I have days when I am so consumed with bitterness towards my Ex that I can barely function.
I never thought I would feel like this. Particularly after being separated for two years. Especially because we are so amicable for the most part.
Maybe that's the problem.
I'm so busy putting on a brave face and 'doing the right thing' for our children - that I have effectively swallowed all the hurt and anger that I genuinely feel and yet have never expressed. To him at least. It is all so unsatisfying.
I focus on my adorable children. I focus on the wonderful life I have (honest to God, I have so many things to be grateful for and KNOW that compared to many others I live the life of bloody riley). I am grateful that this whole separation and divorce has not been a traumatic shitstorm. It could have all been so much worse.
Still. It doesn't stop me from wanting to smash his bloody head in sometimes. Like a couple of weeks ago when we Skyped daddy at the weekend and I discovered he was on a weekend getaway in Miami with AG. From out of nowhere a tidal wave of acid erupted from my abdomen and crashed through my chest. This surge of resentment and envy - and downright hate - coursed through my body with such intensity that I had to walk out into the garden and physically cover my mouth to stop myself from screaming in bitterness and anger. My whole body was shaking - and yet all this pent up energy had nowhere to go. It seethed and writhed within me, while my head swam with vicious, venomous thoughts.
You see, sometimes when Ex is nice to me...I forget. I forget that he has moved on. I forget that when he says in an email 'I never stopped loving you' that he doesn't mean 'I never stopped being in love with you' (world of difference, isn't there?) and that actually, he has totally moved on and is IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE ELSE. And if we are talking Life of Riley...well, sometimes his lifestyle makes me want to chew my own socks with frustration.
IT WAS NEVER MEANT TO BE THIS WAY.
How on earth did it turn out this way?
Yet the biggest, most urgent question is, why am I still unable to come to terms with all this over 2 years later?
Why do I let this bitterness consume me at times? Why can't I just Let. It. Go? Please, dear God, I really do want to be free of it. I am so sick of being side-swiped by destructive emotions, that knock me out for days on end. And I know I am the only one who can choose not to allow his life to impact me emotionally. Which just makes it worse. It's not him, per se, it's me. Bleugh.
Despite my best efforts to be a spiritual, enlightened human being, it turns out that deep down, I am still like a sulking, self-absorbed child...
"But you told me you would ALWAYS love me...I trusted YOU! And I don't want you to be nice to me any more. I don't want anything to do with you any more. You lied to me. You spent years lying to me. And I can't forgive you for it. In fact, I hate you for it. Truly hate you for it. Because I trusted you more than I have ever trusted anyone in my life. And, whatever you might believe, you are not my friend - because friends don't betray each other like that. Ever. So I will smile at you and be nice in front of the children. I will pass on daily titbits about their day and ensure you feel constantly involved and updated on their lives. But really? Deep down? I would just prefer it if you would just Fuck Off and I never, ever had to see or talk to you, ever again."
Oh my. So much still to deal with. Thank God I don't feel like this every day. If it was constant, how on earth would you live with yourself? The random days here and there are bad enough as it is.
Of course, I would love to express all this to Ex - to dump it out there and just walk away. But I know it would just sit there in the middle of us...and it would definitely impact our boys. And once the words are said - well, they can never be retracted. And they would always be remembered, of that I am sure. So instead I will just say them here - and feel all the better for it. And I will push thoughts of him to the back of my mind and replace them with thoughts of my brave and beautiful boys.
Because really, they are two of the most incredible brave and beautiful boys that you would ever have the good fortune to come across.
I am astounded at how well they have settled in the UK. They are loving their new school and have made so many friends. Many of the parents have remarked what happy children they are, and how quickly they have adapted. I am so very proud of them. They really don't seem to hanker or yearn for their old life in Chicago at all - they are so immersed in the present moment and enjoying the freedom of their new life.
Things are working out really well with Johnny Drama - the consistent application of rules is working bloody wonders and his behaviour has improved beyond measure. I have also found that getting him to take on extra responsibility and tasks around the house serves to make him even better behaved, which is a bit of a result. And the more that I resist bringing Mummy Shouty Knickers into the equation, the less resistance and retaliation I encounter.
Honestly, the boys are a complete joy right now and I am, more or less, loving every minute that I spend with them.
As I said, I truly am very lucky. I have a lot to be grateful for. The Ex bitch slap will have to be consigned to my parallel world, where I have it on good authority that I am a total bitch and couldn't give two hoots about being nice...
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Unwanted Visitors
So it's nearly half term, which means that Ex is coming to the UK to spend the week with the boys.
This should be a good thing. A break for me. Some much needed bonding time for them. But I am dreading it.
You see, the arrangement we have - that I suggested in fact, way back when I was ensconced in Chicago and would just about promise anything to get home - is that when Ex comes to visit his sons, he stays in my house and I move out for the duration of the visit.
As well as being a much more homely environment for the boys to chill out with their dad, it also reduces his expenses and makes it more affordable for him to visit them more frequently.
Oh, it all seemed so obvious and doable when I was in Chicago. And I know, in my heart of hearts, it is in the boys best interests.
However...
Now I am here and it's MY home...I must be honest, I really don't want my Ex anywhere near it, not least have it tarnished with him sleeping in my bed, sitting on my sofa, shitting in my toilet, blowing his nose while using my shower, using my pots and pans and generally making himself at home in my space. What on earth was I thinking to even suggest such a thing?
What's worse, on this visit he is being accompanied by his girlfriend and they are going to be sharing my bed together. Therefore the amber alert potential of his early morning wank has graduated to the full blown red alert threat of their multiple orgasmic shags - the thought of which almost makes me want to move out...and never come back.
To be honest, it isn't really that my home (and new sheets!) are going to be sullied by his (or her) presence. It's just that I hadn't really considered what a pain in the arse it would be to move out for a weekend/week once or twice a month. It means that the break that I crave, from single-handedly looking after the boys 100% of the time, day and night, doesn't really materialise.
I don't have the money to pay for a hotel and am very lucky to have a very generous friend who allows me to stay over with her and her daughter. But it's not the same as being able to relax at home.
