Carry on… Curry. (Aunty Pat? You may want to give this one a miss.)

I need a cucumber.

The Irish one is cooking a curry tonight that his ex girlfriends mother taught him how to make when they all went to blah blah blah together and her perfect hair and stupid long skinny legs went with them and blah blah blah, and some more blah.

Don’t you hate hearing the stories of ex’s?

I don’t want to know where you learnt to cook it, if it involves her!!

Just cook the damn thing and lie!

Tell me you learnt to make it in India while talking to a rabbit, I honestly won’t ask!

I just want to eat it without being subjected to the mental images of her, her mum and you all frolicking in the past! (Hang on, I didn’t mean him, her mum and her having… As far as I am aware that never happened… you know what? Lets move on.)

Men.

Anyway, enough about that.

He is making a curry tonight and needs a cucumber.

Which immediately raises up all my cucumber related anxiety.

Which is quite a lot in all honesty.

‘You forgot to buy the cucumber when you did the million pound shop, new kettle – yes, but no cucumber, so can you please nip and buy one when you get chance today please?’

He repeats the second please as if to remind me that he is still very cross about the new kettle, that as if by buying that instead of a cucumber I have personally insulted him.

‘Otherwise the Raita (yoghurty side gloop) will be rubbish and I like my yoghurty side gloop (Raita) to be tasty and crunchy. Love you!’ He shouts blowing us a kiss as he flies out the door, already late for work.

(BECAUSE HE CAN NEVER FIND ANYTHING IN THE MORNING SO IS ALWAYS RUNNING LATE AFTER SHOUTING ‘WHERE IS THIS? WHERE IS THAT?’ AND WHY IS IT ALWAYS MY FAULT HE CANT FIND STUFF?? PUT STUFF WHERE YOU WILL REMEMBER YOU PUT IT!!! Idiot…. Anyway I digress…)

I stand with Addison in my arms, slowly rocking back and forth and close my eyes in horror.

No.

Please don’t make me buy a cucumber.

Addison slaps me across the face.

‘Get a grip woman!’ he seems to be saying but instead screeches ‘CAR! NANA! POO DOODLE!’

‘Yes son, I agree’ I say rubbing my stinging face and placing him down to run for his car nana poo doodle (breakfast) ‘You are right.’ I need to get a grip. (Also the slapping thing? This is new. How do I get him to stop? ‘No!’ doesn’t seem to be cutting it! Supernanny candidate? I hope so.)

I will get to the point.

Surely I am not the only one who thinks buying a cucumber is excruciatingly embarrassing?

I mean, I know when its done as part of a big shop it isn’t so bad, but going in to the supermarket for a cucumber and a bottle of wine? (Which we also need.)

Well that’s just asking for a raised eyebrow off the check out staff isn’t it?

I don’t like buying cucumbers at the best of times to be honest.

They are one of those phallic type veg that I just do not enjoy the shape of, and because I do not relish the shape of them, when I am picking one, I inevitably end up giggling, blushing and stammering like that girl out of that book which did the rounds at school. You know the one.

It was worn in by generations of young innocent females gasping and gawking at what was written in black and white on page 72.

So heavy fingered was this shocking and dramatic page, that it was as if the book itself had resigned itself to the fact it would never be read properly and just used to fall open directly on to the juicy bit, which memorably was just as the teenage boy’s willy, which I will never forget he had nicknamed Ralph, began leaking all over the teenage girl character’s (interestingly I cant remember her name) nightie.

Forever by Judy Blume.

That’s the one.

And can I ask while we are on this subject?

Why in the hell did the teenage boy character name his willy Ralph anyway?

Why name is at all?

But Ralph?

To a teenage girl that is just adding unnecessary confusion surely?

Well it confused me.

First time I ever saw a willy, (I really hope my parents or my elderly aunty doesn’t read this post) as if I wasn’t traumatized enough by the horror of it all, thinking I was way cool and in the know about all things willy related, (thanks Judy Blume) I then proceeded to ask the boy what it was called.

Can you imagine his confusion?

And then mine?

Awful. Just AWFUL.

Mortifying.

And it wasn’t like I was going to talk to it or grow attached for god’s sake so why name it???

Anyway. Cucumbers.

I am so positively childish that I find buying a cucumber more embarrassing than selecting and then purchasing a job load of Tena lady or even Tampax.

Reminding myself that Therapy has taught me to be honest, I switch Cbeebies on for Addison and pick up my phone.

He answers after the second ring.

‘Irish one, I am not buying the cucumber’ I state clearly, channeling my inner lion.

‘We need wipes as well’ he replies, seemingly not hearing my roar.

A cucumber, wine and wipes?

Is he trying to kill me?

No. Way.

‘Irish one,’ I say trying not to laugh ‘There is no way in hell, I am walking up to the till in Morrison’s with a cucumber, a bottle of wine and some wipes’

‘Why not?’ he asks confused, while I nearly cry laughing.

‘Think about it!’ I shout.

‘I have done and I don’t get it. Am I missing the joke here?’

I start to try and explain but he interrupts me, his voice dropping an octave.

‘We need some condoms too.’

