Same Song and Dance.

‘Oh yeah?? And what do you ever do for me you miserable cow?’

My rage alert monitor just tripped over in to red.

There are bells and sirens and whistles piercing the air.

Doodle runs for cover and takes the 70 thousand ants that recently moved in, with him.

Addison is at nursery so there is no stopping us now.

We can finally let rip and tear strips out of one another.

If I were to give in to my rage right now, I would gain such a large amount of satisfaction from punching him hard over and over again in the chest, perhaps delivering a swift kick to the groinal area, maybe pulling his hair and biting him before slapping him and then stepping over him, in killer heels, (obviously I  would change out of my slippers first) with nothing more than a hair toss and a haughty laugh.

But I don’t give in to the rage, there would be no going back, and even though it illuminates me, I remain, although barely, in control.

‘Miserable bitch?’ I spit out at him.

How could he?

In my mind I am circled in smoke, red lights flash behind me, I am a warrior, Zena if you will, but with better thighs and the potential moves of Jackie Chan.

He declines to answer as if he knows it would be the final knife in the coffin.

He turns towards the door, ignoring me and I picture myself spinning like an elegant and long legged Charlie’s angel and high kicking him in the back of the head, so he head butts the fridge.

That would teach him a lesson.

But, alas, I don’t.

Instead I stand there staring at his back, motionless, in my grotty pajama bottoms and my stained top, my hair tied back with yesterdays pants, my stomach heavy and bloated from a much regretted meat diet, and a bowl of Weetabix moments away from going in the microwave, shaking in my hands

I wish in moments like this I was less grotty mother, it was less me and him, and more…. Like things used to be.

I wish I was still a mystery to him, you know?

I wish everything was still new, and he had never witnessed me crapping out an elephant poop on a birthing table pre Addison, OR heard me screaming blue murder the first time I had to have a poo post bum stitching, post Addison, OR ‘enjoyed’ me in the later stages of psychosis talking to someone who wasn’t there, tears and snot covering my cheekbones.

Cheekbones that he used to trace with his finger, oh so tenderly, right before I took an overdose and he had to save my life, while I puked in his lap.

I wish he still fancied me, that I was still interesting to him, that although we had a shared history, that we could erase some of it and enjoy some discovery.

He thinks I am a miserable bitch.

I think he is an ungrateful control freak who uses all of the above against me.

And you know what?

Sometimes we are both right.

‘LOVE, LOVE, LOVE…  love, love love… There is nothing you can do that can’t be done, nothing you can sing that can’t be sung…. All you need is love, all you need is love…’

The radio sitting next to the butter stained toaster is providing the saddest of background soundtracks to what could potentially be the demise of our relationship.

I love him.

Maybe I should just let it go…

But hang on!

I bought him pork yesterday!

Screw him!

I am a ninja!

He is lucky to have me!

I am so right right now, and this has nothing to do with me being miserable or crapping on a birthing table and has everything to do with him being ungrateful!!

I slam down the Weetabix and chase him in to the hallway where he is picking up his work coat, getting ready to leave for the day.

All couples have fights, all couples go through rocky patches but do all couples momentarily lose control the way we do and lay in to one another?

He’s standing by the door about to leave, and in this moment, I hate him.

I actually hate him.

Is this my illness or is this standard?

That my emotions can flip so easily from love to hate, from hate to love?

I don’t even know how this all started, but I will be damned if I am letting him have the last word.

I am too far gone.

‘I do plenty for you!’ I scream at him, yanking up my jammy bottoms and shaking with barely suppressed rage. ‘I bought you pork from the supermarket yesterday!’

He looks at me like he doesn’t understand.

He steps forward, shoving his arms in to his coat.

‘You bought me PORK?’

‘Yes I bloody did! I bought you pork and POTATOES! I do plenty for you! I spent ages choosing that bloody pork! It was meant to be romantic! But you are just so UNGRATEFUL AND SELFISH AND HORRIBLE that you didn’t even think to say thank you!’

‘FOR BUYING ME PORK?’ he is shouting but his eyebrows are knotted in angry confusion. ‘You didn’t cook it for me you know! YOU JUST BOUGHT IT!’

‘YES I did! And I spent ages choosing it! It was meant to be romantic!’

He takes a deep breath. ‘Romantic PORK?’ he screams, losing emphasis and trying not to smile.

Ah, now when he puts it like that…

I take a deep breath.

I am confused.

What was the point I was trying to make?

‘If I had cooked it,’ I continue, finding my point ‘you and I both know you would have undoubtedly been struck down by food poisoning and besides I respect pigs too much to cook them, you know this about me! I was trying to do something nice, I thought is would have been nice to have a romantic night in! But oh no you just go ahead and eat it and then…’

I stop.

He is just staring at me.

‘What?’

