkey wrench should do it.

Humble pie, and how to avoid being forced to eat it.

2008-11-30T14:44:00.017Z

I wonder if anyone feels more foolish than Gordon Ramsey right now. Blend that foolishness carefully with the right amount of dismal despair and finish by flambeing it with just a dash of stark realisation, and I suspect he's wishing he had just stuck to something simple from the menu, something maybe rustled up out of a tin at home by his beautiful and undeserving wife.

That's perhaps what you get when you dine out at a seemingly classy establishment that likes to push back the monogamous boundaries; a hefty bill at the end of it and a case of indigestion like you have never known.

Now I know what you are all thinking, "here we go, she's going to stick the Sabatier into Ramsey as the stereotypical cheating male", but you'd be wrong.

My concern is not him, nor is it for the reviled and scheming other woman that he enjoyed his various trysts with, but for his wife Tana.

Having read his book "Humble Pie" (I suspect he sorely wishes he had chosen another title now.....), he talks of his business relationship with Tana's father that led to his meeting her, falling in love, marrying and producing four children. Whilst I am in no way hugely knowledgeable on the subject, I would hazard a guess that Tana's father was/is very capable and authoritative, and that he easily commands respect.

That said, my instincts tell me that these were the qualities she identified in Ramsey, given that as girls many of us look for our fathers' characteristics in would-be partners. To that end, I would suspect that in addition to having to deal with the highly public humiliation she has had to endure, she is painfully having to come to terms with the monumental shock that a man she looked up to, admired and loved has done this to her. If he feels bad right now, you can multiply that by around two thousand and you might get close to how she feels.

Which leads me on to the age old debate.....why do men do this? Why do they take the risk?

Well, I think I have this kind of sorted and boxed off. I'm far from happy with my theory, but I think it's reasonably accurate and as close as I'm going to get. And frankly, I have got to a point in my life where I have given this so much thought that I desperately want to move on mentally.

A few weeks ago a male friend commented that men don't get past the emotional age of seven. At the time I thought that was a little harsh and a bit of a sweeping statement, but given that he was of said gender, I thought it had to carry some credence.

"Whenever a man does something to upset you, or wind you up, just think, 'seven years old', Think how a seven year old boy would act in the same circumstances, and voila". And you know, this theory fits so perfectly that I struggle to imagine another that could topple it.

Take Gordon Ramsey. As my S.O. rightly pointed out, he must have women throwing themselves at him like exocets, so the temptation must have been greater than a Millefeuille à la Framboise (OK, enough with the food gags now...). It clearly had nothing to do with his wife "letting herself go"....as it didn't when Cheryl Cole and hoards of beautiful women before her got themselves unfairly hit by the cheating stick.

So my guess is....he did it because he wanted to, and why, why, oh why shouldn't he? Seven years old.

I think men will do it if they believe there is no chance of being found out. Because they can. And because they want to. Seven years old.

Before any man decides to so much as contemplate cheating on his partner, whether she be a wife of thirty years or a less-important girlfriend, my advice is this:

If you are going to mess around, make absolutely, totally and completely sure that you do not get found out (that's assuming you want to continue your relationship after you have shown total disrespect for your partner).

There is only one thing more unbearable to a woman than the discovery of her partners' infidelity, and that is the pain that follows it. Spare them this. Cover your tracks, check to see they are covered and then go back and recover them again.

I am reliably informed that men can very easily separate sex and love, therefore making it easy for them to have sex with another woman whilst being in love with their longterm partner. Men, listen up: we might acknowledge this if you are very lucky, but we will never, ever truly empathise with it.

And do not assume your partner is stupid. Men do this all the time; they think they are invincible, irresistible and much cleverer than they are. If you are capable of cheating, she probably knows this already. She may chose to ignore it, but you can be sure that won't last forever.

I should make the point rather forcibly that I am not advocating that faithlessness is acceptable on these terms, but if men really feel they cannot keep their trousers on and that temptation is just too great then they should do their partners the common courtesy of making sure their indiscretions never see the light of day in any way, shape or form.

As for Tana Ramsey, I wish her well and I really hope she can find it in her heart to trust him again. And I hope he understands what an immensely huge task he has before him in order for her to do that.

Brickbats and bouquets....musings on a snowy Sunday

2008-11-23T11:15:00.010Z

At the risk of over-egging an already very yolky omelette, it's Sunday, the snow is falling and I'm in "pensive and thankful" mode....no change there, then!

I had just penned the title of this posting when a good friend Skype'd me from Austria and we got into a discussion about the trials and tribulations of love, our associated neuroses and the resulting "euphoria-to-despair in 60 seconds flat" feeling that can result.

Some people are meant to come into our lives at certain times, I am certain of it. Ulrike is one such friend for me.

There is a slight language barrier, but I don't think I've bonded as quickly and closely with another girlfriend for a long, long time. We don't need the exact right words to communicate, we just know.

I convey generally what I'm feeling, she gets it and vice-versa. Absolutely perfect. And completely what the doctor ordered; friends like this restore your perspective much quicker than any self-help book could.

So Ulrike, I'm sending you a bouquet of the most gorgeous exotic flowers, because I know when you get it, you above all others, will appreciate it ;-)

A bouquet also to my beautiful boy Ben, who spent Friday night being horribly sick, something that happens very infrequently these days.

During the day he made a swift recovery in time to accompany his Grandma to the village fair taking place in the local hall. I duly gave him two pounds to spend on anything that took his fancy (save for loose women and hard liquor, naturally)

When I went to collect him yesterday evening he announced that there had been nothing there to spend his two pounds on for little boys, but went on to present me with some chocolate cakes and a jar of home-made marmalade that he said he thought I would like.

And that is how a four year old can quite innocently reduce a woman to tears. I can't even blame raging hormones this time....

Brickbat time.

This time I'm covering pomposity (and the necessary elimination thereof), why the need for honesty is paramount (not strictly a brickbat, but I can't shoe-horn in into the bouquet section....) and the pain that is a bikini wax.....(I will never, ever come to terms with it, much in the same way I never came to terms with Bernard Manning)

Many will know that I regularly frequent a business networking site.

Deep down I have to admit that I hate face-to-face networking, not because I struggle to strike up conversations but I frequently have found myself in a room full of people that are not interested in me nor I them; I've eaten a below-par meal and have parted with twenty-five pounds for the privilege.

Does that sound harsh? I don't mean it to be.

Let me say I have never attended any such event with the intention of initiating some big sales campaign; I take a more relaxed view to networking. I believe that if you aim to network with people with whom you have synergy, they will point business in your direction ultimately, and you will do the same for them. It's long lasting and ultimately more desirable than a hard-sell approach in my humble opinion.

So my online site cuts through all the unnecessaries and enables you to connect quickly with a vast number of people from around the globe (something you don't get at the local Beefeater).

And yet it appears there are a number of members of said site who feel the quickfire connection approach makes a "mockery of the networking process". They are at pains to declare that if you should so much as wish to even contemplate approaching them to connect, you should read their profile in fine detail (and they point out that they will check to see you have done this....) first and then approach them via personal message. They will then read through your details and decide whether they want to connect with you.

Utterly, utterly hilarious.

I posted a blog on the site yesterday voicing my opinion on this topic that was reasonably restrained, but the great thing is that on here, I can let rip. So here goes:

If your name is Alan Sugar or Richard Branson (or anyone of that ilk...), I would inwardly digest every detail of your profile to the point that I salivate and lick the screen. If yours isn't a name I have heard of, I will approach you in such a way that does not require me to bow and scrape.

If you see that as a mockery of the networking principle, then we don't need to connect anyway. Perhaps you should try and get a slot on the South Bank Show to voice your outrage.

Maybe this is what SO meant when he said "gobby"........hmmm.....

The need for honesty........ Crucial, and I suppose if you get this right then it translates as a bouquet.

This in essence formed part of my conversation with Ulrike.

It reminded me of an argument that broke out during my last marriage; he went on a business trip to Blackpool and swore blind he didn't visit any strip joints, lap dancing clubs, etc.

I think when you get to be a certain age as a woman, you accept that all men visit these places. It doesn't mean they are ripe for a one-night stand or an affair, they just have a curiosity that many women don't understand. If you accept our mutual differences in this regard, it makes it easier to deal with.

So why would a man not tell his partner? Why lie about it if it was "innocent curiosity"?

The seemingly white lie in this instance gives full force to the notion that there must be other more sinister things that have been kept from you. It is cancerous.