However, my main bone of contention is my suspicion that my Ex spends his visit judging my house and how I live. I just can't stand the fact that he is probably turning his nose up at my dinky little house with its shabby little fixtures. He has made it very obvious that he expects much more than this for himself and his girlfriend when he finally moves over. The last time he visited (only 2 weeks ago) I spent two whole days doing my best Mrs Mop impression, cleaning the house from top to bottom, so it would supposedly meet his expectations. Don't ask me why I did this. There is no sane explanation. The need to win his approval is one that I constantly feel I am fighting a losing battle with. I could climb Mt Everest in a swimsuit and a pair of ballet shoes and you can bet your bottom dollar he would fail to be impressed. So WHY I even bother would be a sure-fire question for my therapist (if I had one).
On the aeroplane home he wrote me an email entitled 'Your house...your rules ;-)' and then proceeded to give me a list of child proofing recommendations. Far be it from him to keep his opinions on where I am slacking to himself, obviously.
It's only four more days till his arrival and, already, I am edgy. I don't want to see him. I don't want to see her. I don't want to leave my home. The boys, needless to say, are counting their sleeps till their dad arrives and are breathless with excitement at the thought of spending six days with him. They deserve to have a lovely, relaxing, fun time with their dad - and I will continue to do whatever I have to do to make that happen. But it's not an ideal solution. Not for me, anyway. Far from it.
As I sit here in my cheery little kitchen, watching the clock hands tick slowly round to school pick up time, I can see a couple of small coffee stains on the work surfaces, flecks of mud on the floor, a fine layer of light dust on the table in the living room.
I am itching to clean it.
Desperate to whizz around the place like a maniacal housewife, armed with dusters, cloths and the ever faithful Mr Pledge before vacuuming every speck, hair and feather that I come across.
But I am not going to.
I am going to resist the urge to clean this time, even though I think it might induce a panic-attack. So what if he (or she) thinks the place is a mess? So bloody what? As if their opinion counts anyway. In fact, while I am at it, I might go one better. Just before they arrive I could scatter the contents of the bathroom bin over the floors, just to give that truly lived in vibe. Then, to test their nosy natures, I should fill my bedside table with all manner of dildos, butt plugs, handcuffs and toys of a dubious sexual nature, along with a selection of half used lubes and a well thumbed selection of erotic fiction. (That would make a slight change from the box of spare light bulbs and half used Vicks Sinex that currently lives there...)
Or not.
To clean or not to clean...? That is the question.
Oh, look at the time - better get myself out in to the rain and on with the school run. The cleaning can wait.
Till tomorrow at least.
This should be a good thing. A break for me. Some much needed bonding time for them. But I am dreading it.
You see, the arrangement we have - that I suggested in fact, way back when I was ensconced in Chicago and would just about promise anything to get home - is that when Ex comes to visit his sons, he stays in my house and I move out for the duration of the visit.
As well as being a much more homely environment for the boys to chill out with their dad, it also reduces his expenses and makes it more affordable for him to visit them more frequently.
Oh, it all seemed so obvious and doable when I was in Chicago. And I know, in my heart of hearts, it is in the boys best interests.
However...
Now I am here and it's MY home...I must be honest, I really don't want my Ex anywhere near it, not least have it tarnished with him sleeping in my bed, sitting on my sofa, shitting in my toilet, blowing his nose while using my shower, using my pots and pans and generally making himself at home in my space. What on earth was I thinking to even suggest such a thing?
What's worse, on this visit he is being accompanied by his girlfriend and they are going to be sharing my bed together. Therefore the amber alert potential of his early morning wank has graduated to the full blown red alert threat of their multiple orgasmic shags - the thought of which almost makes me want to move out...and never come back.
To be honest, it isn't really that my home (and new sheets!) are going to be sullied by his (or her) presence. It's just that I hadn't really considered what a pain in the arse it would be to move out for a weekend/week once or twice a month. It means that the break that I crave, from single-handedly looking after the boys 100% of the time, day and night, doesn't really materialise.
I don't have the money to pay for a hotel and am very lucky to have a very generous friend who allows me to stay over with her and her daughter. But it's not the same as being able to relax at home.
However, my main bone of contention is my suspicion that my Ex spends his visit judging my house and how I live. I just can't stand the fact that he is probably turning his nose up at my dinky little house with its shabby little fixtures. He has made it very obvious that he expects much more than this for himself and his girlfriend when he finally moves over. The last time he visited (only 2 weeks ago) I spent two whole days doing my best Mrs Mop impression, cleaning the house from top to bottom, so it would supposedly meet his expectations. Don't ask me why I did this. There is no sane explanation. The need to win his approval is one that I constantly feel I am fighting a losing battle with. I could climb Mt Everest in a swimsuit and a pair of ballet shoes and you can bet your bottom dollar he would fail to be impressed. So WHY I even bother would be a sure-fire question for my therapist (if I had one).
On the aeroplane home he wrote me an email entitled 'Your house...your rules ;-)' and then proceeded to give me a list of child proofing recommendations. Far be it from him to keep his opinions on where I am slacking to himself, obviously.
It's only four more days till his arrival and, already, I am edgy. I don't want to see him. I don't want to see her. I don't want to leave my home. The boys, needless to say, are counting their sleeps till their dad arrives and are breathless with excitement at the thought of spending six days with him. They deserve to have a lovely, relaxing, fun time with their dad - and I will continue to do whatever I have to do to make that happen. But it's not an ideal solution. Not for me, anyway. Far from it.
As I sit here in my cheery little kitchen, watching the clock hands tick slowly round to school pick up time, I can see a couple of small coffee stains on the work surfaces, flecks of mud on the floor, a fine layer of light dust on the table in the living room.
I am itching to clean it.
Desperate to whizz around the place like a maniacal housewife, armed with dusters, cloths and the ever faithful Mr Pledge before vacuuming every speck, hair and feather that I come across.
But I am not going to.
I am going to resist the urge to clean this time, even though I think it might induce a panic-attack. So what if he (or she) thinks the place is a mess? So bloody what? As if their opinion counts anyway. In fact, while I am at it, I might go one better. Just before they arrive I could scatter the contents of the bathroom bin over the floors, just to give that truly lived in vibe. Then, to test their nosy natures, I should fill my bedside table with all manner of dildos, butt plugs, handcuffs and toys of a dubious sexual nature, along with a selection of half used lubes and a well thumbed selection of erotic fiction. (That would make a slight change from the box of spare light bulbs and half used Vicks Sinex that currently lives there...)
Or not.
To clean or not to clean...? That is the question.
Oh, look at the time - better get myself out in to the rain and on with the school run. The cleaning can wait.