‘How was I supposed to know that it was romantic pork?’ he is sniggering.

He just bloody was.

I am not being unreasonable here.

Romance isn’t all flowers and nights in Paris when you have a child is it?

He saw me dribbling charcoal, I have seen him with the noro-virus, there are no secrets anymore, no mystery… how could it be any other way?

I just want it to be a little bit the other way though,… oomphy, every now and again.. you know?

‘You proposed to me while I was cleaning up dog poo Irish One! IT WAS ROMANTIC PORK! DON’T MOCK THE PORK!’

He heaves a big sigh, smiles at me a little to test the water, I don’t smile back, even though I want to, I don’t know why I don’t,  and eventually he leaves for work, the door closing firmly behind him.

And then it hits me.

Did we just argue about pork?

Did he really propose to me while I was cleaning up dog poo?

Is this really my life?

I don’t know whether to cry because this is what it has come to, or laugh because I love someone enough to argue with him about Pork, and often happily imagine roundhousing him in the back of the head.

‘I love you.’ I text him immediately, because, as much as I sometimes absolutely hate and am bored shitless by my life, the monotony of it all, sometimes when I think about it properly, if I look at it from an abstract, I do love it. Right?

I love him.

‘I love you too’ the reply is almost instantaneous, ‘I am sorry about the PORK.’

I do not reply.

This is getting ridiculous,

He is sorry about the pork.

Maybe pork wasn’t the answer.

My phone beeps again.

‘Shall we have a Chinese tonight? Wink wink nudge nudge?’

I can’t help but laugh.

I do love a good argument.

But…

But…

Should it be like this?

Can you get the oomph back?

Jennifer Anniston? I want my life back.

There was a moment, in which my tired and rung out mind tried to connect with what my eyes were actually seeing, and then when it did finally catch up, I experienced a physical shock as the realisation of what was about to happen went straight through me, as if I had been thumped hard in the groin.

I had turned my back for two minutes.

And now this.

Sometimes I do wonder if there has been some sort of mistake with the gods of fate, like maybe my ‘Life Menu’ and Jennifer Anniston’s ‘Life Menu’ got mixed up, and actually maybe it is her that should be cleaning runny toddler poo out of the dog’s bed, and it is I that should have been off having glamorous and rampant sex with Brad Pitt.

(And yes, I know it has been a while since they broke up…  ok. I will re-phrase that, I know it has been more than a while since they broke up, but I will just never get over it ok? I just NEVER WILL! THEY WERE PERFECT TOGETHER! What was he thinking?)

Sometimes, ESPECIALLY on days like today, I occasionally catch myself looking up to the heavens beseechingly, as if to ask the universe if it is enjoying watching me get no sleep, trip up, drop a pint of milk, nearly run my car in to a parking meter and finally, scoop poo out of Doodle’s cushioned fortress.

And then usually, ESPECIALLY, on days like today, it gives me it’s answer.

‘Mammy Mammy, wake up! It is light outside; it is time to get up! Mammy Mammy, I did a wee in my bed!’

Jennifer Anniston eat your heart out.

I prize my eyes open and stare at my bright eyed and bushy tailed son. He is holding his distinctly moist and clammy hand out and positioning it under my nose with a big grin on his face.

How? How? HOW?

How is it possible that after waking me up literally every twenty minutes in the night, to ask for all manner of crap, including but not limited to –

1am – He wanted a cheese and onion cement mixer.

2am – He could hear a mallard. (Not a duck, a ‘mallard!’)

3am – He needed to speak to me about, and I quote ‘borrowing a fiver.’

4am – He needed to ask me if I remembered a specific episode of Ben and Holly where Nanny Plum lost her magic license and they all…. who cares?

5am- I could hear him singing Lady Gaga ‘telephone.’

That he is now this bright eyed and bushy tailed?

The stench of baby wee is overpowering.

I need coffee.

I am a bad mummy.

I get him changed but I do not brush his teeth.

I need proper coffee.

I put his shoes on but I do not brush my hair or his.

I fling on my coat over my pyjamas and grab my sunglasses.

If I am to get through today I need a Starbucks a hell of a lot more than I need a shower.

I am a bad mummy.

I don’t feed him before we go.

‘We will just quickly dash through the drive through’ I mumble as I haul him in to his car seat and he happily tells me about his favourite yellow digger ‘then we will come home and start the day’ I interrupt him.

He sings all the way there, in between asking me every random question known to man.

What is that birdie doing up there?

Where are the clouds?

Is there a man in that van?

Does he like diggers?

Where is that ambulance going?

I spend the journey answering his onslaught as best as I can, given that I am operating on limited battery life.

I don’t know.

No idea.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Somewhere far away…

The end is in sight.