His defence was "I didn't want to hurt you".

When a seemingly insignificant thing is covered up because he "doesn't want to hurt" you, it leaves a nasty stain on the relationship. Such a nasty stain that no matter how many times you put it through the boil wash that is your reasoning, you will never truly shift it.

This type of occurrence is not confined to trips to strip clubs, of course. It exists wherever one partner feels that they have to keep details from the other, because they "wouldn't understand" or it's maybe perceived as "easier to not tell".

Coming clean may necessitate an uncomfortable conversation or two, but that's called communication which can never be a bad thing. In addition, it nurtures respect and understanding.

Unlike bikini waxing, which in my experience does not have a preferred angle for approach.

I should point out here that my natural colouring is very, very dark (my hair was jet black when I was born). This ultimately means waxing results in pain which is akin to the early stages of childbirth, and this time I pay fifteen pounds a time for the experience.

My lovely Lisa, who administers the aforementioned torture once a month, commented "there's no wonder it hurts, look at the roots on them!!" the first time she treated me... Oh, how I wished I hadn't looked. Now I feel my whimpering and squeals are justified.

Anyone who can suggest a less painful alternative, please get in touch. I'm not unreasonable about this, I know that pain will play a part at some point when it comes to this process.....I just want less of it, please.

And anyone that suggests not putting myself through it and giving up altogether.....well, that's funny. I do like a good belly laugh.

I feel I've mused enough; waxing lyrical has never been so much fun ;-)

Point a microphone at me and suddenly it all becomes clear....

2008-11-21T18:31:00.010Z

When I moved back to the treasure that is my home county from the thriving hub that is Berkshire back in April of this year I have to admit I had a few reservations.

On paper it all made sense; practically (my parents were ready, willing and able to help and assist with caring of and for Ben), financially (you could purchase a small stately home here for what a four-bed detached cost in Berkshire.....pre-slump...), emotionally (I admit it; I love my family and it pained me to be two hundred miles down the road from them...) and in a spiritual sense (I know many will scoff, but I felt "ready" to come home).

There is an aspect to my emotional welfare that didn't make it onto the list because quite simply, as a contraindication, so it was better left off. My friends. My touchstones. I left them behind and the fact that I couldn't meet up with them for coffee or a glass of wine at the drop of a hat hurt me for a good few months. And on a practical and business-related level, many of my friends were part of my business network so that dissappeared on the sortie northward too... But the way I look at it is this; that's why we have motorways, mobile phones and Facebook. No friend is ever too far away these days that you can't reach out to them via some medium or other.

But there were also the unquantifiables that don't make it onto the page with all the practical and sensible reasons listed above. The issues that you know will bug you, but you dare not give voice to them as it would make you appear shallow and without a soul.

Starbucks. Space NK. Waterloo station. LK Bennett. John Lewis. Heathrow. The American Bar at the Savoy. So strike me down, I miss these things.

So I packed me, my son, my business and our worldly possessions into the appropriate vessels and we moved back to the green pastures of Lincolnshire.

Almost instantaneously I was presented with a highly acceptable and alluring treasure that Lincolnshire had to offer; a man that fair took the wind out of my sails. And for a non-seafaring type of girl that takes some doing, let me tell you.

It would be fair to say that we sailed a few stormy seas, but such is the voyage we choose to take when we embark on the search for personal and intimate fulfillment.

In truth, it was not just the romantic angle of my chart that struggled during the first few weeks, but also the one that missed my girls, my buddies. To say I was on an emotionally-powered roller coaster would be understating it slightly, but the show went on regardless.

The business has stuttered and spluttered a little, mainly due to another relocation some three months after moving up here back to my home office and away from the unreasonably expensive office in Lincoln that I initially signed up for. Having said all that, all remains in reasonably good shape, despite the economic doom and gloom we are fed on a daily basis.

And my son, as all children do, meets each day with unquestioning and keen optimism. He loves his new school, he likes his new teacher and he adores the fact that he can now see his Grandma and Grandad on a daily basis. In fact, some days I think he would forego contact with me, the mother who gave him life, to be with his grandparents. It's a thankless job being a mother sometimes, don't you find?

So this week I found myself some seven months down the line, being asked to comment on a local community radio station on how relocation had affected me and my business. Needless to say, as a local station, they inadvertently wanted me to "big" Lincolnshire up a bit and to dumb down all that may have been good about the South East.

To my surprise it wasn't a difficult task at all.

When I assessed my networking activity over the last six months I realised that most of it had been done via a couple of key and crucial business sites.

As a result I have made business contacts and friends in Holland, Belgium, Sweden, Denmark, Austria, Italy, South Africa, America, Mexico, Brazil, Australia as well as many more in London and the surrounding area.

You can pretty much guarantee I would not be interacting with these new found friends and acquaintances if I had still been resident in Berkshire; I would have stayed well within the comfort zone of my familiar network.

The world is now more accessible, and it is definitely smaller. It is easier than it has ever been to reach outside of your obvious and immediate space and touch what exists beyond. It is no longer relevant what postcode or locality you live in.

It now takes me just ten minutes longer to reach the centre of London by train than it did when I lived in Berkshire, and I have a much faster broadband connection. In addition it takes me no more than twenty minutes to get to wherever I need to be in the city, be it shopping amenities, bars or restaurants. There is never a traffic jam to battle with as I take my son to school, and that is after he has checked what the cows are doing in the field behind our house every morning.

I now have the pleasure of adding to my address book many wonderful and special friends as a result of reaching beyond my imagined limits; Ingrid from South Africa, Barbara from California, Lotte from Sweden, Sos from Denmark, Ulrike from Austria, Sam from New South Wales, Regina from Orlando, Tom from Norway....and of course I could not possibly miss out Nina, Stephanie, Brian, Jan, Amanda, Stella and Corinne from the UK.

So when I was asked by said radio station what difficulties I had encountered in relocating from the South East to the wilds of the Lincolnshire landscape, they caught me at precisely the right time to say....."none, really."

In fact it has moved me forcibly on to my next chapter, in more ways than one.

Pink fluffy slippers, adult toys and why Helen Mirren is my heroine....

2008-11-19T12:21:00.008Z

There are so many reasons I love being forty-five that I could practically burst wide open and have them spilling out all over my desk......but that would be way too messy.

The main one that stands head and shoulder above all the others has to be that I really don't care that much about what other people think anymore.

I should stress the "that much" in the previous sentence, because there is occasion when someone very close passes comment and I give it the usual knee-jerk reaction before disappearing into a corner of my mind to contemplate "is that what he thinks of me? Is that a good or a bad thing?" and other such neurotic ramblings...

In this instance it was "you're self-opinionated, too much to say for yourself", closely followed by "I'm not saying that is a bad thing..."

I think the word "gobby" also made it somewhere into the sentence, but I'm hoping that his version of "gobby" doesn't put him in mind of Jade Goody quite in the same way it does me......

Anyway, this is how I see it: being self-opinionated is necessary in this society if you want to make any headway whatsoever. As long as your opinions don't offend, insult or otherwise hurt others, that's OK.

And one other thing darling (in case you're reading), there's only one thing worse than being too opinionated and that's having no opinion at all.... ;-)

Take my opinion on my prized fluffy pink slippers, for example; I grant you that they are not the most seductive footwear I possess but they do one thing and they do it very well.

When I calculate that my chances of coming face-to-face with my SO (a.k.a. significant other) are rare to slim and I want to snuggle down on the sofa with a glass of wine and Greys Anatomy (or something of that ilk), then out they come. They are not attractive in the classic footwear sense (and yet far, far better than Birkenstocks in my opinion) but I have two words to utter here and two words only- toasty toes.

They are a naughty indulgence, I suppose. "Naughty" as in I would never want to be seen in public wearing them, yet I clearly take no issue with admitting my fetish for warm feet on here.

Which leads me on to the term "adult toys", a term that I intend to clear of all wrong-doing and reinstate it's innocence and acceptability in general day-to-day conversation.

Now, we all know what image we conjure up with the term "adult toy", don't we? But why is that?

The inference is that, as adults, if we have a "toy" it must be of the bedroom variety. What about Ipods? What about those sexy new Macbook Airs? What about DIY hair removal laser kits? Are they not "toys"? Do we not get excited as we take delivery and sit for hours figuring out all the features? And do we not scream at the top of our voices to "get off that" if anyone so much as prods our new prized possession in the manner of the most obstinate child you ever heard?