Till tomorrow at least.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Defiant To The Very End
So I have to face facts here. I have a very truculent, constantly defiant, verging on intolerably rude 5 year old on my hands these days.
I think, to be honest, he has been living with me for approximately 2 years but I have steadfastly stuck my head in the sand and refused to acknowledge it. Have gladly made all manner of excuses for his disobedience, general lack of respect and violent outbursts.
'He's acting up because his parents are separating'.
'He's testing the boundaries because he is 3...4...5'.
'He's not really a destructive little shit at heart, he just doesn't have the emotional capacity to express his innermost turmoil over the move home...'
Maybe there is a nugget of truth in all of these statements - but it is getting to the point where I now feel that I have to apologise and attempt to explain his behaviour to family and friends. His roguish demeanor is seen as being obnoxious and disdainful to others when he is not getting his own way (and even sometimes when he is). And I just feel overwhelmed by the task ahead of me in trying to straighten him out.
Part of me struggles because I know, deep down, that Johnny Drama - as well as being an incredibly loving and affectionate child - is also quite trepidatious. On the surface he is brash and confident. A scene stealer. Seeks the spotlight and adores being the centre of attention. Highly competitive (particularly against his older brother, who doesn't seem to give two hoots as to whether he wins, loses or draws).
But actually he is much more fearful of new situations, openly doubts his abilities and gets his knickers in a right old twist about not being as competent as his peers. Stick him in the garden with a football and a couple of mates and he is in his element. Sign him up for a sports class of any description, even one he particularly excels at, and he will sit cautiously on the sidelines and refuse to participate out of sheer nerves.
He is also the boy who, on one hand, will stick his tongue out when being told off and hit me if a request for sweets or more TV is turned down. But on the other hand will smother me in cuddles and kisses, pronouncing regularly and in the softest and most ardent of voices "I love you so much Mama. My heart squeezes so much love for you that it just wants to explode all out of my body, everywhere."
It's obvious that I haven't dealt with this Jekyll and Hyde behaviour well. I know I should have nipped it in the bud a long time ago, rather than making excuses. Initially, it seemed that I bore the brunt of his anger and defiance - and I'm ashamed to admit that I think I let a lot of it ride because I felt, deep down, that I deserved it.
Now his behaviour is extending to family, friends and at school. He even whacked my dad on their last visit, which earned him a significant time out, but it shocked me out of my complacency a little - how on earth does he have the confidence and gall to hit one of his grandparents? On what planet has he been led to believe that is acceptable behaviour? And who is responsible for guiding his actions and teaching him right from wrong? Well, that would be me then. Look what a stellar job I must be doing. It's mortifying. But I know the crux of it is that I am not doing my beloved son any favours by letting him behave this way. And a simple time out or a telling off doesn't seem to have much effect. I know the time has come to be more hard core and, more importantly, ruthlessly consistent.
Oh, how fucking exhausting that sounds just writing it down. And therein lies the problem - I just feel too weary to tackle it alone.
Which I guess has been my excuse for a very long time now.
Has anyone else dealt with this before? You know, the whole Second Child Syndrome on steroids?
I know I need to step up and stop making excuses, because I would hate him to become the insensitive, self-absorbed bully that we have all seen or experienced as he gets older. I've read enough books to know what I ought to be doing and, although I think I am applying the techniques religiously, I think my sister would agree that in real life I typically exhibit a Warts And All style of parenting.
Oh God, it's so depressing to think that I have moulded this little monster. My very own engaging, hilarious, gregarious, energetic, passionate miniature schizophrenic.
I think, to be honest, he has been living with me for approximately 2 years but I have steadfastly stuck my head in the sand and refused to acknowledge it. Have gladly made all manner of excuses for his disobedience, general lack of respect and violent outbursts.
'He's acting up because his parents are separating'.
'He's testing the boundaries because he is 3...4...5'.
'He's not really a destructive little shit at heart, he just doesn't have the emotional capacity to express his innermost turmoil over the move home...'
Maybe there is a nugget of truth in all of these statements - but it is getting to the point where I now feel that I have to apologise and attempt to explain his behaviour to family and friends. His roguish demeanor is seen as being obnoxious and disdainful to others when he is not getting his own way (and even sometimes when he is). And I just feel overwhelmed by the task ahead of me in trying to straighten him out.
Part of me struggles because I know, deep down, that Johnny Drama - as well as being an incredibly loving and affectionate child - is also quite trepidatious. On the surface he is brash and confident. A scene stealer. Seeks the spotlight and adores being the centre of attention. Highly competitive (particularly against his older brother, who doesn't seem to give two hoots as to whether he wins, loses or draws).
But actually he is much more fearful of new situations, openly doubts his abilities and gets his knickers in a right old twist about not being as competent as his peers. Stick him in the garden with a football and a couple of mates and he is in his element. Sign him up for a sports class of any description, even one he particularly excels at, and he will sit cautiously on the sidelines and refuse to participate out of sheer nerves.
He is also the boy who, on one hand, will stick his tongue out when being told off and hit me if a request for sweets or more TV is turned down. But on the other hand will smother me in cuddles and kisses, pronouncing regularly and in the softest and most ardent of voices "I love you so much Mama. My heart squeezes so much love for you that it just wants to explode all out of my body, everywhere."
It's obvious that I haven't dealt with this Jekyll and Hyde behaviour well. I know I should have nipped it in the bud a long time ago, rather than making excuses. Initially, it seemed that I bore the brunt of his anger and defiance - and I'm ashamed to admit that I think I let a lot of it ride because I felt, deep down, that I deserved it.
Now his behaviour is extending to family, friends and at school. He even whacked my dad on their last visit, which earned him a significant time out, but it shocked me out of my complacency a little - how on earth does he have the confidence and gall to hit one of his grandparents? On what planet has he been led to believe that is acceptable behaviour? And who is responsible for guiding his actions and teaching him right from wrong? Well, that would be me then. Look what a stellar job I must be doing. It's mortifying. But I know the crux of it is that I am not doing my beloved son any favours by letting him behave this way. And a simple time out or a telling off doesn't seem to have much effect. I know the time has come to be more hard core and, more importantly, ruthlessly consistent.
Oh, how fucking exhausting that sounds just writing it down. And therein lies the problem - I just feel too weary to tackle it alone.
Which I guess has been my excuse for a very long time now.
Has anyone else dealt with this before? You know, the whole Second Child Syndrome on steroids?