But of course, the universe knows I haven’t brushed his teeth, that I am still in my pyjamas, and that I do not clearly deserve a break, and the bitch is going to make me pay.

DRIVE THRU* CLOSED.

‘Come on baby’ I smile through gritted teeth pulling the car in to the disabled space, looking up to the heavens and grimacing, refusing to be beaten ‘GAME ON universe!

‘We will run in and out, it is too early, no one else is here, no one will see us, quick, quick, quick!’

I lean my full weight on the heavy glass door and push it open, half carrying half dragging the toddler behind me, and oh the release! Oh the heavenly smell of Starbucks!

The intense and entirely intoxicating aroma of coffee immediately envelope’s me in a big fat hug and I am at one. I can feel my heartbeat returning to normal, it doesn’t matter that my morning breath could strip paint, it doesn’t matter that one side of my hair is stuck to my head and the other is kinked and greasy. It doesn’t matter that I have mascara smudged under my eyes, and that I have had no sleep.

I am relaxing. Soon I shall have coffee, the world is just how it should be.

‘Everything will be ok now.’ I smile at Addy like a druggy high on glue and cake ‘They have caffeine in this place. Mummy will be ok now.’

As he looks back up at me, he senses his moment and asks me for the ridiculously overpriced pancakes that I would usually say no to, but at that moment, lost in the saviour scent of my Mecca,  I just nod and smile and think ‘baby you can have whatever you want now we are here.’

Oh and how the universe laughed.

Because of course, who then trundled in behind us?

My ex-boyfriend.

Of course! 

But not only my ex boyfriend, oh no.

That wouldn’t have been awful enough.

NO, in walked MY ex boyfriend and the girl he cheated on me with, his now wife. 

And they were both immaculately dressed and ready for work, smiling secret smiles and laughing between themselves.

They saw me.

I saw them.

And then of course, we all had to make small talk.

AWWWKWAAAARRRD.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, because quite clearly, the universe by this point wanted to finish me off completely, Addison decided at that very moment to start straining.

Did I mention we are trying to get him out of nappies, but he hasn’t quite got the hang of it yet?

‘Mammy! I am pooing!’

(And of course I had nothing with me. So he had to travel home with a naked bum. But it was ok, because my red face kept him warm.)

And that was my morning.

So now, if you don’t mind, while Addison is crashed out in bed, I am going to go and dig a very deep hole, and bury myself in it with what remains of my self-esteem.

Jennifer Anniston? I want my life back.

*I am aware Thru is not the correct spelling of Through. Just so you are aware.

Beauty and the Buffoon.

I guess you could say, I am not your average Disney princess.

If they ever do decide to make a musical fairytale however, about a self harming, suicidal, manic depressive and slightly paranoid flabby woman, with a penchant for tattoos and wearing fake eye lashes, who gets sectioned but fights hard to get better, finds a man, hates him, loves him, hates him, loves him and eventually agrees to marry him and walk off in to the sunset with him, joined by a crazy 2 year old and a dog with an explosive rectum– then I would be totally perfect for the part.

Until then though, I will keep trying to fit my square peg fantasy in to the Disney round hole.

I am all in a dither.

I guess I should mention that I no longer smoke (2 weeks without nicotine and the Irish one is lucky he still has both of his eyebrows, he is doing my head in!! But on the plus side – I can breathe and food never tasted so good, honestly! Chocolate tastes insane!) So, anyway- where as usually I would be puffing away right now, stressed as I am, I have instead inadvertently ended up stress eating mini jammy dodgers.

It’s ok though, these little coins of Jammy Gold won’t affect my wedding diet (the anti thigh rub diet, as it has come to be known) as everybody knows if no one sees you eating them the calories don’t count, and also I have my eyes closed in the hope my hips just won’t notice.

The thing is you see, (she says shoving another 4 in for good measure…) In precisely one hour my telephone is going to ring and I am going to have to pick it up and speak to a jolly American.

Now usually this wouldn’t be a bad thing, given that I love the American’s as much as I do… Actually, did I ever tell you the story about what happens whenever I get drunk?

Basically it goes like this- whenever I get drunk, I fake an American accent and tell everyone in hearing distance I am not from Eccles Manchester, but actually from Utah.

I have no idea why I pick Utah, I just always do, it seems to just roll easily of my drunken tongue, plus it sounds cool. I can picture myself being a cheerleader in Utah, or a rocker or something. Utttaaaahhhhh…. It’s just easy to ‘drawwwwl’ in an American accent.

Do you know what isn’t easy to say in an American accent? (while we are on the subject?)

‘Sugar puffs.’ Don’t ever try and say ‘Sugar puffs’ in an American accent, as you will blow your cover. Even Americans can’t say sugar puffs in an American accent.

Try it if you don’t believe me.

See? You sound like you need help don’t you?