So, do you see? The term "adult toys" is to be embraced, encouraged and nurtured. It should be used freely and without embarrassment. It is part of our grown-up way of life and we should acknowledge it as such.

I, for one, am hoping for a sackful of adult toys on Christmas morning and I don't mind admitting it.

Which leads me onto Helen Mirren, who I am sure has no issue with embarrassment over the term "adult toys" or any other for that matter.

I read in the Sunday Times mag this week with much alacrity that Ms Mirren met a journalist for an interview at a top hotel and opened the conversation with the announcement that she had just eaten eight croissants, a fact that she "seemed quite proud of".

You've got to love her, haven't you? Beautiful, sexy, intelligent, naughty and a love of fat-laden French pastries that she readily admits to.

I mean, come on girls, we all aspire to the likes of the thinnest "celeb du jour", but who would you rather have a night out with? I want to have dinner with someone who grabs for the dessert menu with mucho gusto at the the thought of yet more calories of no nutritional value.

My SO thinks Helen Mirren is very hot, as I am sure most men with a pulse do, so they may have read with some confusion in the interview to which I refer that she prefers women to men in all but the sexual sense.

I love her more with each day that passes. But not in the sexual sense.

Weekends and windmills....and have I been here before?

2008-11-15T17:34:00.012Z

Something strange seems to happen to me on certain Saturdays, and I'm not entirely sure why. To be exact, I'm talking about Saturdays that see me as a single girl again (i.e. my boy is with his father for the weekend and my Significant Other is away). My mind seems to operate like a windmill, adopting a familiar sequence but picking up different notions and thoughts every time....

I can only put this down to the fact that, due to the enforced solitude, I have time to go through my mental inbox. And what makes it more of a challenge is that I will also delve into the filing cabinets of my mind and pull out long-forgotten episodes which should have been archived by now.

Bear with me here as I steer you through the long and winding path that my brain took today; all will be come clear. Or clearer, at least. I hope.

0800 hours and I am still in bed (such bliss....), cup of tea and lap top fired up. Now I know that many will see the "lap top" bit as being anything but perfect, but being Ben-less gives me an opportunity to concentrate on semi-complex documents that have been e-mailed to me rather than scanning through them whilst playing "snap" at the same time. Then I recall how I spectacularly got the whole mothering thing very wrong yesterday when I dropped Ben off for school complete in school uniform (him that is, not me....even I'm not that remiss in the morning) only to find that as it is Children in Need day and all the other children are in jeans and trainers.

I stumble into his classroom and babble to the classroom assistants how stupid I am, etc, etc. They tell me not to worry, it's fine, but all I can see is my boys' dejected face all day wondering why all his friends look super-cool and he's in uniform....... I last a full half hour after dropping him off before I ring the school and ask them to let me know if he gets upset and I will drop some jeans and trainers in for him.

"Well would you like to do that anyway?" comes the response

"Oh yes, thank you- I think I will..." Yesterday was not my finest hour as a mother.

Back to today. 0818 hours and I text Significant Other; I miss him.

0828 and he calls; the day takes on a cosy glow. He hates me getting slushy like this, but you can't escape the truth. The day just got better.

0900 hours, I'm in the shower and about to launch Operation Housework. I take on this mission with much vigour because I now realise one simple and inescapable truth after some twenty-five years of cleaning, dusting, polishing, bleaching, washing and vacuuming:

The sooner you start, the sooner you finish and can therefore put the kettle on before watching Spooks on Sky Plus.

Rupert Penry-Jones, I am choked to discover, has been killed off in this series.

Seriously, what is wrong with the BBC??

Having said that, it is still great; we are fighting the Russians it appears this time. When did they become our arch enemies? I vow to start watching Newsnight more frequently. Maybe Sky Plus can help in this regard, assuming I don't sit and watch eighteen episodes back-to-back as I am prone to do with certain programmes.

1300 hours and it is time to shop.

Christmas shopping. It gets more onerous every year.

I recall emptying out my money box as a little girl and going with my Mum to buy soaps and bath salts for my aunties and socks and handkerchiefs for my uncles. I then smile to myself as I recall wrapping up a packet of Embassy No 1 for my Dad. Since he stopped smoking thirty-three years ago he has been impossible to buy for.

As I drive into Lincoln I pass some impressive Victorian terrace houses and as I sit in traffic I wonder (as I always do) about all the people that have lived in those houses over the years. I imagine how the road outside looked a hundred years ago.

These thought processes always put me in mind of the past life regression I had with my psychic friend Patricia a couple of years ago. I lived (allegedly) at the turn of the last century as one of four daughters in a reasonably wealthy family; I married a cold and rather cruel man. I lost countless children during pregnancy and childbirth and finally ended up dying in a house fire trying to rescue my one true friend, our housekeeper. Happy times.

Then I was reborn shortly after; apparently you come back very quickly if you die in unresolved and/or tragic circumstances.

This time I recalled a band in playing and I was dressed in a red satin dress, dancing with a man who I knew was my husband. We were laughing and I remember saying this was the happiest time we had together. The happiest because the war started shortly after and he was killed; I was pregnant with our daughter at the time.

You see what I mean about my thought processes? Leave me sat outside some Victorian houses for too long and this is the speed at which they travel.

1500 hours and the Christmas shopping has started, and now it needs to finish. The one selfish redeeming factor is that I have purchased the most beautiful red croc skin notebook pour moi; I intend it to be "my book of ideas". Heaven forbid it falls into the wrong hands...

I call my auntie who I have agreed to meet in the Bail for a drink late afternoon. We agree to meet in the Cloud Bar in half an hour after I have battled to find a parking space (the Bail in Lincoln is the beautiful and historic part of the city, it is the part the tourists rightly flock to every year and it is notoriously difficult to park there on a Saturday.....)

I then go on to spend a very enjoyable hour and a half with my auntie and uncle who I haven't seen in a good three months.

My auntie, I should mention, was my heroine as a little girl. I remember her as being very glamorous and loving; I adored her and still do. Being four years younger than my Dad she always seemed so vibrant and trendy. To be truthful she still is.

This year saw my uncle being diagnosed with bowel cancer. Thankfully it was caught at a very early stage and he has been given the "all clear" following a lengthy operation. It has clearly changed his outlook on life in every possible sense, a point that he made several times this afternoon.

He talked about what was important to him now, and the realisation of his mortality coupled with the effect that the operation and his advancing years have had in terms of what he can and can't do. His words were those of a man who has come full circle in life and is now back at the point where it all makes sense again.

These are the moments when I give thanks for being a member of my family, and I mark them down as "special". I know life doesn't stand still, but I am grateful to have reached an age where I am lucky enough to still be able to appreciate those I love because most of them are still with me, or at least have not long since passed.

1630 hours and I'm driving home, via Waitrose to pick up something indulgent for supper. Maybe it's the dark nights but suddenly I'm walloped fairly and squarely by the fact that I am really missing Significant Other....

The good thing here is that it isn't a constant mooning around, painfully ticking days off a calendar until he is home. No, it isn't that, although a keen eye is always on the number of days left...

It is a short, sharp and acute realisation that strikes without notice and regard; it's a message to remind me that he isn't here and I am. And I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt on a level that equates most definitely to where my heart lies.

1730 hours and I'm home; shopping unpacked and either refrigerated or laid away for later. I uncork the wine, pour a large glass and settle down to write this post.

1744 hours and my phone rings; it's him.

"I wanted to let you know that it's snowing here; the first snow of the year...."

What makes this so perfect is that he knows this is the sort of detail I appreciate.

The sails of the windmill are turning again, and this time I don't think I've been here before.

Take me to the banya.......and colour me senseless

2008-11-11T17:18:00.014Z

There are countless differences between men and women, I am sure you will agree.

Now I have no wish to go into detail on those differences, except for the one; the ability to keep your mind focused in an alternative direction when......it starts to be a long time since you coloured with your special friend (I'm back to Sex and the City here.....the Movie, to be exact).

A man, I am told, will automatically think about colouring; it is part of their make-up to want to colour after a certain number of days. So they will go off and colour on their own somewhere, assuming their special friend is not available to colour with them. Apparently some are so keen to colour that they will even choose to not go for an early morning run, preferring to stay in bed and knock out some nifty artwork on their lonesome.

A woman, however, can simply switch off from colouring until such time as her special friend is available to create another masterpiece.

