I've just noticed that 'My Weekend' is not in chronological order after the big attempt to do that the other night. Up until 4am I was and still wasn't finished!
Maybe it's because on Monday night I quickly saved some 'titles' so that the beginning of the weekend wouldn't run into 'Tuesday' and worked as blogspot likes it. I wanted it all on one day.
Ah blogspot doesn't like it does it?! Try and tell a story in order of events? No! If that's what you want, shove it in the same post!
I was going to do a "Contents Page", but that would spoil what is already not very good. I've thought about editing some bits, cos there are spelling mistakes 'n' all, but hey, my life isn't perfect, so let art mirror it!
So, if you can be bothered to read it through it'll be all higgledy piggledy. It was only an experiment after all!
As with blogspot as is life (but not mine clearly), what is past is past.
Showing posts with label My Weekend. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My Weekend. Show all posts
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
Washed Out
I wake up yesterday morning and I feel an ache fused with frustration, fury and absolute exhaustion. I feel totally and utterly washed out.
My son will be in school in a minute. My baby. My sweet, sweet boy.
I cannot sit at home and wait for him. I will go out of my mind with the frustration and the fury that is bubbling beneath the surface of my skin.
Gossip Stop. Go to Gossip Stop. That is where you always go when you are having an existential breakdown and you know you will not eat. Go there. It is a refuge where gossip doesn't start, it stops. You can just be. No-one will bother you.
Having penned the latter part of my weekend on Sunday, I should pen the beginning. Washed out dear? Hang out your dirty washing.
It is quite possibly the best thing I could have done. The early part of my weekend was fun, positive. My challenge is to write myself into this frame of mind.
"Two eggs on toast and a cup of tea please."
Write, write, write. Go for a cigarette, order another tea.
Write, write, write. Go for a cigarette, order another tea.
The woman who works there (runs it?) comes over and asks if she can tell me a story about her brother. He was having a roll up not far from a bus stop the other day and when he stubbed it out, under foot, on pavement, two men grabbed him by the arm and fined him £50. No warning.
I tell her I heard that on the news the other day and because I write a blog, was going to try and fit it in amongst some smoking things I wanted to write.
Smokers are so penalised, she tells me, the government wants to make so much money out of them.
This gets me going and I say that this country is rich thanks to poor people. Rich bankers put their money overseas so they do not have to pay tax. Meanwhile the poor are bled for everything.
She agrees with me. I tell her in the Square Mile they are giving people portable ashtrays - fag bags. She says her brother was given one, but should have been given a warning first.
It is a nice break for me. The service, the people is why I like this caf so much.
I write and write and smoke and write until it closes at 2.30. I go home and finish a post I started which makes me late to pick up my son from school.
I run and when I get there the classroom is dark. Where is he??? I go to the after school club. Is he here? It's not his day I'm told, he might be in the mentor room. Guilt. On top of everything else I'm feeling, guilt guilt guilt.
I see my son, sat next to his friend K, crying his eyes out. I kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss him. I tell him I'm sorry. He tells me he wanted to come back yesterday.
I see his teacher to ask about the family mentoring. She says to speak to the Deputy Head.
My son was late to school this morning. That is good for me. That is something I can use.
My son is too tired to go swimming so I say just this once we will miss it. We put up our anorexic christmas tree then dance to a lounge music cd. He is delirious but funny in his delirium, stuffing blankets under his vest and dancing with a 'big baby belly mummy!'
I give him a bath. His dad didn't do a nit check on him and some eggs have hatched.
I read him A Christmas Carol and tell him we'll go see the film at the weekend.
I kiss him goodnight and he hugs me tight.
I switch on the computer and transpose my weekend. I don't think it will take me long because it is already written. At 4am, I give up with two more posts to write this morning, and go to sleep. It doesn't come easily.
I am wired now but at least I am 'up to speed' in blogland. I still haven't gone into my inbox. I will wait until I speak to the school before I open it.
No more long posts. "My weekend" is a one off. I may go and edit later, but then again I may read something and cringe at how badly written it is and just leave it. One day I will write a short novella, take pains over every sentence to make it the best thing I have ever written.
My blog is not for this. It is to write the pain so that it might remind me, and maybe someone else, that as long as you are doing something, you can acknowledge somewhere within you that you are stronger than you think.
Right, I am going back to Gossip Stop for two eggs on toast. No pen. No paper. Then I must buy chocolate cereal for my son. He was a right grumpy teenager this morning, telling me off for not buying any. I didn't lose my own rag, I merely said: "Are you tired?" and he nodded and said "Yes."
My son will be in school in a minute. My baby. My sweet, sweet boy.
I cannot sit at home and wait for him. I will go out of my mind with the frustration and the fury that is bubbling beneath the surface of my skin.
Gossip Stop. Go to Gossip Stop. That is where you always go when you are having an existential breakdown and you know you will not eat. Go there. It is a refuge where gossip doesn't start, it stops. You can just be. No-one will bother you.
Having penned the latter part of my weekend on Sunday, I should pen the beginning. Washed out dear? Hang out your dirty washing.
It is quite possibly the best thing I could have done. The early part of my weekend was fun, positive. My challenge is to write myself into this frame of mind.
"Two eggs on toast and a cup of tea please."
Write, write, write. Go for a cigarette, order another tea.
Write, write, write. Go for a cigarette, order another tea.
The woman who works there (runs it?) comes over and asks if she can tell me a story about her brother. He was having a roll up not far from a bus stop the other day and when he stubbed it out, under foot, on pavement, two men grabbed him by the arm and fined him £50. No warning.
I tell her I heard that on the news the other day and because I write a blog, was going to try and fit it in amongst some smoking things I wanted to write.
Smokers are so penalised, she tells me, the government wants to make so much money out of them.
This gets me going and I say that this country is rich thanks to poor people. Rich bankers put their money overseas so they do not have to pay tax. Meanwhile the poor are bled for everything.
She agrees with me. I tell her in the Square Mile they are giving people portable ashtrays - fag bags. She says her brother was given one, but should have been given a warning first.
It is a nice break for me. The service, the people is why I like this caf so much.
I write and write and smoke and write until it closes at 2.30. I go home and finish a post I started which makes me late to pick up my son from school.
I run and when I get there the classroom is dark. Where is he??? I go to the after school club. Is he here? It's not his day I'm told, he might be in the mentor room. Guilt. On top of everything else I'm feeling, guilt guilt guilt.
I see my son, sat next to his friend K, crying his eyes out. I kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss him. I tell him I'm sorry. He tells me he wanted to come back yesterday.
I see his teacher to ask about the family mentoring. She says to speak to the Deputy Head.
My son was late to school this morning. That is good for me. That is something I can use.
My son is too tired to go swimming so I say just this once we will miss it. We put up our anorexic christmas tree then dance to a lounge music cd. He is delirious but funny in his delirium, stuffing blankets under his vest and dancing with a 'big baby belly mummy!'
I give him a bath. His dad didn't do a nit check on him and some eggs have hatched.
I read him A Christmas Carol and tell him we'll go see the film at the weekend.
I kiss him goodnight and he hugs me tight.
I switch on the computer and transpose my weekend. I don't think it will take me long because it is already written. At 4am, I give up with two more posts to write this morning, and go to sleep. It doesn't come easily.
I am wired now but at least I am 'up to speed' in blogland. I still haven't gone into my inbox. I will wait until I speak to the school before I open it.
No more long posts. "My weekend" is a one off. I may go and edit later, but then again I may read something and cringe at how badly written it is and just leave it. One day I will write a short novella, take pains over every sentence to make it the best thing I have ever written.
My blog is not for this. It is to write the pain so that it might remind me, and maybe someone else, that as long as you are doing something, you can acknowledge somewhere within you that you are stronger than you think.
Right, I am going back to Gossip Stop for two eggs on toast. No pen. No paper. Then I must buy chocolate cereal for my son. He was a right grumpy teenager this morning, telling me off for not buying any. I didn't lose my own rag, I merely said: "Are you tired?" and he nodded and said "Yes."
Monday, 7 December 2009
Can I have a gift subscription?
Saturday morning, bored and somewhat restless. The Bazza Boot Camp demo isn't until later, I don't want to start tidying up, the very thought makes me feel tired.
I switch on my laptop, see what's lurking in my inbox besides my daily horoscopes.
Ooh, I have a 'new fan'.
A while ago my old online dating provider sent me an email saying if I don't visit the site, my profile would be automatically deleted. However, if I went into the site, it would push it back towards the top. OK, delete me then!
A few weeks later I receive a message saying I have a 'new fan' and curiosity gets the better of me and I hit the link.
In my absence I have received quite a few messages. Their names remain but not the messages; it's been months and months and months since my subscription expired. Way before I even visited Old Shit School Acquaintance back in April. I never deleted myself, even set up a profile on a new free site which I never bothered visiting either.
I've had the odd 'new fan' recently but ignore it. Today though, I am restless. Who are you?
MakeHay.
"Loved the profile and pictures," he writes. "I am an inch under your price range but if you can barter it would be great to hear from you."
I read his profile and it's quite tongue in cheek. His picture looks ok but you never can tell. MakeHay sounds interesting!
I look at my one liner options:
I'd love to chat but I don't have a subscription yet. Hmmm, I'd love to chat but I am not going to subscribe.
How about a gift subscription? Oh tis very cheeky! In the past I have often asked the interesting sounding ones to buy me a subscription but I don't enjoy it because it doesn't say 'please'. They so rarely buy me a subscription though that I think 'what the hell?', send the one liner, then go and have a bath.