I throw my head back and howl.

‘What?’ he asks, confused but trying to be assertive (confused and assertive, not a good combination!)

‘Are you serious?’ I spurt out in between gaspfuls of hilarity ‘you want me to walk up to the VERY BUSY check outs at Morrison’s, in the middle of the afternoon and buy condoms, wine, a cucumber and some wipes?’

‘Yes.’ He states matter of factly before finishing the call ‘I don’t know what is so funny but I have to go now. Love you.’

An hour later after I have got Addison dressed, tried and re-tried in my head over and over again to make the shopping list sound less seedy and more motherly, blushing just thinking about what the check out girl or boy might think I am planning, I get a text message.

PMSL. MENTALIST. I WILL BUY THE CUCUMBER. LOVE YOU.

Thank god for that, I think putting my phone down just as it beeps again.

BUT YOU BUY CONDOMS OK? I AM NOT STANDING AT THE CHECK OUT HOLDING A CUCUMBER AND CONDOMS.

The man has a point.

Compromise reached.

Another win for therapy.

Hang on… Condoms?

HA!

It’s not christmas yet is it?

*(As in we only have sex once a year, and maybe that’s christmas, like the old saying, ‘its not christmas yet is it?’ nothing to do with santa or baubles or boots or mrs christmas or someone coming down the chimney… you know what? Ill shut up now. You know what I mean.)

Tangled up. (And potential imprisonment.)

I am stood in the kitchen on my own, with the door firmly closed.

From behind the sound of the tap right beside me pounding perilously hot water in to the sink, a sink which I filled as clumsily and as clattery, battery and whackery as I possibly could, and have also squirted way to much washing liquid in to, I can hear the Irish one and the boy I like to call my son, singing along to Tangled in the living room.

Again.

The pair of them love that song and usually it gets rewound over and over again until I actually believe my head will explode with the sweetness and positively wretched purity of Mandy Moore’s voice.

I snuck my laptop in here during the part where Old mother Gotham (which I thought was the place where Batman lives, shows how much I know) was up to her nasty tricks of cutting hair and stealing the child she would now raise in a forgotten tower hidden within the dark depths of Who Cares.

The pair of them were sat on the sofa agog with the action happening on the 50 inch flat screen (although to be honest, you simply cannot help but be agog at anything happening on that wretched flat screen, it over powers the whole room and I hate it! ‘But we needed it’ apparently according to the Irish one and some battles I just can’t be arsed to fight) and I took this as my cue.

‘Just going to do the washing up darling and unpack some shopping from before…’ Most of it was already in the fridge, I am not a heathen, I just hadn’t got around to unpacking and putting away the boring stuff I bought, you know, like  sponges and floor cleaner and dvd’s and toys for Addison and books and a new kettle and wine, lots and lots of wine. Which I have to be quite sneaky about, as he isn’t a big drinker and we don’t have much spare money to spend on lots and lots of wine at the moment but needs must.

So anyway I have ensured the kitchen is morphing in to a sauna on the off chance one of them wanders in here, looking for a drink or perhaps to offer some help with the de-sanitization of the kitchen (hahahahaha yeah right!) but mainly to give off the impression to both of them that Mummy is very busy being busy and if you come in you will have to help.

Hang on, I just need to bang a cupboard door and drop a pan for dramatic effect.

Ok. Where was i?

Right so here I am stood in the kitchen, (you know where I am now, right?) typing as quickly as I can in between shoveling handfuls of Walkers Peking Spare Rib taste sensations in to my mouth, and inhaling mouthfuls of white wine, in an attempt to disgard the evidence that will surely get me shot with something not very pleasant (stop being rude) if the Irish one finds out what happened today and how much I accidentally spent.

Thank goodness Addison cant talk yet is all I can say. (When I say he can’t talk, he can say some things, like ‘bugger’ and ‘bye bye plane’ and ‘oh dear’ and something that sounds suspiciously like ‘dickhead’ but could just as easily be, well ‘dickhead’ I suppose, but he isn’t able to form fluently articulate sentances yet so for now I am off the hook… and yes, I am aware I need to stop calling his daddy the afore mentioned genital head.)

Its ok, if you are wandering why I am telling you these things on here,if I don’t want him to know, thing is he says he reads my blog, but I know he doesn’t.

Really I just know he doesn’t, because if he did, I am sure he would have something to say about my last post where I admitted to the world (all 123 of you) that he doesn’t get much sex and spends a lot of time in tatty boxers, so it is all good in the hood. Honest.

Basically, I think there may be something wrong with me!

(Other than you know, the obvious!!)

I think literally my brain is having some sort of delayed ‘turning to mush’ flip out.

My big boss, as in he is senior not giant like, asked me last week if my brain had turned to mush while I had been off. My face must have said it all because he immediately retracted the statement with ‘you know, did it go slow?’ cue further intensifying of disbelief on my features, followed by ‘sorry, I mean it in a nice way though fnar fnar fnar.’

I was a little bit outraged at the time (a little bit outraged is when your eyebrows fly up and you heavily sigh but cant really be arsed to take it further cos a little part of you thinks he may be right) but now? Yeah.