I am one such woman. In years gone by I have not so much as even glanced in the direction of the crayola for many a month, perhaps even years in some instances (please don't feel too sorry for me, I have been very liberal of late with my use of watercolours...)

That is all well and good, until the time someone describes, in very fine and perfect detail, what a "banya" is. And the reason they tell you is because that is where they are headed to shortly. Mmm.

In the interest of providing an accurate account I just typed the term into Google and found that the "Banya is a traditional Russian steam bath, where people go to wash, relax, and socialize". The one that receives much acclaim according to the web is Sandunovskie Banya in Moscow, which I have to say looks breathtakingly beautiful.

So, back to said description; this is the information I was given:

"I'm going to a banya, men only, getting severely hot, severely cold, beaten with eucalyptus twigs, then a massage, you get the smell of eucalyptus, plus all the toxins come to the surface and then cold, then hot, tea with honey the whole way through, then they cover you in honey head to toe, and you sauna the lot off.

OK, I must go, sleep well x"

Well...... thank you for that; I now have so many images dancing around in my head, men in a banya (which sounds like the best reason I've heard in a long time to get a visa sorted and head to Moscow), eucalyptus twigs, beatings, honey and saunas. Sleep well? I somehow think that is unlikely.

That is the problem when you miss your special colouring friend. A mere mention of the banya and suddenly the urge to get the pastels out is overwhelming.

And when you enjoy having supper, talking and laughing with your special friend, in addition to the oh-so-amazing colouring, you then miss them even more.

But the really great thing is this:

Soon he will be back. And we have, I can assure you, an infinite number of pictures left to create together......

The needs and the wants (and why we all just want to be rescued)

2008-11-10T05:51:00.012Z

Many moons ago and during what now seems like another lifetime, I underwent a huge number of training courses in preparation for and the development of my sales career. Some would teach you fact-finding techniques, others how to uncover client hot buttons but they all did one thing (along with ensuring you spent too long in the bar the night before with your colleagues…), they all talked about needs and wants.

Needs were the boring, had-to-do’s:

“I need to go to the dry cleaners”

“I need to pay the electricity bill”

“I need to stop talking drivel”

Wants, on the other hand, are much more interesting, and a little bit sexy in the notion of a demand being on the table:

“I want champagne, not 3 for 2 dodgy Spanish table wine”

“I want that pair of Manolo Blahniks, dammit”

“I want ice cubes sending to my room now!”

There’s a bit of the prima donna in the wants, but apparently and according to the very best sales training courses, it is the wants and not the needs that will cause a person (i.e. your prospect) to take action.

Of course, in my twenties and as a fresh-faced eager-to-please sales recruit, I took all this on board without question. Off I went into the blue commercial yonder, keen to do business and full of unbridled enthusiasm.

Some twenty years down the line and I realise that the sales techniques of yesteryear are still being applied sadly. How many times do I have to practically hang my phone up when someone calls to try and sell me advertising? It’s not a great feeling, I can assure you; cold calling to me was like the sales version of having a root canal. But it appears some companies are still stuck there right back in the eighties, refusing to use up-to-date and more subtle techniques to attract custom (another post, another day, methinks)

They clearly need to up date their methods, but they obviously don’t want to.

So, at the risk of pushing the envelope beyond what is an acceptable use of paper, I would hazard a guess that the old needs and wants theory may be a little frayed around the edges, too.

“Why so?” I hear you ask.

Why? Because I now realise that many of the things we tell ourselves we don’t need, we actually do. And most probably in spade-loads.

I’m thinking here about taking time to sit and clear your mind every day of the constant mayhem that rages through it and about promising yourself that once a week you will have half an hour of “you-downtime” to do whatever takes your fancy. And most of all, I’m talking of learning to accept a helping hand when you are mentally and emotionally spent.

We don’t actually “need” any of these things on paper, but I will stick my neck out here and say that because we’ve probably shunned them for so long, we both need and want them now.

There is, as my friend Natalie will tell you, an episode of Sex and the City to mirror every eventuality in a woman’s life (and possibly for many men, too).

The episode “Where There’s Smoke..” sees the four girls discussing over brunch (as they do…as all girls do…) why firemen seem to be the archetypal female fantasy.

The very pretty yet seemingly naïve Charlotte blurts out “because deep down women just want to be rescued”

The other three sit motionless for a moment, catching each others’ eyes in the uncomfortable and silent acknowledgment of the truth.

Now I’m not too sure about when that episode was filmed, but I’d take a stab at around eight years ago at least, and as ever, we've moved on and our needs and wants have moved with us. I don’t believe women want to be rescued anymore; I think we need to be.

Of course the real challenge for a man here is, as we know, being able to identify when to switch into “fireman mode” and to haul you over his shoulder.

As a dyed-in-the-wool sales person I would recommend uncovering the need, and the want won’t be too far behind.

Missed demeanours (and why faking it gets you into trouble)

2008-11-08T15:04:00.010Z

How many of us, I wonder, work so hard at crafting our public face that we neglect to acknowledge and pay attention to the private one? In "Change Your Life in Seven Days" Paul McKenna talks about how you will never find true happiness until you identify your true self and start living as that person, and how most of us spend our time and energies on the public persona.

Mr McKenna is, of course, a former DJ and he goes on to talk about how that, as his public self, he earned good money, always had a model girlfriend by his side but was totally miserable. We all know of his huge shift in direction and the success he has enjoyed since then; he is now, he maintains, his true self. This I can certify as being absolutely true, as a few months ago I met one of his former Radio One colleagues, Richard Skinner, and he described how in private Mr M would discuss hypnotherapy and other associated psychological phenomena. His true self was desperate to get out and be heard.

So I got to wondering earlier what that really means; is it purely in a professional sense, or a personal one? We all go to work to earn money, but how many of us feel energised and stimulated by our work? Some of my slightly cynical peers would say it isn't possible for everyone to pursue exactly the type of work they are cut out for, but maybe it isn't an issue for some, perhaps most?

My darling cousin Adam told me a short while ago that people were either "asleep" or "awake", i.e. we either accepted our lots in life, did not question and went about our daily business, or we did not accept our status quo, we strived for change and improvement and often we would go out on a limb to achieve it. I hasten to add he informed me I was in the latter category.....

So in terms of work and careers, I guess it depends on whether we are asleep or awake. I, being awake, opted to chuck in a well-paid job in sales to pursue a creative dream that pays next to nothing but fulfills me more than any astute closing technique ever did, along with the ensuing rewards. I hung the rationale at the time on the "new baby" peg, which actually was quite justified, given the fourteen hours I spent away from home each day.

In terms of personal faces, I can very quickly see how I have allowed my public face to fool everyone into thinking I'm independent to the point of occasional disinterest, with my mantra being "why let the truth get in the way of a good gag?"

To be fair, I am independent (good job, all things considered...) but I'd rather not be. Of course, years of such behaviour make it a hard habit to break, and when you do achieve a breakthrough to the other side, it can be very unsteadying.

And I do make jokes far more than I should, but it is, as I am sure everyone has worked out by now, a big fat defence mechanism designed to distract and disguise.

Amazingly I am still able to pull off this public persona given the headaches and pressures of the last few years, but the act is now starting to wear a bit thin to say the least.

Almost without question the reason for me penning a post of this nature is because something has happened or someone has said something that has demonstrated in no uncertain terms that the real, private me is far more fragile than the public me. Today is no exception.

I'm sure there is always an explanation as to why certain days are worse than others in this regard, and I'm positive that in my case it's a combination of hormones, planetary alignment and money (or the lack thereof). Today is one of those days.

To recall the event would be pointless, but needless to say it has led my nose back to Paul McKenna's book, and caused me to take a look at my own version of Frankenstein's monster.

Many have told me over the years that my main fault is that I refuse to let anyone see my vulnerability, counsellors and psychics among them. They are completely right. The problem therein is the "foot on the hosepipe" scenario. Take said foot off and, together with the predictable tears, a post like this comes spewing out......

Is it possible to change the habit of an adult lifetime? Some would say no, but it certainly pays to understand why you don't always get the reaction or result that, deep down, your true self is hoping for.

Now I need to go hug the real me, and make a promise to myself to stop faking it in future ;-)

A new day dawns, a new era beckons...

2008-11-05T11:45:00.008Z

I guess it is an integral part of the little girl in me that continues to believe that magic does happen. Of late it has been in short supply admittedly, and when I have pointed it out to my nearest and dearest I have been told on occasion that I am being overly sentimental and "slushy".