I must also wash the de-nitting chemicals out of my hair.
Oh mercy, if there is anything I hate more than de-nitting my son, it's de-nitting myself. It may come out clear, it often does, but what a SHITTY job what with my long, long hair.
With no shower, I have a shallow bath then afterwards hang my head over the side and shampoo.
Wearing my dressing gown, I take my de-nitting equipment over to the laptop and decide to "surf and comb!"
"Your subscription has been activated."
MakeHay! I hope you turn out alright!
First things first, I thank him. He is online and returns a message saying he admires my profile and do I have a long list of men emailing me.
I say no, only two or three, which is true (who I sent one liners to not asking for subscriptions).
He sends me a link to a PJ Harvey song, "We Float" and asks if I stole my siblings sweets as a child. I answer then listen to the song which I find a bit heavy for a first 'chat' but nice of him to send it.
We email back and forth but he must be chatting to lots of women because he takes ages to answer.
Not a problem for me, I've just combed out a fecking dead nit. AAARGH. BASTARDS.
I consider my situation. MakeHay has no idea what I am doing in between emails. He is possibly assuming that I am emailing other men.
Do I tell him I'm de-nitting myself? I most certainly do not! My god, if my blog was my dating profile, I would remain single forever! For ever and ever after! Quelle tragedie!
I finally complete my denitting process, MakeHay has not responded for a while so I log out and pack my bag for the Boot Camp demo. I'll just watch, I won't take part but I take my uniform just incase the Master needs me.
I make a mental note to blog this episode later even though I don't want to admit to the whole wide world that I get nits. But then surely it's an occupational hazard isn't it? I'm not the only mother in the whole wide world to get them, am I?
I switch on my laptop, see what's lurking in my inbox besides my daily horoscopes.
Ooh, I have a 'new fan'.
A while ago my old online dating provider sent me an email saying if I don't visit the site, my profile would be automatically deleted. However, if I went into the site, it would push it back towards the top. OK, delete me then!
A few weeks later I receive a message saying I have a 'new fan' and curiosity gets the better of me and I hit the link.
In my absence I have received quite a few messages. Their names remain but not the messages; it's been months and months and months since my subscription expired. Way before I even visited Old Shit School Acquaintance back in April. I never deleted myself, even set up a profile on a new free site which I never bothered visiting either.
I've had the odd 'new fan' recently but ignore it. Today though, I am restless. Who are you?
MakeHay.
"Loved the profile and pictures," he writes. "I am an inch under your price range but if you can barter it would be great to hear from you."
I read his profile and it's quite tongue in cheek. His picture looks ok but you never can tell. MakeHay sounds interesting!
I look at my one liner options:
I'd love to chat but I don't have a subscription yet. Hmmm, I'd love to chat but I am not going to subscribe.
How about a gift subscription? Oh tis very cheeky! In the past I have often asked the interesting sounding ones to buy me a subscription but I don't enjoy it because it doesn't say 'please'. They so rarely buy me a subscription though that I think 'what the hell?', send the one liner, then go and have a bath.
I must also wash the de-nitting chemicals out of my hair.
Oh mercy, if there is anything I hate more than de-nitting my son, it's de-nitting myself. It may come out clear, it often does, but what a SHITTY job what with my long, long hair.
With no shower, I have a shallow bath then afterwards hang my head over the side and shampoo.
Wearing my dressing gown, I take my de-nitting equipment over to the laptop and decide to "surf and comb!"
"Your subscription has been activated."
MakeHay! I hope you turn out alright!
First things first, I thank him. He is online and returns a message saying he admires my profile and do I have a long list of men emailing me.
I say no, only two or three, which is true (who I sent one liners to not asking for subscriptions).
He sends me a link to a PJ Harvey song, "We Float" and asks if I stole my siblings sweets as a child. I answer then listen to the song which I find a bit heavy for a first 'chat' but nice of him to send it.
We email back and forth but he must be chatting to lots of women because he takes ages to answer.
Not a problem for me, I've just combed out a fecking dead nit. AAARGH. BASTARDS.
I consider my situation. MakeHay has no idea what I am doing in between emails. He is possibly assuming that I am emailing other men.
Do I tell him I'm de-nitting myself? I most certainly do not! My god, if my blog was my dating profile, I would remain single forever! For ever and ever after! Quelle tragedie!
I finally complete my denitting process, MakeHay has not responded for a while so I log out and pack my bag for the Boot Camp demo. I'll just watch, I won't take part but I take my uniform just incase the Master needs me.
I make a mental note to blog this episode later even though I don't want to admit to the whole wide world that I get nits. But then surely it's an occupational hazard isn't it? I'm not the only mother in the whole wide world to get them, am I?
Women's Self Defence Demo
Up at the community centre PhyzBiz, my mate Charlie's brainchild, is running a Youth Empowerment Day.The Women's Self Defence Team are going to do a demo. Mistress in the playground reminded me about it on Friday and I thought I would go along and lend my support.
I arrive and in the main hall the music is pounding. Young boys are queueing to jump a vault and I think of my son.
I can't see the mistresses anywhere but see Charlie who takes me to them in another smaller hall. They are practicing and I notice they are an odd number; seven. Ah man, I'm not up for this.
Master Bazza comes up to me. "Do you have your uniform?"
"Yes, but I wasn't in the class on Thursday because I had flu and I can't remember all the techniques anyway and if I join in I'll just let the group down."
"Don't worry about it, just go and get dressed."
The cheerleaders are practicing their set next to us. The Master picks out two mistresses to do the techniques which they practice very quickly before Charlie comes in and tell's us we're on.
The mats are set out infront of the music decks. People are seated on benches and chairs around it. Why didn't I just do this; sit on a bench and watch?
The Master tells us to walk on in order of height. Mistress Psychic is the same height as me, Mistress Dancer a little taller. I sandwich between the two.
Two pairs do the kicking sequences. ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE roundhouse kicks with the left leg. ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE with the right. We do twenty in class. It's a killer I tell you.....Forward kicks to the groin ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE - change legs. Knee kicks to the groin ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE - change legs - change partners. Feel these women's power!!
Two pairs do the punching techniques. Even in my 'glory' days I'd lose focus and get hit in the face so it's not as easy as these Mistresses make it look. The Master partners Mistress Psychic for the "Beginners' Demo'.
I can only stand very still and pretend that nobody has noticed that I haven't done anything yet and I won't be doing anything later either.
The focus shifts to techniques.A pair demonstrate the SLAP SMASH WOLLOP - slap the assailant with your palm then bring your elbow round to smash them in the cheek and on your arm's return, wollop them on the other cheek with your fist.
Another pair do the Pukey Pukey.
"There are three soft parts of the body that you can use to defend yourself," explains the Master. "The eyes, the soft area at the base of the neck and the reproductive organs."
The last pair throw one another to the ground. "Oooooooooooooooh," murmur the crowds.
"You can even defend yourself when you are on the ground," says the Master. "Being on the ground is not a defenceless position."
The Mistresses demonstrate. It involves destabilising their leg so you can push them over and in a real life situation run like hell. We were doing this two weeks ago in class.We all get in line, extend our arms infront of us and put our fist to our palm. Show's over.
The Mistresses head down to the pub but I have plans to go out in Putney. Putney! Miles away! I go home to eat and to figure out how I'm going to get there.At the time, I was not going to post this because I was abit embarrassed that I didn't 'do' anything. The weekend took such unexpected turns though that I thought at some point to tell it all.
Writing this, I realise I shouldn't be embarrassed. I'm part of that Self Defence group. I may not be any good now but that doesn't mean I never will be. The Mistresses proved that to me.
I arrive and in the main hall the music is pounding. Young boys are queueing to jump a vault and I think of my son.
I can't see the mistresses anywhere but see Charlie who takes me to them in another smaller hall. They are practicing and I notice they are an odd number; seven. Ah man, I'm not up for this.
Master Bazza comes up to me. "Do you have your uniform?"
"Yes, but I wasn't in the class on Thursday because I had flu and I can't remember all the techniques anyway and if I join in I'll just let the group down."
"Don't worry about it, just go and get dressed."
The cheerleaders are practicing their set next to us. The Master picks out two mistresses to do the techniques which they practice very quickly before Charlie comes in and tell's us we're on.
The mats are set out infront of the music decks. People are seated on benches and chairs around it. Why didn't I just do this; sit on a bench and watch?
The Master tells us to walk on in order of height. Mistress Psychic is the same height as me, Mistress Dancer a little taller. I sandwich between the two.
Two pairs do the kicking sequences. ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE roundhouse kicks with the left leg. ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE with the right. We do twenty in class. It's a killer I tell you.....Forward kicks to the groin ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE - change legs. Knee kicks to the groin ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE - change legs - change partners. Feel these women's power!!
Two pairs do the punching techniques. Even in my 'glory' days I'd lose focus and get hit in the face so it's not as easy as these Mistresses make it look. The Master partners Mistress Psychic for the "Beginners' Demo'.
I can only stand very still and pretend that nobody has noticed that I haven't done anything yet and I won't be doing anything later either.
The focus shifts to techniques.A pair demonstrate the SLAP SMASH WOLLOP - slap the assailant with your palm then bring your elbow round to smash them in the cheek and on your arm's return, wollop them on the other cheek with your fist.
Another pair do the Pukey Pukey.
"There are three soft parts of the body that you can use to defend yourself," explains the Master. "The eyes, the soft area at the base of the neck and the reproductive organs."