Ill go on.

So basically, I have had the same pin number on my Natwest Maestro purple cash card for years, decades maybe.

I have lost the card countless times but the pin never changes.

(Are you following ok so far? I think I’m getting a bit drunk.)

So anyway, after losing the card again 3 days ago (SHHHHH don’t tell his highness) I ordered a new one and it arrived (bit boring that bit I know) yesterday, but this is where it gets interesting I promise, today when a coughing, wheezing and moaning (that was me) and a perfectly behaved but actually poorly Addison and I ventured to Asda (I just tapped my bum) I had a shopping trolley full to the brim (I only went in for milk and chicken how the hell does that happen?) disaster struck.

Twas a catastrophe!

I came to pay, got my card out of my bag (after fingering all manner of dummies, sticky pound coins covered in mulch raisin, dummies covered in grit, a ring I have been looking for, for a month, 3 grotesquely mucky asthma inhalers and my pristine Starbucks member ship card) slotted it in to the pin machine, and. My. Mind. Went. Completely. blank!

Like, I totally could not remember the pin. (Yes I am defo getting drunk now, when I start to sound like an American sorority girl, like totally, I know I have like drank way to much dude. Still this is all in the name of preserving my sanity! Or something.)

5079?

3071?

2023?

1234?

How the hell does that happen?

Like it has totally gone, I have no idea what it was!! But I have used it nearly everyday for ages.

Totally gone.

So while I was stood at the till with 8 million angry, frustrated, fussy, impatient, hot and bothered looking trolls stood behind me having a total brain melt, I will be honest, I did the only thing any self respecting woman and mother in this scenario would do.

I pulled out his credit card, which I had ‘borrowed’ a while back, and used that instead.

Funny how I remember his numbers isn’t it? (Which is what he will shout at me when he finds out!!!)

I spent waaaay more than I should have done.

I spent waaaay more than I needed to.

And I spent it all on his card!!!

It was bad enough when I was putting it on my own, but oh god! What am I going to do? How will I explain that I needed the emergency mascara and Addison needed Noddy and Kung Fu panda 2 and how the hell will I explain why we are now unable to pay for electricity this month??

Mascara is way more important than electricity, everybody knows that. You all know that right? RIGHT?

But I just do not think he will agree and how will I explain I can’t remember those blasted numbers?

He will think a) that I am a bumbling moron (which may or may not be true at this point) and b) that I am unworthy of the wine he bought for me. (He just doesn’t know he bought it for me yet… and it’s now a bit late for that as bottle 1 is nearly finished.)

Maybe it is 9034, or 8297, or 1023, or 7030.

You know the most alarming thing to come out of today though?

Obviously other than amnesia, theft and fraud?

The woman at the till saw the card was engraved Mr. Irish One Doyle, and made the briefest of eye contact with me while she deliberated over whether to question if it was in fact my card or not.

She didn’t question it in the end though, which leads me to believe one of two things,

Either she is as fraudulent as I am, or it really is time to wax my Mustache.

‘YES DARLING! Nearly finished!!!!’ (The wine.) ‘I’ll be out in a second, and I have a special surprise for you!!!’

It’s the unpaid gas bill to match the lovely red electricity bill.

Oops.

And that Tangled song? Here is my version.

”5 AM, the usual morning lineup:

Start with Woo’s bum and weep till the poo’s all clean,

Wax my tash, do laundry, mop the dogs puke up,

Sweep again, and by then it’s like 5.15.

And so we will read a book,

Or maybe remove our nappy and do a wee,

I painted on the wall, aren’t I good mum-my?

He’ll chase Doodle around with a great big stick,

While I wonder when will my prison sentence begin?

Then after lunch it’s puzzles and darts and chasing,

Paper mache, a bit of yoghurt spray and getting undressed,

Brain melt and climbing, Puppy shaking,

Then he’ll stretch, maybe belch, wipe his snot,

On my dress!

And I’ll reread the books

That gina ford did write,

He’ll paint the walls some more,

while I sweat and try not to swear,

And then he’ll brush and crush,

and put sticky stuff in my hair,

but I’m Thrilled to be in the same place I’ve always been.

And I’ll keep wonderin’ and wonderin’

And wonderin’ and hopin,

When will I afford a Nan-nnnyyyy?

And tomorrow night,

Lights will appear

Just like they do on when I steal credit cards every year..

What is it like

Out there where they glow?

Now that I’m older,

The police might not let me go …”

Shit!!! I forgot to turn the sink tap off!!!

Must. Act. Normal. (An Irish potato hinged Fairytale.)

According to a person with absolutely no identity, who I am unable to describe for fear of retribution, but whom I can say with absolute certainty, is gorgeous, lovely caring, funny and a total babe.

‘The Irish one is as sexy as hell’

After I had collected my eyebrows off the ceiling and settled my features back in to a look of agreement, instead of complete shock, this person then went on to tell me that somehow, he seems to have created for himself, in the work arena, the arena where the air conditioning is either set too ‘Nippletastic’ or ‘Sahara desert at noon,’ a place where the phones never stop ringing and the girls are all younger, prettier and more fun, the arena I am not allowed to talk about really;

‘A bit of a fan club.’