Well, they may be right, but I want to believe. And I do believe, because last night we all saw what many would have thought impossible a few years ago.

Given the climate I suppose many of us are clinging to any piece of driftwood that masquerades as hope that happens to float by, but somehow I think Barack Obama will make the change he speaks of.

He appears to have the capability to unite, inspire and uplift; experience can be brought in, but those former three qualities are not so easily come by.

There are many aspects of America that make me very uncomfortable; indeed when my good friend Jo relocated there four years ago with her family I found myself of the opinion that it would never do for me.

But I have to say that a nation that sees first time voters queuing for up to six hours to vote, and when they do vote, they make the groundbreaking decision to ensure that their 44th president is African-American, I am full of admiration and, if I'm honest, more than a little dejected because I can't imagine that it could happen in Britain.

I woke at around 5.15am this morning to Obama making his acceptance speech live on the radio. As his words started to make sense and I became fully alert, I felt the history of the moment that people have talked of. Later as I took my boy to school I listened to a girl in New York tell of how she helped an African-American lady of a hundred and one years of age to the polling station so that she could vote for Obama.

I don't mind admitting this event has moved me to tears several times today, and I'm not even American. But today I wish I was.

The BBC; all that is British? Debate.....

2008-11-04T12:25:00.004Z

No-one has been more defensive of the BBC over the years than me.

The odd slip made by a presenter you can forgive (except for when it is not edited out and subsequently is broadcast.....) and even the licence fee I could live with.

Admittedly certain episodes you can choose to overlook if you are of a humorous and light disposition; other times you really want to take far-reaching and explosive action to the point that people will hear the rumble of your ire approaching.

Take this morning. Weather is foggy and dismal. I am not in what I would describe a "positive" frame of mind for a number of persistent and niggling reasons, the details of which I will not bore you with. Needless to say it was not helped by driving my father to a market town some twenty-five miles away at 7.00am this morning to meet his retired chums for an "away day".

I turn on my CD player and it decides to jump all over the place; it is faulty and on my list of "things to replace/buy" when I have some of that rarest of commodities- disposable income.

So, for a change, I switch to Radio 2.

Radio 2. The Ken Bruce show.

I don't see myself as an avid fan, but I want relaxed, friendly banter and neutral music. It's foggy and cold outside, and I don't want anything taxing or controversial entering the vicinity of my ears.

There is no need to further explain what happened next, save for me to copy and paste in the complaint I have just sent to the BBC:

“I have just been listening to the Ken Bruce show in my car during which he made reference to the fact that "Lynne" was all "chav'ed up" and would "look at home in any branch of Lidl". This was broadcast at around 11.15am.

Let me explain to you while I find that comment so offensive.

I am a divorced single mother who is desperately trying to keep her business afloat in very difficult trading conditions. Coupled with these challenges I frequently lay awake at night and wonder how I will meet my mortgage payments and if I don't, will my house and my son's future inheritance be snatched from me without consultation. I am certain many people are in similar situations to me.

Given the financial pressures I find myself frequently shopping in Lidl.

I wonder, by Mr Bruce's rationale, does this make me a "chav" and a subject of ridicule?

Given the recent debacle your organisation has faced with the Jonathan Ross/ Russell Brand fiasco, I find it incredible that your presenters are making off-the-cuff comments like this with no regard to the difficulties so many people are facing.

Let me assure you of one thing, there is nothing "Council House And Violent" about me; I write a blog that receives much critical acclaim and I am confident I will see myself and my son out of our current situation. I should inform you, however, that I may still continue to shop from time to time in Lidl. How dreadful.

I can see a prompt below this text box asking me if I want a response; you can bet your licence fee I do.

Please e-mail me at ****@*****.com with an explanation of why you think the above is acceptable practice.”

Apparently the planets are aligned at the moment to signify huge changes on the horizon over the coming years, and today is a seismic day in being a catalyst for these changes.

Of course, everyone is pointing to the US election and the possibility of the first black president.

I for one am keeping everything crossed, because seismic or not, we need change and it can't come soon enough for me.

Quantum of Solace and other such spells...

2008-10-31T16:31:00.009Z

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.

Unfaithfulness, pt. 2...

2008-10-29T05:48:00.022Z

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? ;-)

Unfaithfulness, friendship and choices

2008-10-28T08:12:00.006Z

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.

City lights on country lanes...

2008-10-24T20:41:00.009+01:00

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.

My secret self by the other me...

2008-10-21T18:14:00.008+01:00

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.

The Promise

2008-10-19T08:06:00.011+01:00

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

2008-10-18T14:29:00.007+01:00

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

2008-10-13T16:15:00.012+01:00

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?

2008-10-11T14:21:00.009+01:00

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...

2008-10-10T13:05:00.005+01:00

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...

2008-10-09T17:31:00.009+01:00

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.......

2008-10-04T18:24:00.007+01:00

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.

And what I'd do to make him mine...

2008-09-29T17:03:00.016+01:00

OK, I sort of cribbed the title from Burt Bacharach, and certain lines of that song go to the extreme ('my hands are shaking, don't let my heart be breaking, I need your love, I want your love...') but somehow when Dusty Springfield belts it out it seems perfectly reasonable. Not over-the-top at all. If not, she'll just die.....It's as simple as that.

When I started this journal of the inner machinations of my sometimes overactive mind it was never intended for general public consumption, which I am aware, is not obvious given that I published on the world wide web. But I did think it would sit snugly in an outer recess somewhere, gather a bit of cyber dust and disappear eventually into a search engines' skip for scrap.

I did not at any point consider the fact that Duz may read and inwardly digest the contents. It was not created due to a desire to plaster my feelings all over a screen for him to view in glorious technicolour. No, sir; that was most definitely not on the agenda.

So, I shall paint the picture.

I had a buoyant weekend, not in the nautical sense but owing to my elevated mood following a lengthy conversation with a journalist from the Sunday Times Style magazine on Friday afternoon. I am, by all accounts, newsworthy. Someone with a story to tell. Someone the great British public may be interested in. That said, given the level of achievement of many nouveau celebrities, it's not exactly a demanding standard to meet these days....

Bobbing about in buoyant fashion, I sent Duz a text message asking him how he felt about being famous. Naturally I'm expecting a surge of interest from the nationals sometime very soon, and being at the epicentre of the saga, he needed to be alerted to the fact that he may need to quickly learn the necessary techniques to dodge and fool the paparazzi. That's not even mentioning the hoards of mail he'll be getting asking, nay telling him to re-engage with his senses, hunt me down and to pull me to his manly chest in the manner of a latter-day Rhett Butler.

Of course, the message came back "I'd like to read it".

OK.

What now?

I had not bargained for this. A few friends reading it? Yes, and their ensuing messages of support were all welcomed.

Duz reading it? No. Not this side of this millennium, or the next, for that matter.

Then I was reminded of something a friend said a short while ago, "you can't say the wrong thing to the right person" Very insightful, and loaded with wisdom. Of course you can't; the right person will take it on board. Right?

I message him back "OK- here goes......" and the web link.

Silence.

More silence.

Then a bit more silence.

Actually, it was ten minutes to be fair, but you know how long those darned minutes can be at times.....

And then it came........"The best thing I've read in a long time x"

We talked a lot yesterday about everything that alludes to "us". We talked until 2am, which I don't really do these days, except at times of extreme longing and with a heart fit to burst.

Is he now adopting a more positive approach? Well, when asked "Are you going to make sure this has a happy ending?", he responded with "We can only hope...."

Oh come on Duz.... step up to the mark....this girl's in love with you (thanks again, Burt) Gotta love those lyrics....and you gotta love a man who doesn't mind you showing the world his bruises.

Credit Crunch Chaos

2008-09-28T09:27:00.004+01:00

Frequently I will read the papers and at some point (sometimes at several points, in truth) I will shake my head in disbelief at what I'm reading. Perhaps a celebrity has just had her eighteenth boob job or a Big Brother housemate has been promised a book deal to write his autobiography when he's evicted...

But this morning there is one story on the front page of the Mail on Sunday that defies belief.

A city banker, aged 47, threw himself in front of a train yesterday at Taplow in Berkshire because of the mounting pressures he was facing due to the credit crunch. He leaves behind a wife and an 8 year old son.

I don't need to write very much on this topic because the facts very clearly speak for themselves.

What sort of world have we crafted? I expect his son will ask the same question one day.

The Father-Daughter Thing...