But anyway, back to the point, usually a chat with a real life genuine American would ensure I would be counting down the moments until the shrieking and ‘Howdy and grits!’ and ‘y’all have a nice day’ began.

I LOVE THE AMERICANS.

I should have been American in my opinion.

I was simply born to say things like ‘Freeedommmm!’ and ‘Hey y’all, watch out for those ERBS on the SIDEWALK!’

But oh no, not today, today I am suffering with the regular old British anxiety.

Michelle is the American ringing me today, you see.

And not only is she American, she is Disney American.

Which means I am doubly in awe (and doubly jealous of her heritage and job) and therefore am unable to act like a normal person.

Michelle is my sugar sweet wedding coordinator (the wedding comes with one, it’s like they knew that if they didn’t organise it and plan it for me – it would be a disaster) and due to my immense nerves, excitement and an underlying need to be accepted by her as cool, for some reason, whenever we speak I turn in to a robot.

A robot stuck on ‘demo mode English accents.’

It’s almost as if her sweetness is my kryptonite.

As soon as I hear her friendly, Disneyfied and incredibly well-trained voice saying just the right thing at the right time, I immediately turn in to one of the street urchins from Oliver Twist.

My English accent becomes so prominent I either sounds like I am sucking on a plum or it randomly and without warning violently swing’s in to cockney gangster and I start throwing in words like ‘apples and pears’ and ‘Guvnor.’

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME!

I need this woman to like me; I need this woman to get me!

She is organizing my wedding for me for goodness sake!

My nerves have ruined every conversation we have ever had so far, and I am pretty sure she is regretting the day she accepted me as a client!

I don’t think she understood why me telling her I was in a mental institute was so important but it was, in my head.

I was trying to bond.

And also I felt the need to explain why I have chosen ‘The Mad Hatter’ theme and why absolute mentalness on the day is essential, to make me feel at home.

‘Being crazy means a lot to me you see madam. I was sectioned once in a loony bin, a crazy house if you will! So I totally get the Mad Hatter and how misunderstood he is init.’

‘So what wedding colours are you going for?’ She asked me in the awkward silence following my admission.

‘Black, white and neon pink please darling.’ I said, adding the darling inadvertently, and ending up sounding like Edwina from Absolutely Fabulous. ‘I am not uptight or an idiot you know,’ I felt the need to clarify ‘I just speak like this when I get a bit squiffy.’

(SQUIFFY? I meant nervous!!!)

‘Huh?’ She smiled down the phone, in the way that only Disney employees can, smiling down the phone while signaling to her Disney colleague she has a weirdo on the line, no doubt.

‘Nothing alreeet ’I barked in a random Geordie accent while holding my head in my hands and despairing.

Utterly farcical.

Soon after this, we decided (I say we, but it was blatantly her who decided) it would probably best if she rang me back at a more ‘appropriate’ time to get down to the nitty gritty.

(I want some gas and air!)

It seems now is a more appropriate time.

In precisely one hour my wedding coordinator is ringing me for the nittiest of the gritty and I have no idea what I am going to say.

She is going to ask me my choice of song for walking down the aisle.

It is an important conversation!!

The Irish one has chosen his song.

He is walking down the aisle to, are you ready for this?

Eye of the Tiger.

He thinks this is hilariously original but when I told Michelle I am sure she groaned, but then tried to disguise it with a Disney like cough.

But he is adamant.

He says after all I have put him through, this is his victory dance.

He is limbering up for the rest of his life with me, like Rocky would.

The grandparents, kids and bridesmaids are coming down the aisle to Beauty and the beast, Tale as old as time.

That’s the romantic bit. (I really wish my bridesmaids would consider dressing up as the candlestick, the clock and the teapot – but alas, they won’t.)

And then it’s my turn, and here is my dilemma.

I want it to be a surprise, I want to enjoy the moment and I want to remember it forever!

But mostly I want it to be me.

A bit mad, a bit sad, a bit romantic, a bit idiotic but mostly, completely unexpected and random.

But so far my list just feels a bit crap!

None of my favourite songs seem to fit!

Hand on your heart (Kylie Minogue) – because it is brilliantly 80’s and I could do the headshake as the door opened and totally work it. And also it’s a great tune, you know it is. I could wear leggings under my dress!

I kissed a girl and I liked it (Katy Perry) Just cos I think it’ll be hilarious and also I always secretly dreamed of my own music video, and also it will be dramatic and unheard of. And lets face it, nobody would ever have expected it! And they will all be like ‘DID SHE? Did she kiss a girl???’

The sweetest thing (U2) – The lyrics are a bit depressing though, and this is the one-day I want no depression, not one ounce of it! Plus I am not a brown -eyed girl. I have blue eyes, and well… I just don’t know, is it not a bit cheesy? A bit plinky plonky?