The last pair throw one another to the ground. "Oooooooooooooooh," murmur the crowds.
"You can even defend yourself when you are on the ground," says the Master. "Being on the ground is not a defenceless position."
The Mistresses demonstrate. It involves destabilising their leg so you can push them over and in a real life situation run like hell. We were doing this two weeks ago in class.We all get in line, extend our arms infront of us and put our fist to our palm. Show's over.
The Mistresses head down to the pub but I have plans to go out in Putney. Putney! Miles away! I go home to eat and to figure out how I'm going to get there.At the time, I was not going to post this because I was abit embarrassed that I didn't 'do' anything. The weekend took such unexpected turns though that I thought at some point to tell it all.
Writing this, I realise I shouldn't be embarrassed. I'm part of that Self Defence group. I may not be any good now but that doesn't mean I never will be. The Mistresses proved that to me.
Thai Square
I thought it might be a restaurant but no, it's a swanky bar in a narrow space with a dancefloor at the end, cordoned off for a private party. There's a nice atmosphere, a party atmosphere. It's nice to be out!
"Let's have a cocktail," says Phil. "My treat."
"No mine, it's your birthday celebration, let me!"
"You can get one later."
Ash is on antibiotics and can't drink. Phil and I have champagne cocktails with pomegranites. Yummy yummy lovely yum!
Ash find her two friends, Bec and Bec - the three of them met on a yoga holiday having never met one another before. The way they get on, you'd think they met at uni years ago!
Me and one of the Bec's pull a chair out so the five of us aren't sitting in a line. The group divides into natural chatter with me and Phil talking about the economy then Medjugorje in Croatia where the Virgin Mary is said to have appeared to children. Phil, my mum, a woman I met on the tran siberian have all been and all come back with amazing experiences. I tell her I want to go, I've heard so much about it, maybe next year, take my son as part of my Sunday School Teachings ha ha.
Time for another drink! Ash on another soda and cranberry, Phil on a vodka cranberry, both of which look identical so I have to remember which is which hand! I just can't decide then spy the 'martinis'. Lychee Martini - Vodka and lychee liquer. Perfect! It came with a lychee in the bottom of the glass so healthy too! I bought two rounds that evening, £15 each.
The three of us chat away, the music putting us in a dancy mood. People have been turned away from the dancefloor though apparantly, due to private party.A track comes on that the girls recognise but I don't but me and Phil get up and take our chances in the private party area. The party goers are all in a circle playing catch with a balloom. In our little corner, we are the only ones dancing so we head back.
The bar's filling up. Two guys are looking at our group. One looks quite debonair while his friend looks very English, the type you'd introduce to your mother. Or maybe the type I could introduce to mine.
The next thing, Debonair's chatting to the Becs. I'm talking to Ash about kids; mine and she points out that May I Introduce You To My Mother, pushed back from the crowds, has practically got his arse in my face.
He turns round and ask if he can share a corner of my seat. We start talking; about a beach he went to in South Wales, then somehow the Afghan war, the economy, crime. He asks where I think it's all heading. "To riots I imagine," not telling him the teensy weeny thing about my life. I find this man, who is physically so not my type, growing on me. He tells me he was on Newsnight recently, that's he'll be on Gordon Ramsey's F Word this Christmas.
"What do you do?" I ask
"I have an internet business."
"What do you sell?"
"What do you do?
"No you!"
"I don't want to say." oh booorrrrrrrrrrring.
"What's your job?" he asks me.
"I'm a mother."
"Is that all? What else?"
"What do you mean 'is that all'? It's alot!"
"My sister has two kids and she works."
"Does she have a cleaner?"
"No, she shares that with her husband."
"There you go, I don't have a husband, for me it's a job."
I quizz him again on his job. "Are you in politics? In the media?" He says no then changes the subject. "What are your plans tomorrow?"
"Ah, no plans! Sleep! My son's coming back in the afternoon. You?"
"I'm having lunch with a Japanese friend."
"Ah Japanese food, sashiburi!"
"I like the food; sushi..."
"I don't like that but excuse me, I really need the loo!"
I come back and Phil's chatting to him, Ash is chatting to Bec, and the other Bec to Debonair. I sit down but everyone's deep in their conversations. I don't feel like a gooseberry, so stuffed am I on lychees but figure it's an optimum time to go for a fag.
The bar is heaving when I get back. It's been so long since I've been to a place like this. Everyone's drunk and enjoying themselves. Some are wearing masks, other guys are wearing viking outfits. I have to push and weave past people to get back to my seat.
We girls had planned to go onto a club called Fez or something but when Ash and one of the Becs say they are going home, me, Phil and Becs decide to stay.
I go and make a request for Video Killed The Radio Star then realise they are very unlikely to play this and go back and ask for Lady GaGa's Bad Romance.
They're playing The Black Eyed Peas, Michael Jackson, all kinds of stuff so we all head onto the dance floor. Phil can be quite wild when she has drink down her and dances around May I Introduce You To My Mother who can't believe his luck but doesn't know what to do with it which is very funny. We're all laughing, we're all dancing and suddenly boof, the lights go on.
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
Me, never wanting an evening to end suggests we go for a coffee. May I Introduce You To My Mother is up for it, so's Phil, so's Becs but Debonair isn't. Chatting earlier it transpired he lives in St John's Wood. North like me. He'd said we should share a cab. I was up for that of course, Phil wouldn't have to pay a cab for me, I could go halves.
So that was it. The party broke up. A great fun, fab night, finito.
"Let's have a cocktail," says Phil. "My treat."
"No mine, it's your birthday celebration, let me!"
"You can get one later."
Ash is on antibiotics and can't drink. Phil and I have champagne cocktails with pomegranites. Yummy yummy lovely yum!
Ash find her two friends, Bec and Bec - the three of them met on a yoga holiday having never met one another before. The way they get on, you'd think they met at uni years ago!
Me and one of the Bec's pull a chair out so the five of us aren't sitting in a line. The group divides into natural chatter with me and Phil talking about the economy then Medjugorje in Croatia where the Virgin Mary is said to have appeared to children. Phil, my mum, a woman I met on the tran siberian have all been and all come back with amazing experiences. I tell her I want to go, I've heard so much about it, maybe next year, take my son as part of my Sunday School Teachings ha ha.
Time for another drink! Ash on another soda and cranberry, Phil on a vodka cranberry, both of which look identical so I have to remember which is which hand! I just can't decide then spy the 'martinis'. Lychee Martini - Vodka and lychee liquer. Perfect! It came with a lychee in the bottom of the glass so healthy too! I bought two rounds that evening, £15 each.
The three of us chat away, the music putting us in a dancy mood. People have been turned away from the dancefloor though apparantly, due to private party.A track comes on that the girls recognise but I don't but me and Phil get up and take our chances in the private party area. The party goers are all in a circle playing catch with a balloom. In our little corner, we are the only ones dancing so we head back.
The bar's filling up. Two guys are looking at our group. One looks quite debonair while his friend looks very English, the type you'd introduce to your mother. Or maybe the type I could introduce to mine.
The next thing, Debonair's chatting to the Becs. I'm talking to Ash about kids; mine and she points out that May I Introduce You To My Mother, pushed back from the crowds, has practically got his arse in my face.
He turns round and ask if he can share a corner of my seat. We start talking; about a beach he went to in South Wales, then somehow the Afghan war, the economy, crime. He asks where I think it's all heading. "To riots I imagine," not telling him the teensy weeny thing about my life. I find this man, who is physically so not my type, growing on me. He tells me he was on Newsnight recently, that's he'll be on Gordon Ramsey's F Word this Christmas.
"What do you do?" I ask
"I have an internet business."
"What do you sell?"
"What do you do?
"No you!"
"I don't want to say." oh booorrrrrrrrrrring.
"What's your job?" he asks me.
"I'm a mother."
"Is that all? What else?"
"What do you mean 'is that all'? It's alot!"
"My sister has two kids and she works."
"Does she have a cleaner?"
"No, she shares that with her husband."
"There you go, I don't have a husband, for me it's a job."
I quizz him again on his job. "Are you in politics? In the media?" He says no then changes the subject. "What are your plans tomorrow?"
"Ah, no plans! Sleep! My son's coming back in the afternoon. You?"
"I'm having lunch with a Japanese friend."
"Ah Japanese food, sashiburi!"
"I like the food; sushi..."
"I don't like that but excuse me, I really need the loo!"
I come back and Phil's chatting to him, Ash is chatting to Bec, and the other Bec to Debonair. I sit down but everyone's deep in their conversations. I don't feel like a gooseberry, so stuffed am I on lychees but figure it's an optimum time to go for a fag.
The bar is heaving when I get back. It's been so long since I've been to a place like this. Everyone's drunk and enjoying themselves. Some are wearing masks, other guys are wearing viking outfits. I have to push and weave past people to get back to my seat.
We girls had planned to go onto a club called Fez or something but when Ash and one of the Becs say they are going home, me, Phil and Becs decide to stay.
I go and make a request for Video Killed The Radio Star then realise they are very unlikely to play this and go back and ask for Lady GaGa's Bad Romance.
They're playing The Black Eyed Peas, Michael Jackson, all kinds of stuff so we all head onto the dance floor. Phil can be quite wild when she has drink down her and dances around May I Introduce You To My Mother who can't believe his luck but doesn't know what to do with it which is very funny. We're all laughing, we're all dancing and suddenly boof, the lights go on.