2008-09-26T17:54:00.008+01:00

It was recently pointed out to me by Adrian that I am all but a little girl deep down inside.

I need constant strokes, I need to be to be praised and if I don't get either of these things, I quickly gravitate towards a sharp decline.

It all stems from the relationship I had with my father as a little girl.

I was studious and rather serious little girl who loved to escape into a land of make-believe. Short in the self-confidence stakes, I made up for it by working hard at school in a desperate attempt to make my Dad proud of me.

My Dad. He was to me the most wonderful man that could possibly have ever walked the earth. Everything he said was somehow gilded with brilliance, I adored him. It seemed my raison d'etre was to make him proud of me or perhaps in retrospect, to hear him tell me how proud of me he was.

There's a line in the film Dirty Dancing where Baby talks about every girl wanting to meet a man who made her feel as special as her Dad did. For me that was never going to be possible because no man would ever do that. He was the most unique and special of men; he was my Dad.

Of course it wasn't until I got into my thirties that I realised that cracking a half-way decent gag would get you through most trials in life. Being studious was rather hard-going compared to piling on the lip gloss and propelling yourself into the middle of the room as the life-and-soul...

But some things stay with you. The need to impress, the need to have someone pat you on the head and tell you how brilliant, how creative, how funny you are.

In my marriages I was never made to feel that special because it became a competition all to quickly. I was projecting myself as the capable independent woman, they were busy at being the alpha male. I was screaming "look at me! See how capable and fabulous I am! Love me more because of it!" Not what your typical alpha male is hoping for; it's hard to bring anything to the table that a would-be Superwoman might be even vaguely interested in.

See how this happens? The little shy girl who only wanted her daddy's attention became so driven that she managed to become the one thing men don't want if they are absolutely honest; a woman who doesn't "need" them.

In many ways I have to thank him, my Dad. How else would I have coped all these years?

Bizarrely my Mum worries herself to sleep at night that life will eventually get the better of me unless a man steps in to save the day. She seriously underestimates the effect a constant desire for paternal approval has on a girl in the long-term.

Today I see my Dad for who he is; a man with faults like the rest of us, but a rather remarkable person all the same.

He is older, greyer and he tires easily, but that never stops him from loading his petrol-driven lawnmower into the back of his car on the hottest of days and driving round to cut my rather substantial lawn. He asks with remarkable regularity how my business is performing, have I "got much on"? And my son looks at him with the same adoring gaze that I had all those years ago.

You can't beat the father-daughter thing; it's unbreakable.

Seeing is believing...

2008-09-23T12:13:00.009+01:00

I've always thought that the time comes to celebrate our mistakes in life; often our mistakes are what lead us to our destiny. This undoubtedly is only apparent during the later acts, but we can see how critical moments and events that we thought were earth-shatteringly awful at the time actually come to steer us in the direction that we need to go.

Last night I met with Duz for the first time since "the split", "the split" being my rather dramatic e-mail to him of a few weeks ago entitled "closure". He rather interestingly drew attention to my love of all things drama-laden by saying I had actually penned "closure!" I pointed out that the word "closure" needs no exclamation mark; the mere sight of the word would strike fear into the bravest of men. He fell silent. Motion carried.

Break-up assessment meetings are by nature the most volatile of beasts. You agree to turn up hoping that your partner's agenda and motives will be broadly similar to your own. Indeed, why else would you both be there? Why take time out to discuss at length something that was ebbing away silently without you both deciding to prod and poke, unless you think there may be life left there after all...

And so I sat and waited for him to arrive. He is not the sort to take time out, to drive over on the eve of most probably losing his licence (101mph on the motorway.....court tomorrow) unless there are matters of great significance to discuss.

I was right. I usually am, but rarely for the reasons I thought I would be.

My opening gambit in any type of "drains up" discussion is always "so, what happened here?" It is masterful in it's simplicity. It implies a yearning desire to get to the root of the calamity, it resonates with importance and it sounds vaguely like it was uttered on Hill Street Blues, which is undoubtedly why I've retained it for regular usage.

He shook his head, closed his eyes. "I'm not sure. I know only part of it". Time to outline that part, I think.

To say I was in shock following his account would be totally inadequate. He cited all the feelings, all the thoughts and all the fears I had experienced during my time with him.

It was as if he had reached inside my mind and stolen my thoughts, my fears, my paranoid tendencies. How can we mirror fear like that in relationships? How did I not see it happening? Because we never acknowledged it.

We never verbalised any of it at the time that it really mattered, before it was possibly too late. I tried to point out to him that the last time we met I had driven over to see him in a last-ditch attempt to resuscitate what we had. I reminded him of a glib comment he made, "don't give up the the tenancy on your house anytime soon". He couldn't remember saying it, but I remember the hurt it generated all too well.

He described me last night as "cool, together, guarded". Of course, this is an alien concept to me as I sit and type this post, but I know that is the image I have strived so hard to craft over the years. Never the push-over, a resilient survivor who barely feels hurt at times of relationship crisis. A victim of my own success, it seems; I actually managed to fool someone who was meant to see past that persona.

We stayed up til late talking. He needs time to get his head around what was said as he had come to terms with the fact that it was all over, that I had moved on (I play my part to perfection, it seems)

Duz looked very fragile and strangely smaller last night. And vulnerable too; that most attractive of qualities when displayed in the right amount and at the right time.

The waiting line beckons, I think.

relationships

How to not get over your ex and annoy your friends..pt 1

2008-09-18T13:49:00.003+01:00

So much for hard words and the beating of my chest in fierce condemnation of anything that related to him. So much for parading around like some latter day version of Boadicea, laughing at the mere mention of his name.

There must have been some potent planetary alignment going on yesterday because I woke feeling that the day would see events unfold that would take me on to the next chapter (or perhaps back to the previous one, depending on your viewpoint)

I decided mid afternoon that his actions needed to be answered for; he needed to account for his appalling conduct. Simply "losing motivation" in a relationship that showed such promised made no sense; explanations were in order. Me slinking off into the shadows was letting him off the hook.

To be fair, it would not be the first time this has happened. Very early on in our relationship (I'm talking days rather than months in..) I was alerted to the fact that he was still fishing around on a dating website. He was caught red-handed and held his hands up straight away. I was hurt, but certain friends counselled that really it was too early to expect exclusivity. Maybe it was me rushing the process?

We agreed a few days later to see each other. He came to pick me up and, having not even pulled away from the top of my road and in a very contrite and humble fashion, he stopped the car, took my hand, looked at me and said "I've been an idiot. Please forgive me." I asked him to never hurt me like that again; he agreed he would not.

We later picked over the bones of what had happened. He threw a few comments in like "I don't know why I do this" and "I'm a mess". A better person than me would have heard the alarm bells ringing at this stage, but not me. I admired his honesty and the fact that he had laid himself at my feet, asking for mercy. I felt all-powerful. The notion that he had tried to sabotage our relationship because he sensed that it was potentially bigger than anything he had witnessed gave me a sense of smugness. Perhaps a warped kind of smugness, in retrospect.

So, this time we had moved a fair way down the road and it was altogether a more complex and dour scenario that faced me. But I remembered that boyish pleading in his eyes from before.

I sent him a text message at 16.53hrs saying simply "we need to talk". The first communication in 10 days. Within 3 minutes he phoned me; this was game on.

In the meantime I spoke to Adrian, Natalie and Sue, all of whom offered very different advice...

Adrian- "Make a list of all his wrongs, coldly communicate them to him, then ask him what he intends to do to put it right. Then walk away"

Natalie- "I don't even know why you are giving this guy headroom. Forget him. Don't even waste oxygen speaking to the low life"

Sue- "Oh honey, I know how much he meant to you. Talk to him but take care of yourself emotionally"

What does a girl do? I need clarity and certainty, but what I'm getting is mixed messages because that's what I'm giving out....

He called later. I start off very curt. I don't want to discuss this on the phone, he is cagey about when he's going to be back in the country. He asks me to tell him what it's about, I give him the outline, but nicely and with the venom removed. He says he thinks Monday would be a good day; Tuesday he is in court for doing 101mph on the motorway, he thinks he will get a ban. We end the conversation by him jokingly asking me if I fancy being his chauffeur for a few weeks.

The man has no shame, and I fear that I have no common sense.
relationships

How to get over your ex, pt. one.......

2008-09-11T10:09:00.003+01:00

The thing that has always astounded me when I've broken up with someone is how I veer from spewing venom at the mere mention of his name one moment to sending semi-optimistic texts the next in the hope that he will respond with a message that says "I'm the most stupid man in world; forgive me....take me back, I beg you..."