Mama do the hump. You know the one! Mama do the hump, mama mama do the hump! Mama do the hump hump! My dad and I could totally jive, catwalk and prance down the long aisle – It’s inspired! We could do a few turns! It’s not very romantic though. Plus mama doesn’t do the hump anymore. Not really.

Resurrection. – Because I love Ian brown.

Please Don’t Leave Me – (Pink) Because I don’t want him to leave me, basically.

Sex on fire – it isn’t, but you know, it used to be, before we had the kid, and my body was ripped in two and the nights got shorter and we got SKY TV. The sex used to be on fire. SO maybe we could re-ignite the flame!! Saying that though I don’t fancy walking down the aisle next to my dad while the kings of Leon moan and groan and The Irish one looks at me like I’ve lost my mind…. again.

And then there is all the music we love and listen to together.

Walking in Memphis has a great opening, Arizona by kings of Leon I adore, but then what about ABC by the Jackson five? That is Addison’s favourite tune! Ignition by R kelly! On a ragga tip by SL2! or Paradise by Coldplay. Or the Romeo and Juliet fish tank song!

Or I know! I know! What about The Peppa Pig theme tune! It’s what we listen to the most!

I just don’t know!

I need to pick something more romantic don’t I?

The very thought of that makes me incredibly uncomfortable!!

I may just have to turn my phone off for a little while and get one of the bridesmaids to pretend to be me so she thinks I am normal. Let her pick.

I need to take my medication.

I need Michelle to like me.

I need a drink!

I need to pick a darn song y’all!

I need to be from UTAHHHHHHH.

Help!

Oo Oo!

Or what about ‘They tried to make me go to rehab but I said no, no, no…. ‘ (Or is that just too darn obvious?)

In Hindsight… (Woo.)

As the wheels of my car crunched over the gravel drive I paused for a split second, frozen by the magnitude of what was about to happen.

I stumbled erratically to locate the right gear, switching from third and back down to first and eventually manically settling on neutral, my logical thought process completely stolen by the bleakness of the morning.

With my heart pounding out of my chest, the only reminder I was still alive, my little black family mobile, with the backseat holding little more than an empty, crisp spattered car seat and a small bag of my clothes, rolled pathetically in to large space and eventually came to a stop.

I don’t know how long I sat there staring at the big Daddy oak tree, I suppose it doesn’t really matter, I was as numb to the ticking of the clock as I was to my son’s kisses.

When I did eventually manage to climb out in to the cold air of the morning, I spotted a friend across the car park. She smiled kindly in my direction and that smile, changed everything.

The numbness I had so carefully cultivated over the months to protect me from the searing pain, was wiped out and destroyed by a tsunami of icy panic, which engulfed me from the tip of my heart to the bottom of my toes.

‘I don’t think I can do this’ I cried to her, my knees threatening to give way, my bottom lip actually shaking and wobbling as I spoke, the pain and the fear becoming unbearable ‘I just don’t think I can.’

She helped me carry my bags and with her arm around my shoulder we crunched over the pebbles towards reception.

We both knew I had no choice.

It was the unspoken elephant between us.

I was to be admitted in to hospital or I would be dead soon.

I was told I was brave by other patients.

You guys on here, supporting me in droves as I made jokes about packing my dildo and avoided the truth about my illness, told me I would be ok.

I will never forget all the kind words, but most interestingly, that first day, one of the most poignant things I remember being told was;

‘Do not make any drastic decisions or major changes to your life while you are undergoing any kind of therapy. You shouldn’t make any decisions until the dust settles.’

I remember thinking at the time, as I was being sectioned, that that was an odd thing to advise.

1 Blog, 3 tattoos, 1 Job change, 1 fiancée, 1 house on the market and 4 vivid hair changes later, I am starting to think they may have been on to something.

‘I probably should have waited for the dust to settle a little’ I laughed to my Laser Tattoo removal… removalist? (What is the official name for someone who removes your ill advised inking’s?)

‘You think?’ he asks sardonically, glancing up at me while turning the machine up to Cow Branding heat, as he is about to cross over the second O of the word WOO. ‘Do you know that Woo where I am from, means clunge?’

‘Clunge?’ I politely ask, my innocence about to be taken.

‘Yeah.’ He grunts ‘Clunge, like Vagina.’

I feel my eyes get incredibly wide and I stare at him.

If he wasn’t in the throws of death gripping my wrist I would yank my hand away and sink my head in to it.

‘Are you freaking serious?’  I gasp, completely and utterly panicked. The sweat already forming on the back of my neck, the clamminess gripping my heart.

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh god.’ My gaze lands on a tasteful painting of a tattooed Buddha woman with twelve arms, but I don’t actually see it, it really is just the background noise accompanying my internal screaming.