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
Me, never wanting an evening to end suggests we go for a coffee. May I Introduce You To My Mother is up for it, so's Phil, so's Becs but Debonair isn't. Chatting earlier it transpired he lives in St John's Wood. North like me. He'd said we should share a cab. I was up for that of course, Phil wouldn't have to pay a cab for me, I could go halves.
So that was it. The party broke up. A great fun, fab night, finito.
Getting to Putney
Phil calls me in the morning. Am I still ok for going out in Putney?"Yes, I just have to figure out how to get there and more importantly, how to get home. I might just get a cab."
"Oh you can't do that, it'll be so expensive."
I tell her it's a one off, I have a knack for falling asleep on night buses, I really don't mind. Phil says she'll call her friend Ash to see if we can go out more central, but she herself is meeting friends.
"Don't worry," I tell her. "I want to come, it's not every week. I'll just drink less."
She ends up saying she'll find out how much a cab is and pay for it herself. I don't want her to do this but we'll chat about it at the end of the night. If I need her help, I'll ask her.
We decide to glam up! I wear a little gypsy type dress from Miss Selfridge my brother and ex wife bought me a decade ago for Christmas. I teem it with fishnets and boots. I'd love to wear the stilletto's my brother and sister in law got me but I never know how much I'll end walking...
I put on makeup. Charcoal eyes and red lips.
I decide to take a train to Richmond and then a bus to Putney. It's the most straightforward way. It's drizzling so I wear my black hoodie under my mock leather jacket.
"You look nice," says a girl, friend of my neighbour, as we step into the lift. I say thank you and tell her I'm going to Putney. "Putney!" she says. "How will you get home?"
"My friend's offered to pay for my cab."
"Wow, that's a good friend, she really wants you to be there."
"Yeah, and I really want to be there too so it's really nice."
The train takes me to Richmond. I find the busstop fairly easily. I sit downstairs where I can see the location screen because I have no idea when to get off.
My phone makes a funny noise. It's a reminder. Phil's birthday, Putney, 8pm. Fuck fuck fuck. I forgot fuck fuck. Not even a card and she never forgets mine.
After what feels like a million years I get to Putney. I ask a kebab seller where Lower Richmond Road is. He sends me to Upper Richmond Road. I ask a group of Poles who head me straight.
Thinking I've gone too far, I ask a man who looks at me, then walks right on staring at the pavement. Phil texts asking if I'm in Putney. I tell her I'm lost. She phones but I can't hear her, there's no connection.I ask another man and he tells me exactly where to go and how.
I see the golden light of Thai Square! I see my beautiful Phil! I see her beautiful Ash! We three enter the hallowed doors of who know's what's awaiting us!
"Oh you can't do that, it'll be so expensive."
I tell her it's a one off, I have a knack for falling asleep on night buses, I really don't mind. Phil says she'll call her friend Ash to see if we can go out more central, but she herself is meeting friends.
"Don't worry," I tell her. "I want to come, it's not every week. I'll just drink less."
She ends up saying she'll find out how much a cab is and pay for it herself. I don't want her to do this but we'll chat about it at the end of the night. If I need her help, I'll ask her.
We decide to glam up! I wear a little gypsy type dress from Miss Selfridge my brother and ex wife bought me a decade ago for Christmas. I teem it with fishnets and boots. I'd love to wear the stilletto's my brother and sister in law got me but I never know how much I'll end walking...
I put on makeup. Charcoal eyes and red lips.
I decide to take a train to Richmond and then a bus to Putney. It's the most straightforward way. It's drizzling so I wear my black hoodie under my mock leather jacket.
"You look nice," says a girl, friend of my neighbour, as we step into the lift. I say thank you and tell her I'm going to Putney. "Putney!" she says. "How will you get home?"
"My friend's offered to pay for my cab."
"Wow, that's a good friend, she really wants you to be there."
"Yeah, and I really want to be there too so it's really nice."
The train takes me to Richmond. I find the busstop fairly easily. I sit downstairs where I can see the location screen because I have no idea when to get off.
My phone makes a funny noise. It's a reminder. Phil's birthday, Putney, 8pm. Fuck fuck fuck. I forgot fuck fuck. Not even a card and she never forgets mine.
After what feels like a million years I get to Putney. I ask a kebab seller where Lower Richmond Road is. He sends me to Upper Richmond Road. I ask a group of Poles who head me straight.
Thinking I've gone too far, I ask a man who looks at me, then walks right on staring at the pavement. Phil texts asking if I'm in Putney. I tell her I'm lost. She phones but I can't hear her, there's no connection.I ask another man and he tells me exactly where to go and how.
I see the golden light of Thai Square! I see my beautiful Phil! I see her beautiful Ash! We three enter the hallowed doors of who know's what's awaiting us!
Getting home
Me, Phil, Bec, Debonair and May I Introduce You To My Mother stand outside after our fun night and say our goodbyes.
"That's a hard kiss," says May I Introduce You To My Mother.
"It's French," I reply. "One on each cheek."
I kiss Bec and give her a hug. She doesn't mind.
I kiss and hug Phil. She never does, never has, never will.
We hail a cab for Bec, we hail one for Phil. May I Introduce You To My Mother produces bike lights from his jacket pocket. Me and Debonair go to haggle a mini cab from outside the bar.
"Phil rang earlier and was quoted £26 so we don't accept higher than that," I say.
"I'll talk to them in Hindi, see if we can get a good price."
£30 they wanted. We get it for £25. We get into the cab.
"This isn't a BMW! I expect something nicer than this for £25!" says Debonair.
"Sorry?" says the driver.
"This is not a BMW! For £25 we should get better than this! What is this car anyway?"
"£25 sir."
"But this isn't the car I expect for £25!" continues Debonair.
"Be quiet," I say. "He's not getting your joke."
He's not quiet though. "Money now please," says cabbie.
"When we get there," Debonair and I say in unison.
"No, now."
"What if you crash?" I ask (I saw Masood in Eastenders last week...)
I have £20 on me but Debonair won't pay. "Get out of my taxi please."
Debonair says we'll get another on the main road and we get out. As we're walking he says:
"Do you want to go somewhere where we can have a smoke?"
"I'll go for a coffee or something but I don't smoke."
"You do smoke."
"No I don't, not hash or anything. Look, there's the 74 bus, it'll take us to Baker Street."
"No no, I don't smoke hash, anything like that. I don't usually smoke at all but sometimes I have cherry tobacco." He tells me about it, regales me with how nice it is, smoked through a pipe. With a cup of mint tea it begins to sound like a very nice idea.
He flags down a car but the driver won't take us. I see a bus coming in the distance. "Come on, let's grab it," and we run. It's going to Piccadilly. I can get a 24 from there. I've figured a way home, I'm happy.
I get on and punch my oyster. Debonair puts his railcard against the meter. A couple of passengers laugh.
"I never usually get the bus," he says as we sit down.
"No, I don't imagine you do," because I don't imagine he does.
Phil texts: "R U home?"
I reply I'm with Debonair on the bus. She replies: "He's a sweetheart, a real gentleman."
"He says he loves you," I respond.
I ask him if he got Bec's number. "Just friends, just friends," he says. "Yeah but did you get her number?" "Nice girl, we're friends." I dig abit to find out his relationship history. He went out with a girl for six years, broke up not long ago.
He's desperate for a wee so when we reach Piccadilly I suggest Bar Italia. It's the only place I know that's open that has loos.
I order a double expresso but he doesn't want anything. He says he's never been here before and I'm quite surprised but not surprised at all that he loves it.
We leave and I'm buzzing abit from the caffeine. He hails a cab.
"Do you have drink at your place?"
"A couple of beers and a bottle of Bailey's my mother out law bought me five years ago."
"Can I come back? You know drink, chat some more?"
"What now? OK then, no hanky panky mind."
He laughs: "What do you take me for? No hanky panky.... just talking!"
"Yeah I know but no harm in saying it!"
Off we go back to my flat, my mess, my life. Up until now I've not said a word about any of it but oh who cares? It is what it is! Papier Mache Towers, here we come!
"That's a hard kiss," says May I Introduce You To My Mother.
"It's French," I reply. "One on each cheek."
I kiss Bec and give her a hug. She doesn't mind.
I kiss and hug Phil. She never does, never has, never will.
We hail a cab for Bec, we hail one for Phil. May I Introduce You To My Mother produces bike lights from his jacket pocket. Me and Debonair go to haggle a mini cab from outside the bar.
"Phil rang earlier and was quoted £26 so we don't accept higher than that," I say.
"I'll talk to them in Hindi, see if we can get a good price."
£30 they wanted. We get it for £25. We get into the cab.
"This isn't a BMW! I expect something nicer than this for £25!" says Debonair.
"Sorry?" says the driver.
"This is not a BMW! For £25 we should get better than this! What is this car anyway?"
"£25 sir."
"But this isn't the car I expect for £25!" continues Debonair.
"Be quiet," I say. "He's not getting your joke."
He's not quiet though. "Money now please," says cabbie.
"When we get there," Debonair and I say in unison.
"No, now."
"What if you crash?" I ask (I saw Masood in Eastenders last week...)
I have £20 on me but Debonair won't pay. "Get out of my taxi please."
Debonair says we'll get another on the main road and we get out. As we're walking he says:
"Do you want to go somewhere where we can have a smoke?"
"I'll go for a coffee or something but I don't smoke."
"You do smoke."
"No I don't, not hash or anything. Look, there's the 74 bus, it'll take us to Baker Street."
"No no, I don't smoke hash, anything like that. I don't usually smoke at all but sometimes I have cherry tobacco." He tells me about it, regales me with how nice it is, smoked through a pipe. With a cup of mint tea it begins to sound like a very nice idea.