That was where I found myself, fairly and squarely, a few days ago. I had been in regular contact with my friend Adrian, who happened to be in a fairly similar situation with his lady. We were propping each other up emotionally as friends do, providing much needed validation to each other, a critically important service to offer your friends at their darkest relationship hour.

Although I kind of despised Duz for how he had treated me, i.e. with Disdain (note the all-telling capital D), there was a part of me that was desperate to hear from him and to pick up where we left off (albeit picking up in a fairly remote wasteland of relationship backdrop).

I missed him, I missed his voice, I missed seeing his name flash up on my phone, I missed not talking to my friends about him in glowing terms. What we had was now just smoking embers; it was finished. And I was hurting.

Under normal circumstances, and had I been still in Berkshire, I would have hit the town with my girls. We would have consumed ridiculous amounts of alcohol and almost certainly made fools of ourselves with boys who would have labelled us "Mrs Robinson" in later years. I would have woken the next day with a monumental hangover, yet still smiling at the previous evening's antics. Possibly the girls would have exchanged text messages congratulating each other on surpassing ourselves in terms of our outraged-ness.

And then in the cold light of the afternoon, I would have realised that nothing had actually changed. I was still alone, and to cap it all, I was probably about a hundred quid lighter.

That was then, this is now.

During one of our chats that possibly started with me pleading with Adrian to help me get out of my Duz-induced hangover, he said simply "write a list".

"A list of what?" I cautiously enquire.

"A list of all his qualities/faults that, in a perfect world, you would not choose in a partner. And then keep it to hand to read at the time you feel yourself faltering"

Hmmm. Interesting concept, I thought. Interesting in that I knew there were a few things that I had chosen to ignore (as you do when you fancy someone rotten)

So I set about writing my list. Cup of coffee, comfortable chair and a slight feeling of concern that there may not be that many things on the final list that would serve to strengthen my resolve at my hour of need.

I need not have worried. My pen almost took on a life of it's own.

I stopped, as a mark of respect to the brief relationship I had enjoyed.......perhaps that should have been "endured" having read the list.

Since then I have not felt one split-second of desire to contact him; the thought of seeing his name flash on my phone has a lesser affect. I mean, when all is said and done, making quips about my height may not be that bad, but couple it with his tendency to ignore me for days on end, well that simply becomes a deal-breaker.

I believe I may well have laid his memory to rest, thanks to Adrian's list.

relationships

The Joy and Pain of Being a Mother...

2008-09-03T18:18:00.002+01:00

I always felt from the moment I found out I was pregnant with Ben that motherhood was going to be a series of "letting go" moments.

The thought of being pregnant had always horrified me; being so huge that you had to hoist yourself in and out of a car and, horror of horrors, wear elasticated waist maternity clothes...well, it simply did not bear thinking about. In fact, the reality for me was that I loved every minute (well, every minute after week 13 when I lost the constant nauseous feeling that followed me everywhere I turned).

The bigger I got, the more I loved it. I was subconsciously screaming out to the world "look at me! I am hugely pregnant with child! Spell my name W-O-M-A-N".

It occurred to me at around month seven that I was loving the fact that it was just me and this little tiny being inside of me. I was his everything; I was giving him life. We were joined in every sense possible. Nothing prepared me for the experience of creating another human being.

I commented to my mother towards the end of my pregnancy that I loved the fact that whilst I was pregnant, it was just me and the baby. Once that cord was cut and he was here, I was losing part of him.

And that is how it has continued. Today he started school for the very first time.

He looked resplendent in his tiny uniform; grey pressed trousers, pale blue polo shirt, smart polished black shoes. My boy. Ready to take on the next big adventure in life.

I fully expected that I would shed a bucket full of tears at the moment that I left him with Miss Cook, his new teacher, but there were none.

After four and a half worrying yet blissful years I realise it is a mother's lot to prepare her child as best she can, and then let him go.

However, sat here with my glass of Rioja, I can feel those postponed tears welling up.

Here's to my magnificent boy.

Horror Haircuts.....

2008-09-02T16:32:00.001+01:00

My boy starts at a real life, proper school tomorrow; how can a mother bear it?

One minute the midwife is passing me him, he is still slightly blue around the gills and he is peering at me with these pleading little dark eyes that say "your life changes beyond measure from this point on", and the next minute I'm preparing to hand him over at the school gate, all the while holding back the tears. From angelic newborn to cheeky schoolboy with too much attitude in the blink of an eye; how can that be fair?

So, last afternoon before school starts; it has to be time to visit the hairdresser.

I decide I'm not trailing into Lincoln to the traditional (yet excellent) Salvatore gent's hairdressers; the 20 mile round trip seems a tad pointless. I grab the yellow pages and decide a trip to Market Rasen, the local market (obviously) town has to yield a half-way decent hairdresser.... I opt for Top Notch Unisex Hairdressers on the High Street. Unisex has to be reasonably OK, right......?

We turn up and I feel that at some point on the A46 into Market Rasen, we have been caught in a time suction vacuum that has catapulted us right back to 1958.

The salon is run by two ladies of...advanced years. Their (one) client is sat with a digestive, sipping a mug of tea with her perm rollers in (on her head, clearly not in the mug of tea...)

Ben takes a seat, I'm now wondering was this a great idea? Of course, it'll be fine- his hair grows really quickly....

It was all fine until she started asking him to keep still because she didn't want to cut his ear off... Don't they train hairdressers how to not cut kid's ears off???? Is this not a technique they learn on day one? Or was she so old when she trained that cutting kid's ears off was seen as an unavoidable hazard?

At this point she has cut way too much hair off, it is looking decidedly wonky but, as he still has both his ears, I look to my watch and say "goodness! We need to be off; that'll be fine, thank you- how much???"

We bolt from said shop and then are ping'd straight back into 2008 when we enter an eco-friendly health food shop run by a ruggedly attractive tall man who knows everything there is to know about local alternative therapists, it seems. He says the number for the Thai masseuse is at home.....he will call me later if I leave my number.

I leave it with him and pay an extortionate amount for a breakfast energy shake for vegetarians.

Well, it can't hurt...can it?

You can take a girl out of Berkshire.....

2008-09-01T05:13:00.001+01:00

You know, here's the really strange thing; I was born in Lincoln, I have family here, I have visited the place many, many times over the years. Lincoln, to me, is akin to a comfort blanket; always there, familiar in a safe kind of way.

So you would think that when we moved back here a few months ago I would take to the place as you would if you had a catch-up drink with your first love. I was expecting warm, safe and inviting; after all, it's my home town....

What I find in fact, is that the city (yes, city....not many people know that, apart from those who live here) has changed almost beyond recognition. Gone is the slightly tired looking city centre, replaced by quaint eatery, coffee-bar and nail bar laden boulevards and walkways. This is Lincoln 2008; no more a depressed Northern backwater; it easily struts it's way into any self-respecting tourist brochure.

And that's the thing; I feel the brochure doesn't quite match expectation. You know how people say that no matter how much you love a holiday destination, living there 24/7 is a different kettle of fish? Actually, I feel I should point out at this juncture that I'm not aligning Lincoln with Bermuda; there are some things even the most skilled town planners cannot achieve.

I guess the real crux of the matter is that the people have not welcomed me open arms (which I suppose is not the fault of the smart boulevards and walkways). Most are friendly enough on the face of it, but don't expect being invited into the inner sanctum of their social lives within 5 years of meeting them. Perhaps I have relocated from a highly social part of the country, where networking both on a social and business level, was done automatically, and that has not made it's way this far north yet...

Let me quote an example (a fairly extreme one, granted): a couple of weeks ago I had a very painful upper back so set about scouring yell.com for a local beauty salon that could administer a much needed back massage. I found one only a couple of miles away, located at what seemed to be a residential address.

I make the call, a fairly brusque man answers with "Geoff Burnett", I stutter "oh, sorry, I thought I was calling Xanadu..."

"She's here, hang on".......phone clunks onto the table, muttered voices in background.

Then said "she" comes onto the line "hello?"

I, as my polite self, explain that I am looking for a local salon where I can get a massage; is this something that is offered at Xanadu?

"No"

"Oh.......I see........well......thanks for your help......"

Click.

I am left, phone in hand, ever-so-slightly bemused.