I know I need to step up and stop making excuses, because I would hate him to become the insensitive, self-absorbed bully that we have all seen or experienced as he gets older. I've read enough books to know what I ought to be doing and, although I think I am applying the techniques religiously, I think my sister would agree that in real life I typically exhibit a Warts And All style of parenting.
Oh God, it's so depressing to think that I have moulded this little monster. My very own engaging, hilarious, gregarious, energetic, passionate miniature schizophrenic.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Where the Heart Is
Oh God, I am so happy. Incandescently happy. To be home.The first few days were a bit bewildering, as though my mind couldn't quite take in the transition. Couldn't let itself truly believe that the move was, in fact, complete. Permanent. Real. I began to meticulously record the weather on the calendar hanging in my new kitchen. Overcast but very warm. Slight rain today, but, strangely enough, even though the roads were slick and the skies heavy, we didn't get wet. Sun and blue sky. A cheeky reassurance from that most cheerful of orbs...see, I do visit England from time to time, don't believe everything the Brits will readily tell you...
I love my new little house. Every time I come downstairs in the morning, the bright kitchen grins at me and the living room welcomes me with open arms. Hello again, they say. Yes, you are still here. It's not a dream. Get your coffee and have a sit down, put on the radio and drink it all in. Savour your home.
And it really does feel like a home, now that my belongings have finally arrived and are in situ. In fact, it feels so homely (to me, at least) that I almost resent leaving it at all. I scurry back to it daily, after walking the boys to school, and breathe in its cheeriness and relish the quiet.
At the back of the house (beyond the tepid, tip of a garden which is, quite frankly, a total embarrassment compared to my neighbours) lies the woods. We traipse through the woods every day on our way to and from school. I haven't had this much fresh air for years. My boys have never been outside and walked this much in their lives. We are all physically tired but also exhilarated by our daily ramblings up and down slopes, through (almost leafy) glens, treks through damp ditches and adventures through thickets. The boys are in their element.
I knew they were true Brits at heart.
After initially fearing the mud and getting dirty (heaven forbid), they now plod through muck with the best of them and wear their filthy clothes and wellies with pride. I love it. There is nothing they like better than scampering down the parkland walk to a huge tree swing and spending hours twisting, turning, flying over ground with whoops and cheers and pride at their speed and fearlessness.
They both got into my first choice of school, which is even better than my first impressions, and I feel insanely lucky to have achieved this miraculous feat. The kids are friendly and caring, the teachers are switched on and energetic, the parents are smart, interesting and welcoming. It's all very pollyanna right now. I keep resolving to Never take these rose tinted glasses off - goddamit I will super glue the buggers onto the side of my face if necessary.
PLUS, I am living with an adult again! I know! It's just such a thrill to have another physical presence mooching around the house after dark, who is taller than 4ft and (marginally) maturer than your average 7 year old. The icing on the cake is that this (so called) adult is none other than my sister and, after the first week (where I am sure we were both thinking yea Gods, this is never going to bloody work) we have now settled into a groove and it's lovely. Beyond lovely. Luxurious. What's more, she even makes me a cup of tea at approximately 9pm, when my bones are so firmly attached to the sofa I am incapable on movement. For this, and much more, I love her and am relishing the sheer novelty of adult company every day. I had forgotten - I had completely forgotten - how nice it was to share your life with an adult and not to feel so isolated and alone. It's a very unexpected bonus of moving home and I am really treasuring the time with her.
The other realisation which has me grinning wryling on a regular basis, is how very titchy things are over here, compared to the land of Supersize USA. My goodness, this country really is quaint in comparison. The cars for example. It's as though many of them have been borrowed from the land of Lilliput. The roads, lanes and pavements...so very narrow. You can't help but get intimately acquainted with strangers coming in the opposite direction when you are on foot, which is hilarious when you consider how uncomfortable physical proximity seems to make the average Brit. I am so tempted to goose people on these occasions. If I'm not careful, I'm going to get myself arrested.
The things that don't leave me grinning? Oh yes, there are a couple. Tubs of hummus is one. Why on earth would you create a flavour of hummus as delicious and moreish as Caramalised Onion...and then retail it in a tub so small that you are scrapping the bottom of it when you are only half way through a packet of sugar snap peas??? Why, people, why? I simply don't understand the mentality of not being able to buy a bucket of my favourite food and being able to eat wads of it on a daily basis, without the fear of it running out by your third mouthful.
The other is my washing machine, which is miniscule by even standard British proportions. Throw in a hand towel and three pairs of knickers and the thing is pretty much full. We've owned toy drums with a bigger capacity. I guess on the plus side, I don't have to worry about either the boys (or the cat, when it finally arrives out of quarantine) crawling and locking themselves inside it. It is barely bigger than the circumference of Captain Underpants head (which is suitably oversized compared to your average 7 year old, but still).
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Ho. Ho. Bloody Ho.
So that's another Christmas over and done with. Well, nearly. And thank God (or Jesus, perhaps?) for that. There WILL come a time when it is a day I look forward to and truly celebrate again...and not just dread for weeks and then limp through wanly with a drag queen smile plastered on my face.
At least I got to spend most of the day with my boys, for which I guess I should be very grateful.
They went to their dads the night before Christmas Eve. The arrangement Ex and I have had for the past 2 years (this is our 3rd Christmas since we separated) is that we would always spend Christmas and their birthdays together. This was a principle that I insisted upon, because I had always hated the fact that as a child, ever since my parents divorced, we were never able to celebrate a single event together as a family. And I have always wished that was different. Christmas and birthdays were never the same again with one parent always absent.
How ironic then, that I seem to be the one struggling the most following through with our agreement. This year I just wanted to run screaming for the hills rather than face a day with Ex, painfully aware of my every move, gesture and word in his presence. Unable to relax for a single moment and conscious of every forced conversation - trying, oh so hard, to be polite and cheerful and natural. There felt nothing natural about my performance today. By the time I left, feeling guilty about leaving the boys before their bedtime, I was emotionally wrought and physically exhausted.
Of course, it didn't help that plans had, unbeknownst to me, changed from those we had agreed upon over the 'phone a week ago. Ex confirmed he was going to be alone with the boys - and I was to join them. I enquired about AG's plans, to a non-commital response, so I took a deep breath and suggested she should join us in the afternoon - and then late afternoon I would leave them to it.