He flags down a car but the driver won't take us. I see a bus coming in the distance. "Come on, let's grab it," and we run. It's going to Piccadilly. I can get a 24 from there. I've figured a way home, I'm happy.
I get on and punch my oyster. Debonair puts his railcard against the meter. A couple of passengers laugh.
"I never usually get the bus," he says as we sit down.
"No, I don't imagine you do," because I don't imagine he does.
Phil texts: "R U home?"
I reply I'm with Debonair on the bus. She replies: "He's a sweetheart, a real gentleman."
"He says he loves you," I respond.
I ask him if he got Bec's number. "Just friends, just friends," he says. "Yeah but did you get her number?" "Nice girl, we're friends." I dig abit to find out his relationship history. He went out with a girl for six years, broke up not long ago.
He's desperate for a wee so when we reach Piccadilly I suggest Bar Italia. It's the only place I know that's open that has loos.
I order a double expresso but he doesn't want anything. He says he's never been here before and I'm quite surprised but not surprised at all that he loves it.
We leave and I'm buzzing abit from the caffeine. He hails a cab.
"Do you have drink at your place?"
"A couple of beers and a bottle of Bailey's my mother out law bought me five years ago."
"Can I come back? You know drink, chat some more?"
"What now? OK then, no hanky panky mind."
He laughs: "What do you take me for? No hanky panky.... just talking!"
"Yeah I know but no harm in saying it!"
Off we go back to my flat, my mess, my life. Up until now I've not said a word about any of it but oh who cares? It is what it is! Papier Mache Towers, here we come!
Can I kiss you?
"Brace yourself for what you're about to see," I tell Debonair as the taxi approaches my block.
"I don't mind," he replies.
"I know you don't, but brace yourself anyway."
"That twinkling block," I tell the cabbie as it comes into view. Debonair pays - £20 from Piccadilly, outrageous - and in we go.
"Watch out!" I say as the lift comes. Someone's puked inside it; a flourescent lumpy yellow mess. "Welcome to Papier Mache Towers."
Once in my flat, I pour two glasses of Bailey's. A familiar feeling of awkwardness envelopes me because I'm not used to having people here. Thank vodka I can shrug it off.
"What music do you want?"
"What have you got?"
"All sorts."
I reach for an old favourite, perfect really for this kind of late night banter thing. I show him the Manu Chao CD.
"I don't know him."
"He's very good."
"What else have you got? Marvin Gaye?"
"Somewhere. Here, Otis Redding, we'll play that."
"Real motown...So what's your son's name?"
I tell him.
"Is that Spanish?"
"No, French. My parents are French."
"So you're French?"
"I guess so. Where are your parents from?"
"India, but I was born in Kenya."
We chat away, I refill the glasses. He puts on a Michael Jackson cd and asks me about my life so I tell him. Good job I don't fancy him or I'd be tempted to lie. I'm careful not to invite his sympathy though, or his pity.
"Why are you sitting so far away?" he says from the sofa right in front of me.
"I'm not!"
"Come and sit next to me."
He's a friendly guy, there's nothing in it but I'm quite comfortable where I am.
"I don't know, maybe I will."
"It's curious but out of curiosity, I really want to kiss you. What do you think?"
"That is curious," I smile. "You were looking at Bec all evening and I wasn't looking at you! Here look, this is my Book That Will Never Be Published." I reach over and take a pink folder from under the pile of newspapers at the other end of the sofa.
He takes it and removes the sheets of paper from it. I suddenly have a mine fear, that he'll read what I don't want him to so I go over and sit next to him, pick out the 'best' bits.
He scans the chapter on Paranoia and laughs: "Only had sex once? I don't believe that!" I give him a few others; Japan, Crime, Money, Drugs.
"Can I kiss you? Shall we kiss?" He's quite relentless! He's also not unattractive. Why shouldn't I after all? A kiss can be just a kiss.
It's wierd at first, for me that is, but slowly we get into it. Slowly it gets more passionate. I miss this, I think as I'm reminded of what it's like. His hand travels up my dress, I catch it, we carry on.
"Is there somewhere more comfortable where we can go?" he asks.
"No. Let's stay here."
A part of me wants to keep on going, keep keep on going, going where ever going led. The other part of me was playing out the future. I'd have this night of passion and then what? Drunken sex with somebody else and then drunken sex with somebody else? I have too many issues with sex to do that to myself.
I pull away.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. We said a kiss and we've kissed!"
I go back and sit on the chair.
"You know, I've had two guys here and I didn't kiss either of them."
"Why not? Why kiss me and not them?"
"Because I meant something to them."
"Ooooooooooooooow!" He throws his head back.
"I didn't want them to get hurt."
We talk some more and at six he calls a cab. He makes me promise not to tell Phil.
"Why not?" I find it quite funny.
"I don't want anyone to know."
"Well who's going to tell?"
"No-one, I just don't want you to."
"OK, and you don't tell about me either."
The cab calls. With his phone in his hand he says:
"If we see each other again, will you have sex with me?"
Now there's an offer! But can I do casual? Casual is all he can do right now.
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Do you think you'll have sex with me, yes or no?"
"I don't know!" I laugh, because I don't!
"Do you want to have sex with me?"
Well yes I might but I'm on the spot and if in doubt, leave it out or so they say.
"No."
"Ok, I better go, you're a nice girl," he says as he opens the front door. Nice because I didn't shag him? That's not what he meant.
"I know." I answered but I'm not, otherwise I wouldn't be writing about him, would I? I should have said "And you're a nice man."
Because he was. He wasn't debonair at all. He was charming, generous, funny, open, interested, interesting, good company. My ideal man when I see it written down like that.
Why am I telling you? I don't know, maybe I think it has value.
I learnt tonight that sex is sacred. Sex is sacred to the Self.
Everybody has different boundaries. I'm rat shit bored of being chained by my own.
It was very healing for me though.
I don't think I hurt him. He didn't hurt me.
With that I got into bed.
It won't surprise you to know he took the stairs when he left.
"I don't mind," he replies.
"I know you don't, but brace yourself anyway."
"That twinkling block," I tell the cabbie as it comes into view. Debonair pays - £20 from Piccadilly, outrageous - and in we go.
"Watch out!" I say as the lift comes. Someone's puked inside it; a flourescent lumpy yellow mess. "Welcome to Papier Mache Towers."
Once in my flat, I pour two glasses of Bailey's. A familiar feeling of awkwardness envelopes me because I'm not used to having people here. Thank vodka I can shrug it off.
"What music do you want?"
"What have you got?"
"All sorts."
I reach for an old favourite, perfect really for this kind of late night banter thing. I show him the Manu Chao CD.
"I don't know him."
"He's very good."
"What else have you got? Marvin Gaye?"
"Somewhere. Here, Otis Redding, we'll play that."
"Real motown...So what's your son's name?"
I tell him.
"Is that Spanish?"
"No, French. My parents are French."
"So you're French?"
"I guess so. Where are your parents from?"
"India, but I was born in Kenya."
We chat away, I refill the glasses. He puts on a Michael Jackson cd and asks me about my life so I tell him. Good job I don't fancy him or I'd be tempted to lie. I'm careful not to invite his sympathy though, or his pity.
"Why are you sitting so far away?" he says from the sofa right in front of me.
"I'm not!"
"Come and sit next to me."
He's a friendly guy, there's nothing in it but I'm quite comfortable where I am.
"I don't know, maybe I will."
"It's curious but out of curiosity, I really want to kiss you. What do you think?"
"That is curious," I smile. "You were looking at Bec all evening and I wasn't looking at you! Here look, this is my Book That Will Never Be Published." I reach over and take a pink folder from under the pile of newspapers at the other end of the sofa.
He takes it and removes the sheets of paper from it. I suddenly have a mine fear, that he'll read what I don't want him to so I go over and sit next to him, pick out the 'best' bits.
He scans the chapter on Paranoia and laughs: "Only had sex once? I don't believe that!" I give him a few others; Japan, Crime, Money, Drugs.
"Can I kiss you? Shall we kiss?" He's quite relentless! He's also not unattractive. Why shouldn't I after all? A kiss can be just a kiss.
It's wierd at first, for me that is, but slowly we get into it. Slowly it gets more passionate. I miss this, I think as I'm reminded of what it's like. His hand travels up my dress, I catch it, we carry on.
"Is there somewhere more comfortable where we can go?" he asks.
"No. Let's stay here."
A part of me wants to keep on going, keep keep on going, going where ever going led. The other part of me was playing out the future. I'd have this night of passion and then what? Drunken sex with somebody else and then drunken sex with somebody else? I have too many issues with sex to do that to myself.
I pull away.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. We said a kiss and we've kissed!"
I go back and sit on the chair.
"You know, I've had two guys here and I didn't kiss either of them."
"Why not? Why kiss me and not them?"
"Because I meant something to them."
"Ooooooooooooooow!" He throws his head back.
"I didn't want them to get hurt."
We talk some more and at six he calls a cab. He makes me promise not to tell Phil.
"Why not?" I find it quite funny.
"I don't want anyone to know."
"Well who's going to tell?"
"No-one, I just don't want you to."
"OK, and you don't tell about me either."
The cab calls. With his phone in his hand he says:
"If we see each other again, will you have sex with me?"
Now there's an offer! But can I do casual? Casual is all he can do right now.
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Do you think you'll have sex with me, yes or no?"
"I don't know!" I laugh, because I don't!