Now....forgive me. I don't think, although I will happily be corrected, that a make-shift salon in someones dining room in a village north of Lincoln is so overrun with appointments from A, B and C list celebs that it can afford to alienate a potential customer with a real skill for knotting her back and shoulders up like me?? Or perhaps she thought I was an undercover reporter, or perhaps someone from environmental health?

Part of me wants to call back and ask precisely what it is that Xanadu offers, as it clearly must be extraordinarily good to override an attitude akin to one of Hitler's generals.

The other part of me will just limp on, sore shoulders and all as I swallow another ibuprofen, lamenting the days when I could make a call and be on the therapists' couch within an hour...

And, she's back (finally)

2008-08-10T17:26:00.002+01:00

You can level many accusations at me (no, really, you can); I'm self-opinionated (and who can blame me?), I'm kind of selfish, I don't suffer fools gladly and I am useless until around 15 minutes after my tea in the morning. But the one thing I've always had going in my favour is this:

I never stay down for long.

Admittedly, when I'm down, I'm not just "down", I'm in the very depths of whatever is several layers underneath "despair". I look for answers everywhere, usually in the form of psychic phenomena and tarot readings, that's not to say I don't believe, but they seem to be rather unnervingly my source of information during my darkest hours.

Recently I sought the advice regarding my recent man (or "Duz" as I questionably christened him) from two renowned psychics. The first, a good friend, one could argue was maybe a little too much in the know, and I have to say (sorry, P....) her advice was the advice a friend would give, i.e. "go out and have a good time, let him get on with it". The second said unequivocally he was not right for me; I am at a time in my life when the only demons I should be worrying about were my own. I had too much going for me, apparently.

Both may be right in their own way. One slightly less forthright than the other, but both had an air of sense about them. I felt strengthened and resolved to follow their advice.

11.30pm Friday evening, phone beeps. It's him. Text to say he's back in the country and heading home (has been away on business in Europe). I make a staggeringly insightful comment back via text on the political situation in Russia/Georgia; he's clearly not interested and only wants to let me know he will be whizzing past my door at around 1.30am.

Aaaah. All clear. What do I do? He's not right for me, he needs far too much time to consider the commitment process, he has all these demons, doesn't he? Yet I wonder if the demons would mind just sleeping outside in the car, just for tonight?

He left at midday yesterday, and I should (by now) be filled with doubts and angst as to whether I will see him tonight. But.....nothing. I actually don't want to see him, well, not tonight in any event.

Or maybe this was simply a case of me getting used to the arrangement.

He did call yesterday teatime to make a few disparaging comments that the pain I was complaining about in my big toe was probably gout and to make reference to the fact that my stature is, well, diminutive (he is 6'3" and thinks anything below 5'10" is positively "dwarf-like")

Well, the toe feels better today, and I like my diminutive-ness; it never did Kylie or Madonna any harm as far as I can see. And as I pointed out to him last night, he can barely cope with 5'3" of me, so he should count his blessings.

Of course, when questioned on his need to take several verbal pops at me during said phone call, he told me rather predictably that it was "affectionate teasing". I told him that the only affectionate teasing I was interested in wasn't of the verbal variety.

Game to me, I think.

I'm home; thank goodness. Sense restored, "needy clingy-ness" banished. For now.

relationships

Mars and Venus??

2008-08-07T10:58:00.002+01:00

Who has read 'Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus'?

OK, let me rephrase that; who has read it and suddenly thought "Eureka! Now my relationship will be sooo much easier, now that I understand how to relate to him/her?"

Well, I read it, I understand it, I accept it, and I am now seriously considering giving up altogether on the opposite sex! How can I alter the habits of a lifetime (needing to communicate, needing some form of reassurance, etc) to take account of how a man might be feeling, going through, etc?

How can that work? Is it Venusians who need to change (see how readily I adopt the lingo....) or do the Martians need to climb down from their stubborn steeds and do a bit of meeting on the half-way line?

My Martian is a dyed-in-the-wool, "take me as you find me" kinda guy; you've got to love his consistency (well......maybe not) and I honestly think he can't, shan't, won't change, even if he wanted to. Caving is what he does, it's an inherent part of the man.

I, on the other hand, vivacious, bubbly and ready to explore the furthest reaches of this adventure called life, to seize it by the scruff of it's elusive neck and wring every last drop of experience until there is no more, find his current state of being........well, alien. And totally Martian-like.

Maybe there is something in it after all.

Are we programmed to make to the same mistakes in our relationships, or does one need to back down for the other to be happy?

relationships

Just when you thought...

2008-07-27T15:06:00.000+01:00

...something happens to suggest you were wrong, right?

Now I'm usually one positive, "up and at 'em" kind of girl, but lately I've been wondering if my life really is a merry-go-round, full of incidents but recurring ones, the type that give you a feeling of deja-vu?

No point in sugaring the pill here, chaps; I'm talking relationships. Those of the man-woman variety, those that look very nice on the packet but you can never get them to look like that in real life...

Following my recent Berkshire-Lincolnshire shift (from the former to the latter) I met a local man who rather surprisingly, ticked all my boxes and a few more. I say surprisingly because I never thought meeting a man of business, of my age (ish), with experience of children and who had been out of a prior marriage (and over it) for some time would be easy here- I have to say it was well nigh impossible in Berkshire, and that was with a higher head count per square mile.

He (let's call him Duz....I initially called him Big after Big in Sex and the City- no imagination....Duz is short for Duzi, which is Polish for big- there, still no imagination) is all these things and more, has an air of assured confidence about him with a touch of gravitas and presence. Very nice, and all without asking for it- I felt like I had stumbled across 6 numbers on a Saturday night.

So, it's going swimmingly well, save for the fact that.......I cannot just let things happen in their own time. I seem to want everything now, I want his unequivocal declaration of his undying love for me signed in blood along with our place in the history books reserved as the happiest couple that ever lived. But not always....hereby hangs the issue:

When we are together, I need no such assurance. I am just happy.
I am also happy shortly after we've parted.
A day or two later I'm looking for problems..."why has he not called....." etc, etc
Anytime after that I've convinced myself he is a waste of time and I should do myself a favour and get out now.

Which is a problem only if he is not attentive. I really hate admitting all this because it makes me sound needy and clingy, two labels I have tried to avoid my whole life.

So, do I weather the storm and hope that I can hold my tongue long enough for him to see all he needs to see before making a firm offer to commit? Or do I bow out?? I'm reasonably sure that men and women are such different creatures that it would be futile to think that I'm going to find all I'm looking for in the shape of just one man, so maybe I just need to be the one who commits. The one who commits to trying to do things differently this time, to taking some time out, to slow the pace down a bit.

Just when you thought you were ready to stand down, you realise actually you need to step up, and up to the mark this time.

Scrambling, Not Climbing....

2008-06-28T13:15:00.000+01:00

Can I be the only woman of a certain age who goes out into the world, full of excitement at the possibilities lurking round every corner, only to feel an abject failure following my attempts to turn my life into something that looks vaguely normal, something that my parents will approve of?

Being the single mother of a four year old brings a level of responsibility, duty and scheduled phone calls from the father (sadly) to periodically shout at each other; it is the best and the hardest of jobs. Ben (said four year old) is a flawless diamond in an array of paste jewellery; his laughter and his incessant questions never cease, he is, unwittingly, my rock.

I remain steadfast in the knowledge that I will get back on top, it is merely taking longer than I anticipated and it is throwing me a few curved balls I'd not expected. It is showing me that there are two types of men- the ones who cannot fathom their own feelings, that unknowingly have deep-rooted issues that colour their everyday existence and that say everything is fine with such conviction that they too think it is true........and the ones who are gay.

So, in an attempt to get back on top I occasionally loose my footing and scramble to get there, rather than maintain an altogether more dignified pose as I ascend to the peak.

"Rambling, not scrambling" I can hear you mutter. And you'd be right. The reason for my malaise is lack of sleep, a list of unsatisfactory attempts at relationships and a lack of money (yes- the last one shows lack of depth and fibre.....but I am what I am and I like my pedicures and lip gloss ;-) ).

I am about to lay myself bare, to launch my history into cyberspace for judgement and to gratefully accept any morsels of advice or observation that will help me make sense of it all.

The unparalleled Carrie Bradshaw commented "“Maybe our mistakes are what make our fate"; maybe my mistakes are my paradox- excruciatingly painful and embarrassing, and yet comforting in that I was brave enough to pick myself up after making them.

People say "you only get one life". Seriously, how many would any sane person want?!