The person is female too.

He made me put that in there.  (He is delighted I am writing about this of course.)

‘It isn’t that I am homophobic or anything’ he clarifies from behind me ‘but just make it clear to all of your readers, that it is actual women that are after me ok? Lots and lots of real life women.’

‘Yes darling’ I murmur regretting the moment I opened my laptop and decided on this post ‘yes of course I will.’

‘LOADS of women’ he expands on his point ‘Maybe hundreds!’

And with that, as I hide a deep sigh and surreptitiously role my eyes, he positively swaggers off in to the kitchen, wearing, just for the record, a pair of tatty boxers and a t-shirt displaying Addison’s regurgitated chocolate all down the front.

A part of me is surprised he didn’t burp loud and proud on the way out.

Would I describe him as sexy as hell?

I’ll claim the fifth on that at the moment.

The conversation got me to thinking though, after I had got over the initial shock of how quickly it had digressed from work talk in to a lust fest, which weirdly seems to be the effect I am having on a fair few conversations at the moment (I think I may be on heat) had giggled, stared at her disbelievingly, pinched myself to make sure I somehow hadn’t found myself in a dream belonging to the Irish One himself and guffawed loudly.

Is he gorgeous?

I mean I know when I met him I must have thought so because I put in some serious effort you know?

A fact the Irish One never fails to remind me of.

I had been off sick at work with a terrible bout of flu (ahem… hangover) and upon my return, as I was busy stalking down the office in my spice girl heels thinking I was the business and just a little bit nervous at having been off sick and wondering what may await me from my boss, I noticed immediately that in my absence, a new boy with blonde hair and quite a nice bum has been installed in to the seat opposite my desk.

Turning the corner and sitting myself down wondering what his face may look like, but scared to look up having just been caught checking out his bum as he picked something off the floor, I heard his voice for the first time and I have to say my heart sank.

I am an absolute sucker for an accent.

I knew, you see, as soon as I heard it, without even looking at his face, that I would now have to make an effort to look half decent in work.

‘Tanks for kallllinnnnnn…’

He murmured down the phone to a customer before hanging up and looking up at me trying to make eye contact, which was a little awkward as by this point I was a pile of embarrassed, nervous, flushed, floppy mush, salivating and shuddering on the floor.

The new boy was well fit. I had to make him mine.

I had a plan.

It went like this;

Must. Act. Normal.

Must. Make. Him. Want. Me.

So of course, typically for me over the next few days as I struggled to appear busy and important,  (to show him I had a brain) sophisticated (to show him I had style,) elegant (to show him I was a lady,) fun and carefree (to show him I could be an animal in bed,) classy (to show him he could take me home to meet his mother,) tasteful (to show him I was interested in him,) refined, (to show him the animal, would all be for him) chic (to prove he absolutely wanted me too) what actually happened was very different.

Instead of the above, I actually bumbled around like a flaming imbecile, my brain too full of things I wanted to be, to even focus on who I was actually being. (A complete knob, to show him, I was a complete knob.)

I was like a walking disaster any time he was within my general vicinity.

I tripped up and head butted the corner of my desk, I spilt coffee all down my front while wearing a white blouse (blouse – who am I my dad? Shirt I meant shirt), I walked in to a wall while I was trying to see if he was looking at me (which he was- brilliant.) I trapped my finger in my desk drawer and couldn’t help but shout ‘poo’ at top volume (very classy,) I made completely idiotic irrelevant jokes that made no sense, talked completed bollocks and spent the entire time in his presence, glowing bright, red hot, red.

I was a beacon of stupidity.

In the end though I just got sick of all the waiting, trying and failing and just dived in.

‘Sexy accent hot rod, you busy Friday night?’

Ok, those weren’t the actual words I used, as I probably would have been fired, me being a manager and all, but I did ask him out surreptitiously and bravely!!

Dear Irish one.

Are you new in town? I want your babies.

Very brave and sure to get his attention, I thought.

The bastard turned me down.

Not one to give up though I asked him again.

‘Sexy accent hot rod, you busy Friday night?’

Much to my horror he turned me down AGAIN.

I couldn’t understand it.

Doesn’t every man want a woman in a short skirt that will walk in to a wall for him?

Not one to give up, and now seeing this as a challenge, I decided to befriend him instead, listen to his woe’s and then pounce on him when he was vulnerable.

It worked.

He would be telling me all about his life and his problems without really noticing how my tops were becoming more low cut and my skirts more thigh hugging.

He would be explaining to me, in great detail, why the English were a nation the Irish would never trust but that he loved living here without noticing my perfume was becoming more enticing and my lips more pouty.

He would be raving about his favourite band and his hopes for the future without noticing that gradually I had began to insert myself in to it.

It didn’t take long before he asked me out.

See? Genius.

They always like to think it is their idea don’t they? I don’t know why I didn’t think of that in the first instance.

Our first date, however did not go well.

‘You ok in a pub like this?’ he asked as I tottered, all dressed up and excited, in to a pub that can only be described as a toilet.