I wake up in my friend's beautiful home and spend an hour with her family, the children tearing their way through the piles of presents while the adults sip coffee and take pains to avoid the dreaded video camera. My friend has bought me luxurious gifts and written a card that almost has me in tears. Part of me just wants to hole up in their house all day and another part of me is itching to see the boys.
Before 9am I drive to Ex's home and, of course, who is the first voice I hear before the door is open? It's her. She's there. She's woken up with my children on Christmas morning and is seemingly going to be there all day. As I stand on the threshold to the house (where I can hear my boys leaping over each other to be the first to the door, to let mummy in) I can feel my blood pressure sky rocket and there is practically steam coming out of my ears. I am instantly livid to the point of turning puce and feel totally ambushed. What a disrespectful fucker. Why couldn't he have warned me? My little two year old self wanted to have an almighty tantrum. The teenager in me was in a monumental huff. Luckily my adult self managed to seize control before the door opened and I was able to stuff my bitch face grimace into the waistband of my control top tights (really, there is nothing that can escape those buggers) and plaster a Happy Christmas smile on my face.
Watch out for the Oscar nomination, folks, in January. I'm telling you, it's definitely on the cards this year.
There were hugs all round, but I couldn't look Ex in the eye. Far be it from me to confront the issue and effectively 'spoil the day'. Ex and AG cooked breakfast, while the boys showed me the gifts they had already unwrapped in their stockings. AG was as pleasant as ever (I really can't find one single person to say a bad word about her - even those that have made it their life's ambition to nitpick the hell out of anybody and everybody - which is just so damned irritating, isn't it?). I didn't have much of an appetite (actually not true - I pretended not to be hungry purely to be petulant and because this whole sitting around the table, 'breaking bread together' still makes me feel like a bit of a prune...as though I am somehow being made a fool of by being so compliant with AG in our lives).
After breakfasts, we opened gifts. And I guess that is when I started to relax and accept the new version of Christmas v.2010. Of course, the focus was completely on the boys and they were so overjoyed with everything that they opened, it was easy to be distracted. AG and I sat near each other, but I still can't bring myself to initiate a conversation directly with her. There is not a single molecule in my body that can feign any interest whatsoever in her life and adventures with my (soon to be ex) husband. It's all just a little too close to home. But her presence does make things a little easier between Ex and I. A buffer. I try hard not to scrutinise her too closely and formulate questions in my head, like "WHY does he prefer you, exactly?" and "are you a bit of an animal in bed, because I just can't picture that myself?" I wonder if she thinks the same about me? Probably not. Hence the preference, possibly.
The boys bounce all over me, like over grown puppies, lavishing me with affection and insisting that I help out with their new lego projects. AG has bought me a book that I wanted and written a thoughtful card, thanking me for letting her be a part of the boys birthdays and Christmas. I have bought her a bag full of Lush goodies from the boys, which seems to go down well. It's all very civil, verging on pleasant.
Then, unexpectedly, AG leaves to see her family. I am relieved - yet it is far more awkward without her around. The next few hours are strange. As though we are playing happy families. I keep laughing and joking with the boys, but inside I feel lost at sea and lonely - in their house, surrounded by pictures of their happy coupledom. I spot a picture of AG and the boys in their bedroom and it instantly fans the flames of jealousy and resentment. Am I wrong to feel it's a liberty? How would he feel if the situation was reversed? Even after 2 years of separation, it still feels way too soon to accept this other woman's place in the boys lives. I can't stand seeing the physical evidence of all the things that they do together. It smarts like a fresh wound all over again. I just ache to leave - not the boys, but definitely this home where I do not belong. Where I have no place at all.
Late afternoon, I decide to leave. The boys are sad and ask me to stay. They want me to sleep over. How much do they understand of this situation, I wonder? Do they see us making an effort to get along and think....maybe? Maybe if we just nudge the situation a little, our family will be reinstated. At Christmas.
I feel guilty as I kiss them goodbye. Their hugs are reluctant and I know I am letting them down by not staying longer. By not having the strength to see this day out to the bitter end. I leave, berating myself internally, and struggling not to cry as I drive away in the snow. It's just another day and I have done the best that I could. But, yet again, I don't think it's been good enough.
It's just not how Christmas should be - but it will be the last one of its kind. That's the intention.
At least I got to spend most of the day with my boys, for which I guess I should be very grateful.
They went to their dads the night before Christmas Eve. The arrangement Ex and I have had for the past 2 years (this is our 3rd Christmas since we separated) is that we would always spend Christmas and their birthdays together. This was a principle that I insisted upon, because I had always hated the fact that as a child, ever since my parents divorced, we were never able to celebrate a single event together as a family. And I have always wished that was different. Christmas and birthdays were never the same again with one parent always absent.
How ironic then, that I seem to be the one struggling the most following through with our agreement. This year I just wanted to run screaming for the hills rather than face a day with Ex, painfully aware of my every move, gesture and word in his presence. Unable to relax for a single moment and conscious of every forced conversation - trying, oh so hard, to be polite and cheerful and natural. There felt nothing natural about my performance today. By the time I left, feeling guilty about leaving the boys before their bedtime, I was emotionally wrought and physically exhausted.
Of course, it didn't help that plans had, unbeknownst to me, changed from those we had agreed upon over the 'phone a week ago. Ex confirmed he was going to be alone with the boys - and I was to join them. I enquired about AG's plans, to a non-commital response, so I took a deep breath and suggested she should join us in the afternoon - and then late afternoon I would leave them to it.
I wake up in my friend's beautiful home and spend an hour with her family, the children tearing their way through the piles of presents while the adults sip coffee and take pains to avoid the dreaded video camera. My friend has bought me luxurious gifts and written a card that almost has me in tears. Part of me just wants to hole up in their house all day and another part of me is itching to see the boys.
Before 9am I drive to Ex's home and, of course, who is the first voice I hear before the door is open? It's her. She's there. She's woken up with my children on Christmas morning and is seemingly going to be there all day. As I stand on the threshold to the house (where I can hear my boys leaping over each other to be the first to the door, to let mummy in) I can feel my blood pressure sky rocket and there is practically steam coming out of my ears. I am instantly livid to the point of turning puce and feel totally ambushed. What a disrespectful fucker. Why couldn't he have warned me? My little two year old self wanted to have an almighty tantrum. The teenager in me was in a monumental huff. Luckily my adult self managed to seize control before the door opened and I was able to stuff my bitch face grimace into the waistband of my control top tights (really, there is nothing that can escape those buggers) and plaster a Happy Christmas smile on my face.