"Do you want to have sex with me?"
Well yes I might but I'm on the spot and if in doubt, leave it out or so they say.
"No."
"Ok, I better go, you're a nice girl," he says as he opens the front door. Nice because I didn't shag him? That's not what he meant.
"I know." I answered but I'm not, otherwise I wouldn't be writing about him, would I? I should have said "And you're a nice man."
Because he was. He wasn't debonair at all. He was charming, generous, funny, open, interested, interesting, good company. My ideal man when I see it written down like that.
Why am I telling you? I don't know, maybe I think it has value.
I learnt tonight that sex is sacred. Sex is sacred to the Self.
Everybody has different boundaries. I'm rat shit bored of being chained by my own.
It was very healing for me though.
I don't think I hurt him. He didn't hurt me.
With that I got into bed.
It won't surprise you to know he took the stairs when he left.
Treasures on the internet?
My mother calls me at 11 am and apologises for waking me up.
"Oh you didn't," I croak. "There's been a rainstorm banging its tune against the window since half past 6 this morning. I'm going to have a cup of tea and go back to bed."
As I switch the kettle on, I also switch on my computer! The guy last night didn't make me feel like a freak. I need more experiences like that really and go further each time, though it would be nice if it was with the same person. It would be nice if I found my Knight In No Armour, even nicer if I recognise him once I do.
The Internet! I have three days! Two and a half days! And then no more, for I do prefer meeting people in the Real World.
MakeHay has responded! He is moving from Richmond to another place in Richmond. Ah! I say to him. I passed through Richmond last night, we could have met for a quick drink before I headed off to Putney.
I have another message from a man called ForbiddenFruit. Does good music make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up? Yes, yes it does!
He's into all kinds of films, what was the last film I watched? Johnny Mad Dog I tell him. I usually go on my own, but that time it was with a friend. (I was quite relieved that I didn't have to say Cloudy With Meatballs but Johnny Mad Dog was after my son's birthday)
He's a member of the BFI. Am I? Am I a member of anything? I'm a member of the School of Doris I tell him. As to whether I'll be a member of anything in the future, well que sera sera!
"Will you shine a light on me?"
What?!
"Will I shine a light on you? Only if you are carrying the torch!"
Well, ask a mental question, you get a mental answer!
Instead of surfing for my Knight in No Armour, I log out. I saw a Facebook message in my inbox. I wonder what that's all about!
"Oh you didn't," I croak. "There's been a rainstorm banging its tune against the window since half past 6 this morning. I'm going to have a cup of tea and go back to bed."
As I switch the kettle on, I also switch on my computer! The guy last night didn't make me feel like a freak. I need more experiences like that really and go further each time, though it would be nice if it was with the same person. It would be nice if I found my Knight In No Armour, even nicer if I recognise him once I do.
The Internet! I have three days! Two and a half days! And then no more, for I do prefer meeting people in the Real World.
MakeHay has responded! He is moving from Richmond to another place in Richmond. Ah! I say to him. I passed through Richmond last night, we could have met for a quick drink before I headed off to Putney.
I have another message from a man called ForbiddenFruit. Does good music make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up? Yes, yes it does!
He's into all kinds of films, what was the last film I watched? Johnny Mad Dog I tell him. I usually go on my own, but that time it was with a friend. (I was quite relieved that I didn't have to say Cloudy With Meatballs but Johnny Mad Dog was after my son's birthday)
He's a member of the BFI. Am I? Am I a member of anything? I'm a member of the School of Doris I tell him. As to whether I'll be a member of anything in the future, well que sera sera!
"Will you shine a light on me?"
What?!
"Will I shine a light on you? Only if you are carrying the torch!"
Well, ask a mental question, you get a mental answer!
Instead of surfing for my Knight in No Armour, I log out. I saw a Facebook message in my inbox. I wonder what that's all about!
Nationalist Party Protest
Caroline, a mum from my Kentish Town living days, sends me a message on Facebook telling me to come along to a protest at the Gloucester Arms pub against the formation of Jobbik, a Hungarian Nationalist Party setting up a London branch.
She says the party's been quoted as saying all Romanies should be gassed.
I visited Hungary and had a brilliant time, I had a spectacular time hitchhiking in Romania with my brother. I don't know what this is about, but it sounds interesting.
It's local and it's in a pub! I can have a hair of the dog, that'll set me right.
I have a bath, I get dressed, I put on make up. I don't actually look too bad. Lychee Vodka and Bailey's is clearly the way forward on a night out!
I get to the pub around 2, an hour and a half late. The bar is empty save three men but all the activity seems to be going on at the back. I squeeze through a few big men and look to see if I can spot Caroline.
Everyone is sitting around the room, so there's a big empty space in the middle and a man on some kind of podium, talking. Are you there Caroline? Men, men, men, the odd woman, not Caroline, no.
I become aware that the speaker is speaking in Hungarian. Why I assumed it would be in English, I just do not know!
I've convinced myself I want a bloody mary so I go to the bar and text Caroline, to tell her I'm here.
I sense the man next to me, turning around to look at me. Yes, I'm a woman in a bar, on a Sunday afternoon having a drink on my own, I know. I look at him and recognition snaps behind my eyelids. It's the journalist I met ages ago when I wanted to bid for a flat at auction. It is the same journalist I sent my email to the three party leaders but I don't mention that, no!
"Oh hello!" is what I said.
He asks me how I am and I tell him I've had a bit of a heavy night and I'm having a hair of the dog. You'd think he was an old friend the way I was carrying on!
He asks me why I'm here, how I heard about it. There was a protest, but I've missed it.
Two men are having a debate, in English! Journo is listening to this debate. What I can hear of the debate is very good, very exciting, like having front row seats at Question Time. The English guy is very calm, very softly spoken. The Hungarian man he's discussing with is quite the opposite, getting quite hot under the collar as he's grilled on the holocaust, this party's links to the BNP, quite a lot of issues.
If I go to pubs on my own I alway have a pen and paper so I can scribble thoughts and look purposeful and happy in my own company (something I learnt to do in the Czech Republic for one has to taste the beers if one is there, even if one is on her own, for the country is renowned for them). A shame I didn't have anything on me today, for blogging purposes, so I could tell you more.
The journo said he was leaving, was I going to be alright, which was really nice of him. Yes, I said to him, I'm going to finish my drink and go! And that's just what I did!
She says the party's been quoted as saying all Romanies should be gassed.
I visited Hungary and had a brilliant time, I had a spectacular time hitchhiking in Romania with my brother. I don't know what this is about, but it sounds interesting.
It's local and it's in a pub! I can have a hair of the dog, that'll set me right.
I have a bath, I get dressed, I put on make up. I don't actually look too bad. Lychee Vodka and Bailey's is clearly the way forward on a night out!
I get to the pub around 2, an hour and a half late. The bar is empty save three men but all the activity seems to be going on at the back. I squeeze through a few big men and look to see if I can spot Caroline.
Everyone is sitting around the room, so there's a big empty space in the middle and a man on some kind of podium, talking. Are you there Caroline? Men, men, men, the odd woman, not Caroline, no.
I become aware that the speaker is speaking in Hungarian. Why I assumed it would be in English, I just do not know!
I've convinced myself I want a bloody mary so I go to the bar and text Caroline, to tell her I'm here.
I sense the man next to me, turning around to look at me. Yes, I'm a woman in a bar, on a Sunday afternoon having a drink on my own, I know. I look at him and recognition snaps behind my eyelids. It's the journalist I met ages ago when I wanted to bid for a flat at auction. It is the same journalist I sent my email to the three party leaders but I don't mention that, no!
"Oh hello!" is what I said.
He asks me how I am and I tell him I've had a bit of a heavy night and I'm having a hair of the dog. You'd think he was an old friend the way I was carrying on!
He asks me why I'm here, how I heard about it. There was a protest, but I've missed it.
Two men are having a debate, in English! Journo is listening to this debate. What I can hear of the debate is very good, very exciting, like having front row seats at Question Time. The English guy is very calm, very softly spoken. The Hungarian man he's discussing with is quite the opposite, getting quite hot under the collar as he's grilled on the holocaust, this party's links to the BNP, quite a lot of issues.
If I go to pubs on my own I alway have a pen and paper so I can scribble thoughts and look purposeful and happy in my own company (something I learnt to do in the Czech Republic for one has to taste the beers if one is there, even if one is on her own, for the country is renowned for them). A shame I didn't have anything on me today, for blogging purposes, so I could tell you more.
The journo said he was leaving, was I going to be alright, which was really nice of him. Yes, I said to him, I'm going to finish my drink and go! And that's just what I did!
You're still a fucking prick
I'm walking out of the pub and the sky is so blue I decide I should go and lie on the heath for a little while before my son comes home. Perhaps I should eat first. I'm debating this when I run into a school mum who's with her kids. When she asks how I am, I tell her I've just had a hair of the dog!
"You're not still going from Friday are you?!" I tell her yes, but hang on, I only had one can at the disco and then I stayed in. She tells me to have a liquid day and eat something sweet like biscuits. I say a cheery "bye bye, see you in the morning!"
"Message from the dark side there is" It's Yoda, alerting me to a text message on my phone.
Whaddya know, a dark fucking message indeed. It's the Foca saying he's sent me an email. He's not bringing my son back today.
RRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH. The internal screech splits my eardrums. I text him back, saying for fucks sake, he's out of order. Friends have suggested I stop access but I don't want to punish our son like he does.