‘Yes of course I am!’ I laughed trying to mask my horror at the filth of the place and of the people dressed in boiler suits now leering at me dressed completely inappropriately in stupidly high heels and another tiny skirt. ‘Of course!’

What then proceeded to happen will go down in history as the worst date ever.

He went to the toilet and a weirdo in a boiler suit tried to feel me up.

I called him a bad word and he left. (The wierdo in a boiler suit, not the Irish one. That would have been a terrible date… And one I suppose I have experienced many times before!)

I did not tell the Irish One.

I wanted the date to be perfect.

He went to the bar.

A weirdo in a boiler suit started whispering death threats at me.

I told him he looked like a turd and turned back around.

I did not tell the Irish One.

I wanted the date to be perfect.

He went to the cigarette machine.

Before any of the ‘hills have eyes cast’ could abuse me further I glanced around and hissed;

‘Don’t any of you dare, I have been waiting for his date forever and if you fuck it up I swear to god you will regret it! Leave me alone you bunch of not rights! Go crawl back in to your skips for the night! I am a woman with a plan, and I don’t need you messing it up!’

Luckily for me they did leave me alone from then on.

Unlucky for me, however, and to this day without him really knowing why, they then started on the Irish one.

He still has no idea why he was punched in the face that night and I still deny I had anything to do with it.

He made me wait 6 weeks for sex after that though.

6 whole weeks.

Which was a lot for me as I was taught at the; ‘if you have sex with a guy a.s.a.p he will fall in love with you’ school of self-esteem.

6. WHOLE. WEEKS.

Turns out he had a plan too.

He didn’t just want to be a one-night stand.  (What does that say about me eh? Eh? Lets not go there…)

It worked too, except now I suppose; he is lucky if he gets it across a period of 6. Whole. Months.

But seriously?

When did I forget he is actually quite desirable?

Was it when he was looking up my flute at the baby’s head?

Was it while I was screaming at him for help during my 68-hour labour and got the response that he was busy making a ham and mustard butty ‘to keep him going’?

Was it when I was trying not to lamp him with the side of the high chair for being a lazy bugger?

Was it at 3am when we would throw filthy looks at one another during the long nights of colic?

Or was it when I was admitted in to hospital and he supported my son and I through all of that, and I totally began to take him for granted?

Yesterday as I was looking for something warm to wear to an out door event and he was busy pestering me, and chasing Addy around, it began to dawn on me.

‘Should I wear this?’ I asked hoping I wasn’t coming across like a pleb.

‘A body warmer?’ he exclaimed like I was an idiot,  ‘No you will still be cold, and I don’t want to have to hear you moaning for the next 3 hours, put a coat on for the love of god!’

Of course, I thought, looking at him through the eyes of someone else.

He is gorgeous (if not a little grumpy.)

‘Am I making a fool of myself with you here?’ I asked worried all of a sudden, ‘should I be acting all cool and put together to keep you interested? You have a fan club!’

‘Lexy’ he laughed grabbing my hand ‘I have known you 4 long years. I have seen your uterus splash on to an operating table, I have witnessed you pissing yourself while lying in bed’ (yeah thanks for bring that up) ‘and I have shared with you the most incredible journey of my entire life. I love you. NOW GO PUT ON A SODDING COAT!’

I didn’t.

I wore the body warmer, and he did have to listen to me moan all night, it’s called a relationship.

But you know what?

Having bore (beared/bored?!) this all in mind, The Irish one may actually be getting some tonight if he can shut up about potatoes for long enough.

And now he really does have a swagger on.

‘Irish One!’ I shout after him realising once again he has peeped over my shoulder ‘I said may be getting some.. may….’

He doesn’t hear me, he is too busy celebrating.

It’s been a while.

The fear.

You know what it is right?

(The ‘right’ at the end of that question doesn’t actually need to be there, I know that, but it is the Mancunia in me. You know what it is RIGHT? Is just how I speak… can we move on?)

I have been stamped with a tag, (not an electronic one just to be clear. I am from Manchester yes, but I am not someone who behaves so atrociously that she would end up being electronically tagged, although the Irish one would probably disagree with this statement for five days of every month. The very same five days of the month when he has every right to fear for his safety) and now that I have worn that tag for a while, looked at it full on in the mirror, glanced at it a couple of times out of the corner of my eye in the reflection of the huge shop windows I pass on the way to the supermarket and back, and see it clean as day glaring back at me, sometimes hidden behind or underneath something, like a sleepless night, or a cheerful weekend, but still there somehow, it just seems impossible to disconnect from.

Like even when I am feeling happy, the underlying tag reminds me not to get my hopes up, not to give myself any credit and certainly not to take any of this, this happiness, hope, wishful thinking, belief in a greater good and joy for granted.

It almost feels like now it is written in stone, it’s sinister grin will always be watching from behind a corner mocking the very person I am trying so desperately to become.

Suits in the living room, drinking coffee, making plans to change my world.

Dark mornings, the smell of toast and an overwhelming fear leaking from my heart in to the very pit of my stomach that at some point soon, this happiness, this love, this dream I seem to be living in, where everything is ticking along tickety boo, that these moments almost pleasurably seeping now in to sepia never forgotten memories, will come to an irreversible end.