Watch out for the Oscar nomination, folks, in January. I'm telling you, it's definitely on the cards this year.
There were hugs all round, but I couldn't look Ex in the eye. Far be it from me to confront the issue and effectively 'spoil the day'. Ex and AG cooked breakfast, while the boys showed me the gifts they had already unwrapped in their stockings. AG was as pleasant as ever (I really can't find one single person to say a bad word about her - even those that have made it their life's ambition to nitpick the hell out of anybody and everybody - which is just so damned irritating, isn't it?). I didn't have much of an appetite (actually not true - I pretended not to be hungry purely to be petulant and because this whole sitting around the table, 'breaking bread together' still makes me feel like a bit of a prune...as though I am somehow being made a fool of by being so compliant with AG in our lives).
After breakfasts, we opened gifts. And I guess that is when I started to relax and accept the new version of Christmas v.2010. Of course, the focus was completely on the boys and they were so overjoyed with everything that they opened, it was easy to be distracted. AG and I sat near each other, but I still can't bring myself to initiate a conversation directly with her. There is not a single molecule in my body that can feign any interest whatsoever in her life and adventures with my (soon to be ex) husband. It's all just a little too close to home. But her presence does make things a little easier between Ex and I. A buffer. I try hard not to scrutinise her too closely and formulate questions in my head, like "WHY does he prefer you, exactly?" and "are you a bit of an animal in bed, because I just can't picture that myself?" I wonder if she thinks the same about me? Probably not. Hence the preference, possibly.
The boys bounce all over me, like over grown puppies, lavishing me with affection and insisting that I help out with their new lego projects. AG has bought me a book that I wanted and written a thoughtful card, thanking me for letting her be a part of the boys birthdays and Christmas. I have bought her a bag full of Lush goodies from the boys, which seems to go down well. It's all very civil, verging on pleasant.
Then, unexpectedly, AG leaves to see her family. I am relieved - yet it is far more awkward without her around. The next few hours are strange. As though we are playing happy families. I keep laughing and joking with the boys, but inside I feel lost at sea and lonely - in their house, surrounded by pictures of their happy coupledom. I spot a picture of AG and the boys in their bedroom and it instantly fans the flames of jealousy and resentment. Am I wrong to feel it's a liberty? How would he feel if the situation was reversed? Even after 2 years of separation, it still feels way too soon to accept this other woman's place in the boys lives. I can't stand seeing the physical evidence of all the things that they do together. It smarts like a fresh wound all over again. I just ache to leave - not the boys, but definitely this home where I do not belong. Where I have no place at all.
Late afternoon, I decide to leave. The boys are sad and ask me to stay. They want me to sleep over. How much do they understand of this situation, I wonder? Do they see us making an effort to get along and think....maybe? Maybe if we just nudge the situation a little, our family will be reinstated. At Christmas.
I feel guilty as I kiss them goodbye. Their hugs are reluctant and I know I am letting them down by not staying longer. By not having the strength to see this day out to the bitter end. I leave, berating myself internally, and struggling not to cry as I drive away in the snow. It's just another day and I have done the best that I could. But, yet again, I don't think it's been good enough.
It's just not how Christmas should be - but it will be the last one of its kind. That's the intention.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Six Sleeps and Counting
Okay - probably ought to preface this post by saying I am a little teensy, weensy bit drunk (and intending to get slaughtered...but only after I have hit "publish post". God this chardonnay is like drinking liquid butter).
So it was the boys' last day at school. I am dealing with all these goodbyes on autopilot. I know the tears are being stored up to be shed later (hopefully they are being stored in my increasingly ample thighs, which will shrink to microscopic proportions when the tears are finally set free...fingers crossed).
I have been dreading this day, but it ended up being very civilised, verging on anti-climatic. There were no street banners, streamers let loose from the roof or marching bands. It was just like any other end of term day, with the exception that both boys received beautiful hand made scrap books from their classes as a memento. We have been pouring over them since we arrived home. No doubt, I will be able to commit each page to memory within the next 24 hours. But the boys have taken it all in their stride and don't seem to truly appreciate that this was their last ever day at this school. Or maybe they do and I have just raised a couple of heartless little buggers? Time will tell.
This school has been such a huge part of my life for the past four years. A lifeline, much of the time. I know their class mates so well and have meaningful relationships with many of the parents. Strange to think this life will continue without us. I am going to miss it.
The boys are so focused on Christmas right now, that nothing seems to be particularly phasing them. Which is a good thing. We went to a Christmas party at the weekend and, of course, Santa was there. Even at the ages of 5 and 7, they are still a little intimidated by Santa. Almost reverent. Mind you, that's a darn sight better than a few years ago, when they regarded Santa as a combination of the Abominable Snow Man and Jack the Ripper, judging by the screams and tears whenever we attempted to sit them on his knee for the obligatory photo. Now, they are quiet and serious and in total awe. Is this the last Christmas that they will believe? I hope not. Even though this year's Santa was wearing a coat and hat trimmed with pink fur (me thinks someone unintentionally boil washed his suit, making the colours run...such a novice mistake, don't you think?) and fake 'pleather' booties, they were totally convinced he was The Real Deal. At the end of their little sojourn with Santa they both received a little bell on red ribbon, which both delighted and convinced them even more than ever. Just the previous night we had read The Polar Express for the first time, so the bell had particular poignancy. I couldn't have planned it better myself.
Of course, all this awe and reverence quickly faded once a carton of apple juice hit their stomachs and they ended the party by being accomplices in the smashing of a small, cracked window. Nice. A couple of hoodlums, I'm telling you. I, quite frankly, didn't make much of a better impression by yelling "FUCK!" in a foyer full of joyful parents and children, when the heavy outer door handle swung with some force and hit me on the hip. Really. You can't take us anywhere.
So it was the boys' last day at school. I am dealing with all these goodbyes on autopilot. I know the tears are being stored up to be shed later (hopefully they are being stored in my increasingly ample thighs, which will shrink to microscopic proportions when the tears are finally set free...fingers crossed).
I have been dreading this day, but it ended up being very civilised, verging on anti-climatic. There were no street banners, streamers let loose from the roof or marching bands. It was just like any other end of term day, with the exception that both boys received beautiful hand made scrap books from their classes as a memento. We have been pouring over them since we arrived home. No doubt, I will be able to commit each page to memory within the next 24 hours. But the boys have taken it all in their stride and don't seem to truly appreciate that this was their last ever day at this school. Or maybe they do and I have just raised a couple of heartless little buggers? Time will tell.
