Online Dating and The Fajita Wrap.

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I don’t go on it.Then I do. Then I ignore it. Then I don’t. I hate it. But I still try it out – incase I’m about to miss someone spectacular. I’ve been ‘offline’ for almost a week, then I open up to a private message centered around the fajita wrap. He’s just an ordinary guy, trying to find a connection. How the hell is he supposed to know that the fact he likes the fajita wrap compels me to do an illustration about disappointment. I’m so easily put off.  I sign out. again. Maybe next time.

Feel free to comment on one small thing that would put you off (Another one of mine is square toed office shoes)

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The Everyday Worry Explained

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Our Children Are Meeting Your New ‘Friend’ Today.

my thoughts on your new relationship

It Doesn’t matter that you have met someone new.                                                                         It is of no importance that I have not.                                                                                             It doesn’t matter what she thinks of me, what you think of her.                                                 It doesn’t matter what you say about me.                                                                                       She is 17 years younger than me. That doesn’t matter either.                                                     It doesn’t matter that one day you may start a family of your own.                                         It doesn’t matter that you spend money taking her places and that you didn’t do that for   me.                                                                                                                                                           It doesn’t matter that right now the 4 of you meeting today. That you are playing football on the park in the sun together.

It doesn’t matter. Not really.

So why do all these thoughts feel like they have been written on a post-it note, and screwed up and put down my throat. Lodged halfway down, dry and spiked.

 

 

 

 

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The First Family Holiday Without Him

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It was 1 year and 6 days ago when I decided to leave. He had been so bad that I was trembling.  Small, tiny, but resonating right through me like a hum. Right down to my cells. I still do tremble like that sometimes, and this morning is one of those times.

We aren’t going to the South of France any more. We need something new, without the old memories attached. I have the wetsuits, and warm clothes because we’re going to Scotland. Today I will cook and tidy and tonight we will be ready. Without him. 11 years of family holidays seem to flick through my thoughts, the way he went a lovely brown colour, the way they played in the sea together. The fan in the bedroom, whirring into the night to keep us cool. The change of scenery and how that made me feel like having sex more, because the laundry basket wasn’t anywhere near me, and because the sun and the heat and the light made me feel better.

I wonder how the kids are feeling. If they are thinking about it too, but I dont want to keep checking they’re OK because it feels like they want me to stop asking. So I will play some music, and carry on as normal, and take a deep breath and get on with it. We will go to Arran, with my friend and her kids and we will jump into the clear, icy cold waters and play and cook and walk in the rain, and I might not cry, even though there will be a space in the bed beside me, and even though I might still feel that humming tremble.

But at least I know what I have to deal with. No more nasty surprises.

I’d better get on with the packing. I’m only going to need 2 suitcases this time. I’ll use the 2 blue ones and leave the orange one, with the crack on the corner in the airing cupboard.

 

 

 

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After The Betrayal

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I waited until the kids had gone to school. Then I got the bag of rice out of the cupboard, poured some into the mortar and started pounding it with the pestle. Rice was flying everywhere, spraying across the table and floor and onto my feet. But I lent in, hunched over, head down and my left hand gripped the table edge hard, and I pounded the grains harder and faster. Almost psychotically. It could, to the eyes of an onlooker have been an almost comical sight. Darkly so.

But I wasn’t smiling. I was crying. The movement of the pestle, the grinding of the rice against the granite made a rhythm, and as I kept its beat I pictured your betrayal, and I went back and forth over the last 10 weeks in time with the back and forth of the pestle, and in the time it took to make that rice become a fine, white powder, I had cried very hard. I felt sadness. Real, massive sadness. But also some rage, and self pity, and a little bit of hope.

My arms ache as I write this, but it feels somehow re assuring. I think I may get through the whole bag before the week is out.

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Back To School

The 6 weeks holidays. The End. The children have been singing Ed Sheeran throughout.(“I’m in Lurv with yer bar-de”..) It is now etched into my mind and circles around in my brain throughout meetings, discussions and even arguments – there have been a few. It’s been a pleasure, don’t get me wrong but;

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Father’s Day: 2 symbols

I was trying to thing of 2 thinks that represent my father to me and I came up with these. My kids didn’t get it, but hopefully he will.

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