I am actually waiting for something to happen to kill me off.  (It is like living in a Scream movie.)

I am anticipating it, knowing that it will prove the way I was living, isolated by choice, frozen in time and very much alone, was actually very sensible.

Was safe.

I can feel it watching me, a shadow lurking at the edge of my life, like an unwelcomed sinister guest at a party for angels.

I will be kidding about, catching myself laughing, catching myself living and getting to know the new me and the life I am still learning to live, and somehow seem to be enjoying, and my stomach will flip over with the realisation of how mellow things have become.

Sometime soon, a dirty great big rock is going to land with great force in to the middle of this serene little man made lake I have been working so hard on and I am dreading the sound, the feel, and the shock of the splash of cold water that will no doubt douse me in misery from head to toe.

This is the pattern of my life, this is why I haven’t allowed love to break down my door. (Not my back doors. Just like, the front door. Look I am trying to be poetic ok? So can we just be serious for a moment please?) This is why I have spent my life pushing people away, anyone who came too close, anyone who wanted me, needed me to need them in any way at all.

I am scared that something horrific is going to happen now that the door has been opened.

Now, that I am in love.

Now that I am allowing myself to be loved.

Something is going to happen.

Something is coming and this feels like a warning.

My fingers flying over the keys of the paper sat in front of me, a warning to batten down the hatches, to prepare, to stock up for the winter where everything will once again change irreplaceably.

I can feel it coming.

Is this happiness, or is it the quiet before another storm?

Is this real, or is this the old me, struggling to bring me, the real me back within my comfort zone, whispering at me to push everyone away again.

Reminding me over and over again that nobody cares, that none of this will last and that ultimately, I am worthless.

Is this me?

Or is that me?

I know people care. I care.

Who the hell am I now?

Can I live with the old tag all the while creating a new tag?

Can someone with clinical forward slash postnatal depression recover?

Or is something about to happen.

Notice how I do not think this is a question.

Because for me, it is written in stone, something is coming.

Happiness is not safe.

Or is it?

Agghhh I just don’t know.

Call me a Moaning Bitch. I am Fine with it.

At 9.15 pm last night, with my toes slowly turning blue and wrinkly from too long spent doused in soggy socks nestled in to even soggier ‘all weather’ Ugg boots (which will now undoubtedly stink until the end of time) I did wonder for a moment if I had somehow been transported back in to an alternate universe that was still trapped in the 1990s, and if the teenagers wandering past wearing tiny skirts and tank tops, swaying to ‘rhythm as a dancer’ while the rest of us were frozen solid in mattress type attire, were actually mental alien life forces from planet ‘Annoying’ and if potentially, I was the only person in the crowd of over 3000 silhouettes that thought perhaps this whole ‘standing in a field and watching stuff burn- celebration’ was a bit, well a bit, random!

I mean I understand the reason why we do it.

But I just don’t understand the reason why we do it.

Do you know what I mean?

Maybe my disappointment over not being American, and therefore not being able to go over the top with absolutely everything (have you ever been to the cinema in America? They laugh out loud!! It is amazing, and shocking and I love it!) Means that I have always felt why bother? If you cant go the whole hog then seriously, WHY BOTHER?

I am renound for being a miserable cow around this time of year amongst my family and friends and seriously? I am fine with it.

If I had a seasonal smell around the ‘holidays’, that smell would be ‘fusty.’

I am like the human equivalent of a damp squib.

There are many things in this world I love; Show tunes, Britney spears, shoes, sunglasses, handbags, good friends, hot chocolate, Grey’s Anatomy, Ryan Reynolds, Disney World, Square Crisps, things that make you go hmmm and The Irish one’s home made hummus, (and no, that isn’t a synonym for something else, his chick peas are perfectly sized) but this time of year, will never, ever, ever, ever, ever, make it on to that list.

I hate Halloween because I hate dressing up. If I want to wear a witch outfit, or a zombie costume or a pair of plastic fangs, I shall do so at my own leisure you know? I will do so on a random Tuesday in February, and certainly not when everyone else is doing it. Where is the fun in that?

I hate bonfire night because every year I have to listen to my elderly neighbor bleat on relentlessly about how the local kids keep trying to nick off with his shed which then leads him unceremoniously on to how many cars are on the roads in comparison to when he was my age, and eventually on to the price of petrol.

I don’t know how much petrol costs and I don’t get the whole litre to the gallon to the mile thing. All I know is, Starbucks is next to a petrol station, so that’s where I fill up.

I need coffee more than I need petrol; especially with the speed Doodle releases his bowels after each and every bang from the blessed fireworks that will go off from now until Christmas, so how many litres do I get to the gallon? Who cares? I get home don’t I? And in case I don’t, I have one of those spout things in the car.

How many shots do I get to see me through the day? 3. And make them DRY!!! (When I ask for a DRY cappuccino I do not want a latte!!!)

I hate Christmas because its always a big ‘who are you spending it with’ drama and seriously? Turkey? Ergh. I would rather have Pizza. Which I have actually eaten on Christmas day in the past, and no it wasn’t topped with stuffing. (ergh.) Christmas sucks bum. I hate it. Even ketchup is banned.