RRRAAGH RRRAAGH RRRAAGH
I want another drink. A Jack Daniels. On ice. I want it now but I've just been in a pub on my own. I'm not doing it again however bloody much I want to.
Relationships on the rocks
Aint no suprise
Pour me a drink
And I'll poke you in the eyes
Yesterday's gone
And you're still a fucking PRICK (Neil Diamond featuring a very fucking infuriated Stigmum)
I text Steve. "r u around?" He's not my Alco buddy, he is my buddy. I do not have an Alco buddy. I am my own Alco fucking buddy.
I get home and I read the email.
I can't tell you how much I hate seeing his name in my inbox. Perhaps one day I will, I'll write a poem or something scratched onto his skin with my own sharp nails.
It crosses my mind his wife might be dead or something. There is always something wrong with his wife. Oh look, yes, she does feature but no she hasn't died, he's just reminding me she's had a second baby.
He's emailing me to tell me he's no longer going to bring our son back on Sunday. There, like it and lump it, he doesn't give a fuck. It cuts through our son's time with his brothers and cousins. The journey time is 'ludicrous'. He'll talk to the school. If I have a problem with it, I can make the journey to Brighton and back on a sunday because it won't 'interfere' with my life.
It's all WANK.
I hit reply and BREATHE. No expletives dear, it may have to be presented in a court of law.
It was your choice to move to Brighton, you didn't realise how tired our son was the last time and it effects his whole week (same old shit that I said the last time basically)
My own brother is fully able to return his kids to their mother when he's visiting the family down south
You have a driving licence, you have a car, you do not need to rely on public transport
And as for my making the trip to Brighton. You make decisions without discussing them with me then expect me and my son to carry the cost of those decisions?
I hit send. I send a text telling him I've replied to his email, to bring our son home today.
Relationship on the rocks
Aint no surprise
Pour me a drink
Let me poke you in both eyes
Yesterday's gone
You are still a FUCKING PRICK.
I go to Google. I stab my laptop. What is on at the cinema? I have a free fecking evening infront of me now and am I going to stay in so I can throw plastic plates at the walls. I want to throw REAL ONES but it won't achieve ANYTHING.
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHH
"You're not still going from Friday are you?!" I tell her yes, but hang on, I only had one can at the disco and then I stayed in. She tells me to have a liquid day and eat something sweet like biscuits. I say a cheery "bye bye, see you in the morning!"
"Message from the dark side there is" It's Yoda, alerting me to a text message on my phone.
Whaddya know, a dark fucking message indeed. It's the Foca saying he's sent me an email. He's not bringing my son back today.
RRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH. The internal screech splits my eardrums. I text him back, saying for fucks sake, he's out of order. Friends have suggested I stop access but I don't want to punish our son like he does.
RRRAAGH RRRAAGH RRRAAGH
I want another drink. A Jack Daniels. On ice. I want it now but I've just been in a pub on my own. I'm not doing it again however bloody much I want to.
Relationships on the rocks
Aint no suprise
Pour me a drink
And I'll poke you in the eyes
Yesterday's gone
And you're still a fucking PRICK (Neil Diamond featuring a very fucking infuriated Stigmum)
I text Steve. "r u around?" He's not my Alco buddy, he is my buddy. I do not have an Alco buddy. I am my own Alco fucking buddy.
I get home and I read the email.
I can't tell you how much I hate seeing his name in my inbox. Perhaps one day I will, I'll write a poem or something scratched onto his skin with my own sharp nails.
It crosses my mind his wife might be dead or something. There is always something wrong with his wife. Oh look, yes, she does feature but no she hasn't died, he's just reminding me she's had a second baby.
He's emailing me to tell me he's no longer going to bring our son back on Sunday. There, like it and lump it, he doesn't give a fuck. It cuts through our son's time with his brothers and cousins. The journey time is 'ludicrous'. He'll talk to the school. If I have a problem with it, I can make the journey to Brighton and back on a sunday because it won't 'interfere' with my life.
It's all WANK.
I hit reply and BREATHE. No expletives dear, it may have to be presented in a court of law.
It was your choice to move to Brighton, you didn't realise how tired our son was the last time and it effects his whole week (same old shit that I said the last time basically)
My own brother is fully able to return his kids to their mother when he's visiting the family down south
You have a driving licence, you have a car, you do not need to rely on public transport
And as for my making the trip to Brighton. You make decisions without discussing them with me then expect me and my son to carry the cost of those decisions?
I hit send. I send a text telling him I've replied to his email, to bring our son home today.
Relationship on the rocks
Aint no surprise
Pour me a drink
Let me poke you in both eyes
Yesterday's gone
You are still a FUCKING PRICK.
I go to Google. I stab my laptop. What is on at the cinema? I have a free fecking evening infront of me now and am I going to stay in so I can throw plastic plates at the walls. I want to throw REAL ONES but it won't achieve ANYTHING.
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHH
Plans for Sunday Evening
An impromtu free evening ahead of me, probably on my own, I decide I should go and see a film. I am too angry to sit in this cabin.
Harry Brown, with Michael Caine, is playing in Camden.
White Ribbon, set in Germany in 1913 about a community shaken by events is on at BFI. 'Gripping from start to finish'
Sounds good, sounds good, but should I stay close to home, I am somewhat tired, I am somewhat pissed off, I am somewhat hungry because I haven't sodding eaten except for a packet of cheese and onion crisps.
"Message from the dark side there is"
It's Steve! He has vague plans to meet a friend, can he let me know in an hour or two?
Fine, I have plan for cinema I tell him, which I'm happy to do solo!
That's that then Doris baby, you call the shots.
Harry Brown, with Michael Caine, is playing in Camden.
White Ribbon, set in Germany in 1913 about a community shaken by events is on at BFI. 'Gripping from start to finish'
Sounds good, sounds good, but should I stay close to home, I am somewhat tired, I am somewhat pissed off, I am somewhat hungry because I haven't sodding eaten except for a packet of cheese and onion crisps.
"Message from the dark side there is"
It's Steve! He has vague plans to meet a friend, can he let me know in an hour or two?
Fine, I have plan for cinema I tell him, which I'm happy to do solo!
That's that then Doris baby, you call the shots.
Hampstead Heath
Heath, Heath, I need you Heath!
On a message board on mummy bloggers once, lots of mummies said they draft their posts before they post them.
Me and stiggers, we never do this, we just write. It's wierd, it's very strange. In my journo days, my masters days, I wrote so many drafts a veritable typhoon would scatter my paper everywhere. My flat's messy because I don't tidy up, not because I edit edit edit.
My vague plan of blogging 'my weekend' though, needs planning, not only because it's turned out to be bigger than I imagined, but also because blogs work backwards and well, it just make more sense reading it forwards. Things can go back to normal afterwards.
When I get to the Heath, the light is fading. Maybe I'll just bullet point 'chapters', not that I'll forget what I did but it may stop me getting carried away with all the angry feelings.
I sit on a bench at a table, light a fag and cast my mind way way back to Saturday morning.
1. The gift subscription
2. Bazza's Boot Camp
3. Putney
My hands are freezing, my lighter won't reignite my cigarette. "Message from the dark side there is" It's the Foca saying he 's sent me another email. I snap the phone shut. GO TO HELL and then it begins to rain. Pitter patter pitter patter. AAARGH.
I can't go home. I can't go home. Kalender Cafe on Swains Lane. I'll take my stuff and write there.
Steve phones: "I'm on the heath, where are you?"
"I'm on the heath too, about to go to Swains Lane."
"I'm on the Hampstead side. Where's Swains Lane?"
I tell him, I tell him he can take his time. I've known Steve for so long. I need someone who knows me to be with me tonight. I look up to the sky and say thank you.
On a message board on mummy bloggers once, lots of mummies said they draft their posts before they post them.
Me and stiggers, we never do this, we just write. It's wierd, it's very strange. In my journo days, my masters days, I wrote so many drafts a veritable typhoon would scatter my paper everywhere. My flat's messy because I don't tidy up, not because I edit edit edit.
My vague plan of blogging 'my weekend' though, needs planning, not only because it's turned out to be bigger than I imagined, but also because blogs work backwards and well, it just make more sense reading it forwards. Things can go back to normal afterwards.
When I get to the Heath, the light is fading. Maybe I'll just bullet point 'chapters', not that I'll forget what I did but it may stop me getting carried away with all the angry feelings.
I sit on a bench at a table, light a fag and cast my mind way way back to Saturday morning.
1. The gift subscription
2. Bazza's Boot Camp
3. Putney
My hands are freezing, my lighter won't reignite my cigarette. "Message from the dark side there is" It's the Foca saying he 's sent me another email. I snap the phone shut. GO TO HELL and then it begins to rain. Pitter patter pitter patter. AAARGH.
I can't go home. I can't go home. Kalender Cafe on Swains Lane. I'll take my stuff and write there.
Steve phones: "I'm on the heath, where are you?"
"I'm on the heath too, about to go to Swains Lane."
"I'm on the Hampstead side. Where's Swains Lane?"
I tell him, I tell him he can take his time. I've known Steve for so long. I need someone who knows me to be with me tonight. I look up to the sky and say thank you.
Kalender Cafe
Swains Lane is a little upmarket street with an Indian restaurant at the bottom and a Tesco Metro at the top.
There is an organic grocer and a shop that has patterned wellies outside it in the autumn. I didn't notice this evening. There are three cafes; Kalender, Mozart and Cafe Uno.
Kalender is my personal favourite. It's expensive so I don't often go but they do the best chocolate milkshakes for miles around. In the summer its terrace is full of people eating and talking and generally having a lovely time. Tonight the bright and warm interior cocoons families and friends at wooden tables. It is packed.