‘What’s the big deal?’ He mumbles, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on removing the first 28 layers of skin from my sad little veins ‘I am removing the WOO now.’

I look up at him but stay silent for a long while, digesting this horrific news.

‘I called my blog mammy FREAKING woo!’ I exclaim.

He stops what he is doing and slowly lifts his eyes to meet mine.

‘So your blog, that everyone kinda likes and reads, the thing you are really proud of… wait, wait, the blog you won awards for…  is called…’ he tries to stop smiling but fails miserably and in the end gives up, finishing with a big grin ‘MAMMY VAGINA?’

As I sat frozen in time once more, I watched as he threw his head back in laughter, and in an extremely loud voice, told the rest of the tattoo parlor that my blog name was Mummy CLUNGE.

‘Is it a porn Blog?’ A bearded man who’s face I couldn’t see through all the body art asked, it has to be said, a little too keenly.

I can’t remember if I responded.

The part of my mind that blocks out all unwanted memories (the part that also houses that memory of that boy fingering me and that teacher catching us) grabbed hold of it and I … what was I talking about?

Anyway.

All I could think of on the way home was the day I drove in to the hospital and seemingly lost my ability to make sound decisions or listen to good advice.

I know in my heart that nothing will ever feel as mind-numbingly horrific as that moment when the orderly forcefully removed my car keys from my possession and took away my ability to escape.

How I missed my baby for weeks on end.

How I howled in to the dark, my heart torn and ragged, with nobody but a faceless nurse checking I wasn’t dead every 15 minutes.

How I wanted to cease to exist.

Nothing will ever be as truly awful as those dark, lonely and misunderstood days, but if I am being honest?

It was you guys that got me through it, supported me, listened to me and never, ever left me for even one moment to think I wasn’t worth life.

It was you guys who told me it would all work out, that everything would be ok, and I should soldier on, so for that?

I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Now if you don’t mind, I need you to do it all again.

Mammy VAGINA???

Mammy VAGINA!!!

Oh my god.

This does not bode well.

From now on can this PLEASE just be the unspoken elephant between us?

It’s like being on Acid, except it Isn’t.

‘Was that your ankle I just heard snap?’

The sturdy, thick thighed, brown haired woman with children hanging off her every appendage is standing over me and considering me inquisitively.

In answer to her question, I am writhing about in pain and gulping down vomit while also inadvertently head butting a giant ladybird.

As much as I would love to enter in to a polite conversation about the noise my ankle just made, I am unable to, due to the fact I think I may actually be dying.

The only noise I am able to make is bursting from my mouth, like something soggy escaping from a compressed nappy, without my prior permission.

I sound like I may be about to birth a donkey.

Eeeeeeee orrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…

Addison, now knelt beside me, having climbed back up the giant snake slide in the midst of all the drama, is trying to rub my back in a way that lets me know he is both caring and mature.

The thing is though, what with him being only two and all, his caring rubbing translates more as him just basically beating the crap out of me with a smile on his face.

As I bite down on my bottom lip and press my face in to the distinctly feet smelling, sticky red mat, writhing around in agony, desperately trying not to lose control of my bladder (which always seems to want to evacuate its contents at the first sign of any pain) Addison thankfully decides to give up on pummeling me to death in my hour of need, but then for some unknown godly reason decides that eating me will be much more supportive.

The burly woman is still stood over me, repeating her question, over and over again, while my son licks my face, I am seriously close to pooping my pants and a pain unlike I have ever felt, makes its way up my right leg.

‘Are you ok?’ she asks throwing her children off her thick body parts like a professional shot putter, and I see them fly, hurtling through the air, in all different directions, big smiles on their faces  ‘I am pretty sure it is just a sprain, I can’t see any swelling.’

I am dangerously close to passing out, my son is now maneuvering his tongue up my nostril, and although I am all for appropriate optimism in the face of disastrous drama, I am pretty sure my foot is no longer attached to my leg and if she calls it ‘just a sprain’ again I will have to projectile vomit all over her in revenge.

I turn on my back and look at her hard, imploring through the method of telekinesis (in that if i could, i would use my eyes to throw something at her) for her to shut the hell up.

Addison then begins to ‘massage my face’ in concern, while sitting on my chest.

(He is basically just bitch slapping me by this point.)

‘For the love of god, I have been shot!! I have been shot in the ankle and now my foot is falling off! Oh my god, I have been shot! Someone call the paramedics and the police.’

Is what I wanted to shout,

What actually came out was;

‘umf for fecks sake umf Addy get off me, I think I am dying, umf ergh its not a sprain, I want to poo, umf I think I need a dr, umf, ergh…’

And then I stupidly looked down and saw my foot was very definitely dislocated, which did not help settle my stomach one tiny bit.