Also, while I am on this subject, I never understood why we eat chocolate eggs on the day Jesus was re-born and I don’t like summer because my thighs rub together. But those two are by the by I suppose.

I would even say bah humbug. But I don’t like mints.

But you know what?

This year, as Halloween approached I thought sod it, New Year, new me.

I have to make an effort for Addison.

He is nearly two.

Mammy sort your head out and lets sparkle some glitter over the end of 2011.

Lets see if I can apply everything I have learnt in the mental hospital and ‘live in the moment’!!

Yeay! Doesn’t that sound fun???

This is the reason Addison found himself at nursery last Tuesday dressed as Dracula.

I thought he could make an effort on my behalf and to be honest, he did look really cute, and a part of me, as I went to drop him off, if I am completely honest, was a little excited for him!

His first costume party!

The nursery had been advertising a ‘spooky and fun party where all the kids need to be dressed up’ for weeks.

I spent 8 quid on that Halloween costume from Morrison’s, but I am sure the therapy he will no doubt need as a teen to help him understand why his mummy dressed him up as Dracula and sent him to nursery when NO OTHER CHILD IN THE WHOLE BUILDING was dressed up, will cost more.

I got the wrong day.

And I forgot to pack spare clothes.

He will be fine.

I am sure.

Although I have never seen an 18-month-old Dracula look so pissed off.

They should cast him next to Tom Cruise.

He has his smolder down.

This ‘making an effort’ is also the reason why I found myself stood in a field last night holding the Irish one’s hand and muttering under my breath as Addison slept through the longest fire work display in history and my feet slowly sank in to the mud and dog poop surrounding the bonfire, which actually, now I come to think of it, did look suspiciously like my neighbors shed.

Everybody was saying ‘ooo’ a lot, so you know, I made an effort.

‘Oooo….’ I bleated. ‘Can we go now?’

‘No shut up whinging.’

The Irish one just doesn’t get my misery. He is a strong believer in doing random things with wet feet, in fields, and dressing up as a pumpkin and I hate him for it.

Why bother?? (We have to now we have a son, I understand that but he is only 1!! It can wait a bit!)

I could have been at home, setting my neighbors actual shed on fire, saying Oooo a lot, from the warmth of my living room with a hot chocolate!!

My boots are ruined, the pram is caked in crap and doodle’s bowels have become so loose from the repetitive strain of it all that my back is now buggered too from all the bending over with the poop scoop.

Christmas next.

Can’t wait.

Maybe I will get stuck in the chimney.

That’s something to look forward to I suppose. (It’ll get me out of eating turkey!)

Although, apparently, (*childish mimicy voice* ‘Ra ra raaa- from The Irish one) that is NO laughing matter. (GoD! It’s not like someone getting stuck in a chimney caused the Potato famine, calm down!!!…it didn’t did it??)

Addison will be dressed as Santa on boxing day though, I like the idea of the ‘day behind’ tradition.

It suits my disorganisation. (and yes that is a word, I looked it up.)

Rêve Rouge. (Algún Dia.)

There is a certain type of music, of pain, I know better than to inflict upon myself.

I haven’t dared even approach this particular kind, for over 7 years.

The memories of it too ruthless, for me to have even had any hope of survival.

And yet, tonight, my low mood receding further in to the wing mirror on this long journey I am on, for now, I thought it was time.

I stared at my glowering reflection, at the wariness and caution emanating from my eyes and found it quite easy to ignore, to contradict.

I am not a masochist…anymore.

I just need closure from these memories.

I am desperate to heal and disoriented, adrift, but all the while trapped within a maze too perplexing and foggy to navigate myself out of, without facing the inevitable.

This for me is one of the last notches on the ladder, heading upwards, always upwards, towards my freedom.

I am conscious that throwing myself underneath a moving bus would flatten me and bring no healing, and yet with this type of pain, this kind of bus, this music, these memories, I know that by ignoring the caution, discounting the increasing beat of my heart advising me to stop, and ploughing on full steam ahead, I may be opening myself up too soon, in fact I am sure James would not advise it, but it now feels the only option.

I have to endure this to see how far I have come.

It has been whispering to me from it’s home on the highest shelf, gnawing away at me, as the dust collected and my heart slowly unfurled.

My method although terrifying, is clear.

De-sensitization by torture.

Something I seem to have always been very adept at.

The difference now being the power of knowing what I can handle.

The memories will hurt, but it is time.

I am strong enough.

I will move through this, the way I have been taught to.

With a bottle of beer and a bar of chocolate, understanding that for me to successfully complete this process, I will need to be kind to myself somehow.

I switch the DVD to play, and instantly I am there again.

Sat anonymous in a packed theatre in Downtown Disney, filled with thousands of other people, all shuffling, all breathing, all laughing, having travelled in packs from all over the world, hugging their family, surrounded by love, by those who have always been near them and always will be, enjoying the holiday of a lifetime, and about to witness an enthralling performance by Cirque Soliel.