This school has been such a huge part of my life for the past four years. A lifeline, much of the time. I know their class mates so well and have meaningful relationships with many of the parents. Strange to think this life will continue without us. I am going to miss it.
The boys are so focused on Christmas right now, that nothing seems to be particularly phasing them. Which is a good thing. We went to a Christmas party at the weekend and, of course, Santa was there. Even at the ages of 5 and 7, they are still a little intimidated by Santa. Almost reverent. Mind you, that's a darn sight better than a few years ago, when they regarded Santa as a combination of the Abominable Snow Man and Jack the Ripper, judging by the screams and tears whenever we attempted to sit them on his knee for the obligatory photo. Now, they are quiet and serious and in total awe. Is this the last Christmas that they will believe? I hope not. Even though this year's Santa was wearing a coat and hat trimmed with pink fur (me thinks someone unintentionally boil washed his suit, making the colours run...such a novice mistake, don't you think?) and fake 'pleather' booties, they were totally convinced he was The Real Deal. At the end of their little sojourn with Santa they both received a little bell on red ribbon, which both delighted and convinced them even more than ever. Just the previous night we had read The Polar Express for the first time, so the bell had particular poignancy. I couldn't have planned it better myself.
Of course, all this awe and reverence quickly faded once a carton of apple juice hit their stomachs and they ended the party by being accomplices in the smashing of a small, cracked window. Nice. A couple of hoodlums, I'm telling you. I, quite frankly, didn't make much of a better impression by yelling "FUCK!" in a foyer full of joyful parents and children, when the heavy outer door handle swung with some force and hit me on the hip. Really. You can't take us anywhere.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
In a State of Denial
So the past few weeks have been manic.
The final two weeks of November I was simply packing like a woman possessed. And, although I say so myself, really - I should turn professional. I think I might have found my true calling. There was no sentiment attached to the appraisal of every inanimate object before making a split second decision on pack/donate/bin. I am the Queen of sorting out tat. And boy, even after the cull I did in the summer, we still seemed to have accrued mountains of it.
Well, not any more. With any luck I will be unpacking a shipment of 113 items (don't ask me how it is that many...but the last minute purchase of essential sleds and skateboards didn't help) safe in the knowledge that every item swathed in acres of paper is essential to my London existence. I wonder how long it will take me to accumulate fresh hordes of unnecessary tat to fill every cupboard and drawer? Despite my best intentions I am hedging my bets and guessing April, at the very latest.
Packing my clothes, for what could be up to 2 months, presented the biggest dilemma. I resolved the issue of what single pair of boots to wedge in the case by the age old technique of "ippa-dippa-dation-my-operation-how-many-people-at-the-station?" It's not the most scientific technique available. Or the most effective, because there isn't a single day that has gone by that I don't rue the pair I should have selected instead. How on earth did I think this pair of boots was The One? Oh well. I guess if this is the extent of my packing regrets, I haven't done too badly.
In fact, everything went accordingly to plan except for one thing. The most important thing. The cat. Yes, after all the cat drama and trauma of the past few weeks you would think I had had my fill for the year and that, by rights, everything regarding my surviving cat, Bert, should have been tickety-boo. This was not the case.
He was successfully collected by the specialist pet shipper, I handed over all the relevant paperwork and waved a tearful goodbye. How am I going to get through the next 48 hours, I thought to myself, until I know he is safely at my dad's? Oh famous last thoughts. If only it had turned out to be just 48 hours of concern. Turns out there is a minor discrepancy in his rabies certifications, which means he needs to endure 6 months of quarantine. I still can't think about it without feeling sick and distraught way beyond the point of tears. I have investigated every avenue and potential solution (of course) but there is no alternative aside from shipping him back to Chicago. So as I type he is currently imprisoned in a farm in Essex, being looking after by a very caring woman called Kim and her team. My dad visited last week and said he was purring up a storm and seemed in good health. But still. It is the last thing I wanted for him and I am mad as hell at the vet and the customs bureaucrats...but, most of all, myself.
It's sod's law that something had to go awry at the last minute. But I really wish it had been something other than the cat being effectively punished by my desire to move.
I am now safely encamped at a close friend's beautiful house in one of the nicest neighbourhoods in Chicago. This was not the wisest idea, on reflection, because I am enjoying myself so much that leaving is the last thing on my mind. In fact, I am in a total state of denial about the fact that I will be boarding a plan in just 10 days time, possibly never to return. I just can't think about it. I don't have the emotional capacity to face the enormity of this move in any shape or form. So for the most part I am simply ignoring it, pretending nothing remotely out of the ordinary is on the horizon and specifically avoiding friends incase we get caught up in a frenzy of sentimental goodbyes that crack my "I am handling this okay" veneer.
The boys are doing remarkably well. Christmas is a big distraction - which is both a blessing and a curse. So much more to pack. So much more to coordinate, on top of everything else. We have additional 'mini-xmas' celebrations planned with family and friends when we get home, so with any luck they will be distracted until at least mid-January. They are a combination of excited and anxious about the move. It breaks my heart a little to witness the extraordinary bonds they have with their close friends and know that those friendships - which mean everything to them on a daily basis - are going to be lost. We will keep in touch with many of these boys and girls, and even see many of them as they visit the UK on a regular basis (oh, the beauty of attending an International school). But it won't be the same. And that makes me sad.
In fact there are many things I will miss about being in Chicago, now I think about it. Juicy steak that is always cooked to perfection (who cares about the steriods, it just adds to the flavour). Huge parallel parking spaces in every garage you encounter. A clean glass of iced water presented immediately upon arrival at any cafe, restaurant or bar. Click and Clack The Tappit Brothers radio show on NPR. Closely followed by Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me. The most incredible city skyline I have ever seen in the world. Intense blue summer skies refecting into a cobalt blue lake, which is so immense it resembles an ocean. The sale room in Anthropology. The sale rail at Club Monaco. Half and half for my morning coffee. Dunkin Donuts vanilla coffee (you can get it in a styrefoam bucket, exactly how you like it - extra cream and one sugar for me - for under $2). Drinking cocktails on the 95th floor of the John Hancock building. The noise of the el clattering about my head, as the trains wind their way above the city streets. The efficiency of the snow ploughs and gritting trucks when a blizzard hits. The ability to buy a beautiful DKNY cozy sweater (retailing at $195 plus tax) on clearance for just $29 at Marshalls. And don't get me started on the delights of my local supermarket Trader Joe's. The fact that I couldn't ship home a huge box of edible goodies is one of my biggest disappointments.