I sit outside. Two women are chatting on one side of me, and two men on the other. One of them smiles at me. Has he seen me on that dating site? I do not smile back.
I put my fags, notebook and pen on the table and order a pot of tea and an ashtray.
Instead of writing my posts in chronological order of events, I opt instead to start with what made me angry. Capture it, let it bleed from my biro.
"Message from the dark side" Foca. "Bully" OH FUCK OFF
RRRAAGH RRRAAGH RRRAAGH, write your RRRAAGH RRRAAGH RRRAAGH
My tea is cold when I finish but with exquisite timing, Steve arrives.
I don't want to talk about the Foca, I don't want to ruin the evening, so pass over it quickly. I talk about my blog. Should I be so honest about what I feel in them? Should I be telling the whole world I have nits?
Yes, he says, otherwise why do it? Creativity is good and I smile because this is what I said to my son just the other day.
"I'm hungry," he says. "I might have a bite to eat."
"Yeah, I better have something too."
The Kalender's bruchettas are nice. They have light snacks and sandwiches, burgers and jacket potatoes.
"Fuck it," I say. "I'm going to have the steak and chips. I need iron." At £12.95 it's the most expensive thing on the menu.
"I think I'll do the same."
I order medium with water. Stevo laughs because I told him I got drunk last night and orders medium too with milkshake.
We chewed on relationships, tried to make sense of ourselves. We both recently dumped people we liked.
"I really miss her but I had to leave,"
"I really missed shit school aquaintance. Sometimes I still do." I slice the tender meat, let it dissolve into my veins. Sometimes men and women aren't so different after all I think. It's so nice to be here, it's so nice to be here with Steve.
He orders a glass of House Red. I join him and toast him. He's doing stand up in a couple of weeks for the first time. He said he's going to spend Christmas on his own. I ask him, that if he does do that, to walk around the city then write about it for me. He says he might cycle it. Better option actually! Cover more ground.
We were the only ones on that terrace. I'd seen no-one else leave. The streets were so quiet. I wasn't going to go to the cinema. He said it was a nice idea earlier but he was going to go home and write.
It's such a perfect evening
I'm glad I spent it with you
Oh such a perfect evening
It'll keep me carrying on
It must keep me carrying on (Lou Reed featuring a very tired stigmum)
There is an organic grocer and a shop that has patterned wellies outside it in the autumn. I didn't notice this evening. There are three cafes; Kalender, Mozart and Cafe Uno.
Kalender is my personal favourite. It's expensive so I don't often go but they do the best chocolate milkshakes for miles around. In the summer its terrace is full of people eating and talking and generally having a lovely time. Tonight the bright and warm interior cocoons families and friends at wooden tables. It is packed.
I sit outside. Two women are chatting on one side of me, and two men on the other. One of them smiles at me. Has he seen me on that dating site? I do not smile back.
I put my fags, notebook and pen on the table and order a pot of tea and an ashtray.
Instead of writing my posts in chronological order of events, I opt instead to start with what made me angry. Capture it, let it bleed from my biro.
"Message from the dark side" Foca. "Bully" OH FUCK OFF
RRRAAGH RRRAAGH RRRAAGH, write your RRRAAGH RRRAAGH RRRAAGH
My tea is cold when I finish but with exquisite timing, Steve arrives.
I don't want to talk about the Foca, I don't want to ruin the evening, so pass over it quickly. I talk about my blog. Should I be so honest about what I feel in them? Should I be telling the whole world I have nits?
Yes, he says, otherwise why do it? Creativity is good and I smile because this is what I said to my son just the other day.
"I'm hungry," he says. "I might have a bite to eat."
"Yeah, I better have something too."
The Kalender's bruchettas are nice. They have light snacks and sandwiches, burgers and jacket potatoes.
"Fuck it," I say. "I'm going to have the steak and chips. I need iron." At £12.95 it's the most expensive thing on the menu.
"I think I'll do the same."
I order medium with water. Stevo laughs because I told him I got drunk last night and orders medium too with milkshake.
We chewed on relationships, tried to make sense of ourselves. We both recently dumped people we liked.
"I really miss her but I had to leave,"
"I really missed shit school aquaintance. Sometimes I still do." I slice the tender meat, let it dissolve into my veins. Sometimes men and women aren't so different after all I think. It's so nice to be here, it's so nice to be here with Steve.
He orders a glass of House Red. I join him and toast him. He's doing stand up in a couple of weeks for the first time. He said he's going to spend Christmas on his own. I ask him, that if he does do that, to walk around the city then write about it for me. He says he might cycle it. Better option actually! Cover more ground.
We were the only ones on that terrace. I'd seen no-one else leave. The streets were so quiet. I wasn't going to go to the cinema. He said it was a nice idea earlier but he was going to go home and write.
It's such a perfect evening
I'm glad I spent it with you
Oh such a perfect evening
It'll keep me carrying on
It must keep me carrying on (Lou Reed featuring a very tired stigmum)
Sunday Night
I get home from being with Steve and immediately feel an atmosphere of threat in my home. I never feel it in my home. I never let the Foca in it so the walls don't get tainted with an argument, with his presence. It's my retreat; it's a safe place for me.
There's an email waiting for me. It's in my laptop. I want to go into my computer, see who's left a message for me on the dating site, but I don't want to see my ex, be anywhere near him. Probably best I don't visit the site; I wouldn't want to reply and I always reply. I'm not in the mood. I'm still angry and I'm very upset my son isn't asleep in the room next door.
Here is the transposed texts of the afternoon:
The Foca: 14:40. Please check your email. Can't bring back son back today. Have written to explain.
Me: 14.43. For fucks sake. Why not? Out of order. Friends say i should stop access but i don't want to punish my son like you do.
(My phone has clearly swallowed the one telling him I have replied to his email. Bring our son home tonight)
The Foca: 16.13. Replied to your email. Please let me know where you wish to meet to discuss this in person.
Me: 16.14. Not in the mood to talk to you you've made me so angry. Bring him back tonight.
The Foca: This is a conversation between two separated parents regarding what is in the best interest of their child. You anger and your attempts to bully with it have no place here. This is my last text only email from now. I will sit with my laptop and respond to all your emails. It is important that we are clear on what each other think so we don't argue in front of [our son]. He felt you were angry with him last time. I have assured him that is not the case.
I did not reply. FOCA. Father Of Child ARSEHOLE. Patronising SHITHEAD.
My email to you was clear enough.
I do not want you in my inbox.
I was angry with YOU the last time
I'm the bully huh? I'm still the fucking bully? I'm the one who sends a message hours before our child is due to be returned saying he's not coming back? And why? Because you can't be fucking arsed to make the journey.
TOSSER
The school. The school has access to family support services. I am not going to talk to this man on my own.
He has his wife, his sister, his brother and his sister in law no doubt backing him, for his sister in law certainly did when we split up.
I have no-one bar my friends who I do not want to lean on with this kind of SHIT.
I tried to watch television. I tried to focus on the good parts of the weekend. I tried to concentrate on "Small Island". I tried to stop the News from going in one ear and out of the other.
In the end I surrendered and went to bed.
So that was my weekend. Flipping fantastic and agonisingly awful. My son is not home.
The End
But it's not the end is it? Of all the threads I could've pulled from this weekend, why did I pull the short straw?
There's an email waiting for me. It's in my laptop. I want to go into my computer, see who's left a message for me on the dating site, but I don't want to see my ex, be anywhere near him. Probably best I don't visit the site; I wouldn't want to reply and I always reply. I'm not in the mood. I'm still angry and I'm very upset my son isn't asleep in the room next door.
Here is the transposed texts of the afternoon:
The Foca: 14:40. Please check your email. Can't bring back son back today. Have written to explain.
Me: 14.43. For fucks sake. Why not? Out of order. Friends say i should stop access but i don't want to punish my son like you do.
(My phone has clearly swallowed the one telling him I have replied to his email. Bring our son home tonight)
The Foca: 16.13. Replied to your email. Please let me know where you wish to meet to discuss this in person.
Me: 16.14. Not in the mood to talk to you you've made me so angry. Bring him back tonight.
The Foca: This is a conversation between two separated parents regarding what is in the best interest of their child. You anger and your attempts to bully with it have no place here. This is my last text only email from now. I will sit with my laptop and respond to all your emails. It is important that we are clear on what each other think so we don't argue in front of [our son]. He felt you were angry with him last time. I have assured him that is not the case.
I did not reply. FOCA. Father Of Child ARSEHOLE. Patronising SHITHEAD.
My email to you was clear enough.
I do not want you in my inbox.
I was angry with YOU the last time
I'm the bully huh? I'm still the fucking bully? I'm the one who sends a message hours before our child is due to be returned saying he's not coming back? And why? Because you can't be fucking arsed to make the journey.
TOSSER
The school. The school has access to family support services. I am not going to talk to this man on my own.
He has his wife, his sister, his brother and his sister in law no doubt backing him, for his sister in law certainly did when we split up.
I have no-one bar my friends who I do not want to lean on with this kind of SHIT.
I tried to watch television. I tried to focus on the good parts of the weekend. I tried to concentrate on "Small Island". I tried to stop the News from going in one ear and out of the other.
In the end I surrendered and went to bed.
So that was my weekend. Flipping fantastic and agonisingly awful. My son is not home.
The End
But it's not the end is it? Of all the threads I could've pulled from this weekend, why did I pull the short straw?
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