La Nouba. (To ‘live it up.’)

I am sat on the outskirts of their security looking in, abandoned by those who I thought were mine. Left behind with the tattered furnishings, a screwed up piece of paper tossed to the side, about to treat myself with incredible cruelty, inflict abusive and almost brutal pain on myself by witnessing the same show, completely alone.

I see now, after weeks of torment and learning, by choice.

A show I had been to see with my family years before, when… well…before…

Before everything was irreplaceably broken.

Too shocked and too withdrawn to even consider unwinding myself from the tightly wound knot I had become and yet too frightened not to, I sat in that auditorium, and had to physically hold my heart, to keep the pain contained.

I am back there.

Overcome by the memories.

The music swelled intoxicatingly, an ancient Russian lady singing of a broken heart, her rich and heady voice becoming one with a ballerina dressed beautifully in white, fresh and new, just beginning her life, moving on tiptoes in quick succession with the beat, together they become one, her courageous, long languid and lingering movements, telling the story of a time long ago, that didn’t belong to her.

But now did.

The effect is so clean cut and pure I found myself then, struggling to keep my barriers up, struggling to protect my beaten heart as the images mingled with the music soared with ease through the prison I had so carefully erected, each carefully constructed note toying with my fractured heart like a kitten with a ball of yarn.

The ballerina turned quickly and I caught my breath as I watched her hair flying around her, as if in slow motion.

She ran with unbridled speed in to the future, the freedom of security lifting her, propelling her through the air caught and held by sinuous and magnificent enormous red ribbons.

They lifted her up and kept her safe, sure to catch her should she have ever fallen.

A freedom I have never felt, allowed her to grasp her loved one, the one she had chosen and who had chosen her, midflight they clung to one another, kissing, embracing, and independent in their mutual dependency.

A performance maybe, but a deep mutual trust, an understanding of one another’s body, souls and the rhythm of each other heart beats is on show for all of us to see.

Somewhere 50 feet below them, surrounded by hearts beating in unison and excited gasps, the 25 year old me sits in the audience, lost amongst the love, overcome by a loneliness so overpowering I am frozen in to my seat, sitting upright, observing this couple dance me to the top of my own dreams, as if parading in front of me what will never be, and my heart literally shattered right down the middle.

And I had thought it was already broken.

If I could have, I would have run.

I would run and I would run and I would run.

I would have liked to have heard my feet pounding the sodden earth, would have liked to feel the tears like acid, scorching down my cheeks, I would have liked to scream, to throw my body out wide and howl in to the night with the unfairness of it all. To torture myself further, to pound my fists in to the ground and bite down hard on the wet earth, but when my last breath had been taken and my heart was exhausted, my tears running dry in the cold, where would I have found myself?

I had nowhere to go and no one to run to.

Least of all myself.

I did not and could not have ever understood that this wasn’t fated, but self inflicted.

I was 50000 miles from home and completely alone.

Two strangers were sat beside me as the performance from above reached fever pitch and I trembled. An older couple, wrapped up in one another, enjoying the holiday of a lifetime, no doubt excited by the rest of their lives. Building another memory to add to their scrapbook of friendship.

I sat there and shook from deep within, needing to break but unable to find the chink, to release the torment, because even sat there, none of it seemed real and yet I knew it was.

‘Are you ok?’ The older woman clutching her husband, eyes shining brightly, tears brimming by the emotion of it all, whispered at me over the music.

She had noticed I was unaccompanied and she smiled kindly, a lack of understanding passing over her features before turning back to the show, the question forgotten.

Probably the only person in the history of the world to visit Walt Disney world completely alone.

I used to be a masochist.

I can see that now.

I didn’t answer then, and now, as I sit here watching the same show on my laptop, on my sofa, in my lounge, surrounded by the smells and photos of my little boy, of the life I have created and the debris I have accumulated over the 7 years since then, I finally feel I am ready to.

‘Yes.’ I reply, turning my head to face no one, my beer empty and the room completely silent, the baby asleep, but the old lady still so clear in my minds eye. ‘Yes, I will be.’

I am no longer broken in half, no longer fragmented, and yes, I still feel the need to scream and shout and pound the earth, but through understanding I am slowly on the mend.

Learning how now not to.

How could I have failed to notice, 7 years ago, that by doing what I was doing, I was inflicting upon myself unnecessary and relentless agony?

Why would I have chosen to torture myself like that?

What made me think I deserved it?

One day soon I fully intend to start living my life for me.

To make the changes that I want to make to ensure my days can receive some light.

A caged bird for so long, with the door now wide open, I am slowly having to reach for the courage to fly out.

But right now, in this instant, I need to cry.

To let go.

I am learning to heal, and have ultimately realised the importance of being kind to myself by watching and re-living my own personal cruelty.

I think I may have another beer, maybe even reach out and ask for a hug. (Shock Horror! I may be able to actually ask for comfort! To trust in it.)

I will try to remember the choices I am able to make for me, to be kinder to myself, I really will.

I will re-visit this show for real one day, no longer alone on the inside, or the out.

By choice.

No longer afraid to live.

That will be my freedom.

Reached.

One Day.