My foot was completely ignoring the instructions to jump back on my ankle I was sending it, preferring instead to take advantage of it’s freedom and perform for all the world to see, its own interpretation of Michael Flatleys lord of the dance, without the rest of my body being involved at all.

Five hours later, after being carried down the shiny green, undulating snake slide by the woman who was convinced it was just a sprain, and who i was convinced by this point was actually a man in drag, and clattering in to my local A and E department all hair and moaning, excitedly seeing my chance to finally, finally re-experience the joys of Gas and Air*, I have been gifted with a shiny half cast, an x-ray confirming a hairline fracture, an extremely clean right nostril and a packet of codeine phosphate.

Damn giant ladybird.

Damn play center.

Damn Michael Flatley, I can’t look at my foot now without seeing a row of healthy Irish dancers, dressed in green, all jumping and fumbling in unison, it’s like my foot had dreams of another life it never got to live and now I am disappointed for it.

My foot is depressed.

The Irish one reckons my foot had the potential to make it to broadway.

I love codeine phosphate too by the way.

But not as much as I love Gas and Air. So it is a shame really that I hadn’t actually been shot.

*They wouldn’t give me gas and air because APPARANTELY it is on my medical record that I ask for it too often and they think maybe I have a problem. I told him ‘I DO HAVE A PROBLEM, my problem is YOU WON’T GIVE ME ANY GAS AND AIR and I deserve some! The people deserve some! My foot deserves some. I didn’t get any. Bunch of bastards.

I’d also like take this moment to say thanks to the woman with incredible thighs. Your thighs saved my life. But it wasn’t a sprain ok? So stop saying it was a sprain. Cos its not and it never was. Thanks.

Be Careful What You Wish For…

I just assumed it would all come true.

I was destined for bigger things.

I was so sure I was.

I believed in it so deeply; that while I waited for ‘it’ to happen, life became grey and dull.

Whatever ‘it’ was, I wouldn’t need to try at all, as I was just so sure, it would be thrust upon me.

It would find me.

It being ‘the greatness.’

One day I would wake up and all of my wishes, dreams and desires would have come true.

I would lie flat on my back in my single bed on those long lonely nights, listening to crappy 90’s music and imagining myself in to a life where I wasn’t miserable, wasn’t lonely, bullied, forgotten, but was stood waiting to perform in front of crowds filled with millions of people.

They would all be screaming and chanting my name in fevered excitement that they were about to enjoy my company, and I, of course would be slimmer than a stick insect, with massive hair, huge sunglasses and obviously acting as cool as a cucumber.

‘Yes’ I would smile in my imaginary life ‘I have made it.’

Every dream was different. (But I was always as shallow…)

I was going to change the world with my singing voice, with my dancing, or even possibly with my intelligence, (it was MY DREAM ok?) or maybe with my immense knowledge of all things 90210 and Melrose Place related, and of course I would never ever look back. (Unless it was for a fabulous photo shoot image.)

My name was going to be remembered throughout the sands of time, and I would be happy and rich.

When my time in the spotlight was up, after I had, had a slow movie montage of my life played to me while Take That sang Never Forget live! And everybody clapped and told me I should be knighted for my services to Fashion/Singing/Wearing sunglasses, I would immediately become like a mother Teresa type figure but with better outfits (and with no issues with gay marriage.)

I may even win a Nobel prize for being fabulous.

The fact I have always been unable to so much as hum, without forcing previously perfectly healthy blackbirds to come over all suicidal and fly headfirst at 40mph in to a brick wall, and mostly when I dance people end up calling the paramedics as they assume I am having some sort of epileptic fit, was besides the point.

In my dream world, everything would be different.

By the time I was 30 I would be a superstar… at something, and all of my dreams would have come true.

I remember all of this, as last week I was cleaning out schoolbooks and diaries and basically, crap, from all those years ago when I was a teenager, and I came across a diary entitled ‘Dream book.’

(I also came across my old school shirt with all the sixth form leaving signatures on it. Why did everybody draw willies at that age? My school shirt is peppered with balls and odd shaped ballooning cocks with smiley faces. Was there really any need?)

(To lexy, I will miss you, here is a smiley knob and hairy balls to remember me by… Laura.. xxx) 

It was filled to the brim with utter bollocks. (The dream book AND shirt.)

But it made me smile, because at the time, writing that utter bobbins in that dream book was how I carried on.

I was dreaming of how I thought my life would go.

It was those dreams that made me get out of bed in the morning.

I was 16.

As I tipped open one of the diaries, I was thrust immediately in to a melancholy moment, when on my lap an envelope, fell. (See, I’ve even slipped in to melancholy prose…)

I knew instantly what was in it.

At the time, the way I saw it, geography IGcse could just bore off because I was destined for bigger things.