Anyway, I don't have the luxury of thinking about all the things I am going to miss just yet.
I am far too preoccupied with the thought of how many layers of clothes I am going to have to wear on the plane, because my case simply won't accommodate the bags of must-have bargains I have been insane enough to purchase the past 2 weeks. Goddam you Banana Republic and your ridiculous sale. It is your fault and your fault alone that I am going to look like the bloody Michelin Man at check in.
So if you happen to be at Heathrow on the 28th December and you spot a rather hot and bothered person resembling a bag lady and wearing what appears to be her entire wardrobe...well, that will be me.
The final two weeks of November I was simply packing like a woman possessed. And, although I say so myself, really - I should turn professional. I think I might have found my true calling. There was no sentiment attached to the appraisal of every inanimate object before making a split second decision on pack/donate/bin. I am the Queen of sorting out tat. And boy, even after the cull I did in the summer, we still seemed to have accrued mountains of it.
Well, not any more. With any luck I will be unpacking a shipment of 113 items (don't ask me how it is that many...but the last minute purchase of essential sleds and skateboards didn't help) safe in the knowledge that every item swathed in acres of paper is essential to my London existence. I wonder how long it will take me to accumulate fresh hordes of unnecessary tat to fill every cupboard and drawer? Despite my best intentions I am hedging my bets and guessing April, at the very latest.
Packing my clothes, for what could be up to 2 months, presented the biggest dilemma. I resolved the issue of what single pair of boots to wedge in the case by the age old technique of "ippa-dippa-dation-my-operation-how-many-people-at-the-station?" It's not the most scientific technique available. Or the most effective, because there isn't a single day that has gone by that I don't rue the pair I should have selected instead. How on earth did I think this pair of boots was The One? Oh well. I guess if this is the extent of my packing regrets, I haven't done too badly.
In fact, everything went accordingly to plan except for one thing. The most important thing. The cat. Yes, after all the cat drama and trauma of the past few weeks you would think I had had my fill for the year and that, by rights, everything regarding my surviving cat, Bert, should have been tickety-boo. This was not the case.
He was successfully collected by the specialist pet shipper, I handed over all the relevant paperwork and waved a tearful goodbye. How am I going to get through the next 48 hours, I thought to myself, until I know he is safely at my dad's? Oh famous last thoughts. If only it had turned out to be just 48 hours of concern. Turns out there is a minor discrepancy in his rabies certifications, which means he needs to endure 6 months of quarantine. I still can't think about it without feeling sick and distraught way beyond the point of tears. I have investigated every avenue and potential solution (of course) but there is no alternative aside from shipping him back to Chicago. So as I type he is currently imprisoned in a farm in Essex, being looking after by a very caring woman called Kim and her team. My dad visited last week and said he was purring up a storm and seemed in good health. But still. It is the last thing I wanted for him and I am mad as hell at the vet and the customs bureaucrats...but, most of all, myself.
It's sod's law that something had to go awry at the last minute. But I really wish it had been something other than the cat being effectively punished by my desire to move.
I am now safely encamped at a close friend's beautiful house in one of the nicest neighbourhoods in Chicago. This was not the wisest idea, on reflection, because I am enjoying myself so much that leaving is the last thing on my mind. In fact, I am in a total state of denial about the fact that I will be boarding a plan in just 10 days time, possibly never to return. I just can't think about it. I don't have the emotional capacity to face the enormity of this move in any shape or form. So for the most part I am simply ignoring it, pretending nothing remotely out of the ordinary is on the horizon and specifically avoiding friends incase we get caught up in a frenzy of sentimental goodbyes that crack my "I am handling this okay" veneer.
The boys are doing remarkably well. Christmas is a big distraction - which is both a blessing and a curse. So much more to pack. So much more to coordinate, on top of everything else. We have additional 'mini-xmas' celebrations planned with family and friends when we get home, so with any luck they will be distracted until at least mid-January. They are a combination of excited and anxious about the move. It breaks my heart a little to witness the extraordinary bonds they have with their close friends and know that those friendships - which mean everything to them on a daily basis - are going to be lost. We will keep in touch with many of these boys and girls, and even see many of them as they visit the UK on a regular basis (oh, the beauty of attending an International school). But it won't be the same. And that makes me sad.
In fact there are many things I will miss about being in Chicago, now I think about it. Juicy steak that is always cooked to perfection (who cares about the steriods, it just adds to the flavour). Huge parallel parking spaces in every garage you encounter. A clean glass of iced water presented immediately upon arrival at any cafe, restaurant or bar. Click and Clack The Tappit Brothers radio show on NPR. Closely followed by Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me. The most incredible city skyline I have ever seen in the world. Intense blue summer skies refecting into a cobalt blue lake, which is so immense it resembles an ocean. The sale room in Anthropology. The sale rail at Club Monaco. Half and half for my morning coffee. Dunkin Donuts vanilla coffee (you can get it in a styrefoam bucket, exactly how you like it - extra cream and one sugar for me - for under $2). Drinking cocktails on the 95th floor of the John Hancock building. The noise of the el clattering about my head, as the trains wind their way above the city streets. The efficiency of the snow ploughs and gritting trucks when a blizzard hits. The ability to buy a beautiful DKNY cozy sweater (retailing at $195 plus tax) on clearance for just $29 at Marshalls. And don't get me started on the delights of my local supermarket Trader Joe's. The fact that I couldn't ship home a huge box of edible goodies is one of my biggest disappointments.
Anyway, I don't have the luxury of thinking about all the things I am going to miss just yet.
I am far too preoccupied with the thought of how many layers of clothes I am going to have to wear on the plane, because my case simply won't accommodate the bags of must-have bargains I have been insane enough to purchase the past 2 weeks. Goddam you Banana Republic and your ridiculous sale. It is your fault and your fault alone that I am going to look like the bloody Michelin Man at check in.
So if you happen to be at Heathrow on the 28th December and you spot a rather hot and bothered person resembling a bag lady and wearing what appears to be her entire wardrobe...well, that will be me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)