While my classmates learned about cloud formations and how to recognise a Small Crack from a Gaping Crevice (which actually, may be a good title for a book I am writing on the after effects of labour) on field trips, I searched for four leaf clovers and stars to wish on.

(10 grand a year on private school fees well spent then, yeah dad?)

From Inside the envelope, as I opened it, with my fat fingers trembling, out fell, wrapped in tissue and sealed with a note, a four-leaved clover.

My wish, the wish I made 18 years ago at the age of 15, was written in bold pink ink.

‘I wish to never be normal.’

I probably should have been more specific.

Bat Shit Crazy.

I must live in the moment.

I don’t want to go back in hospital.

I just can’t.

I must live in the moment.

I must take deep breaths.

Think rational thoughts.

I must not freak out.

What can I hear if I close my eyes and take deep breaths?

Yes everything is ok.

I can hear the sound of Doodle licking his bollocks romantically in his bed next to me.

Over my ragged breath, I can also hear the clinky clanky tinkering of the Irish one fixing his bike in the kitchen (as you do) while muttering expletives under his breath and faintly, if I focus, I can hear my Barmy and adored, sweet smelling boy snoring, mouth wide open, in his bed.

All is as it should be.

Deep breaths.

Do not freak out.

It will not happen.

Don’t freak out don’t freak out don’t freak out.

I do not want to end up back in hospital.

It reared its violent head again on New Years Eve.

I went for a lie down at 8pm ‘to rest my eyes for five minutes’ after loving every moment of snuggling with Addison,  after telling stories of tractors who could talk and dogs who could fly.

I lay down peacefully, promising to rest for only five minutes.

What must have been hours later I found myself sitting bolt upright in bed, my heart hammering and dripping with hot tears and sweat.

I could hear gunshots.

‘Irish one!’ I screamed in to the darkness after reaching out to grab him and with a huge sense of dread realising he wasn’t there. ‘Oh my god, Irish one! Where are you?’

He burst through the bedroom door like a shocked and pajamad warrior.

‘Whats the matter?’ He shouted racing towards the bed in what I thought was panic and worry for me. (Turns out I was screaming like I was being stabbed and he was worried the neighbors may think he was bludgeoning me.) ‘Stop screaming!’

‘Are we at war?’  I whispered clutching his shoulder and grabbing the PlayStation remote from him in case I needed to brandish it as a weapon later on.

‘No you medicated idiot,’ he laughed, enveloping me in a hug and rocking me back and forth like you may do a child ‘it is midnight. It is fireworks you can hear. Happy New Year. Go back to sleep.’

As my heart began to slow , I kissed him, handed him back his remote and rolled over.

I was intending to go back to sleep grumbling about how If the fireworks woke the kid up, i’d go mad.

But I couldn’t sleep.

I knew it was back.

I felt as if I had invited it back.

Immediately I was disappointed in myself and anxious.

Don’t freak out.

Don’t freak out.

Something had crept in to bed behind me, and was now spooning with me, breathing its hot breath on to my neck, making all of my hair stand on end.

Psychosis.

Go away.

Please go away.

A feeling of dread so worrying, I am now, a week later, still struggling to function.

Calm down.

You are ok.

The world didn’t end.

I am getting married this year.

Nothing is like what it was.

It isn’t back.

You are imagining it.

Doodle is slowly starting to realise 5 years after emerging from his doggy mothers womb that outside is where he must poo and the rocky start I had at motherhood myself, is just starting to feel lovely, like deep down in my bones, awe inspiring, heart rupturing lovely.

Everything is ok.

Deep breaths.

It is only a new year.

Don’t freak out.

But no, I know it is there waiting for me, seeping in at my edges, the darkness, the paranoia, I can feel it, no matter how much I argue with myself.

It is there.

Has the Irish one spiked my tea?

He repeatedly denies it, his brow furrowing with worry and of course, then I laugh.

Set his mind at rest.

Before surreptitiously creeping in to the kitchen and pouring it down the sink.

I will make a new cup of tea, and I will keep my eyes on it.

He may be trying to spike me.

You never know.

Ok.

I think we have a problem.

Do those girls hate me really? Will they follow me back to my car and throw bricks at me?  Are they plotting to follow me home? Do they call me fat and see evil in me?

Are they planning to steal my baby? I must tell them I made my baby up. I must pretend he doesn’t exist.

No harm can come to my baby.

Ok.

I think we may have a problem.

And then I am lost.

The deep breathing hasn’t helped.

I know with certainty right now it will happen.

The moment I dread.

The moment I am pulled roughly from the serene moment I am resting my lips peacefully on my son’s forehead, or inhaling his sweet playful childishness as he smacks his lips together in his sleep, and everything will just… disappear.

I will blink myself from this life and find myself in a stark white room 30 years from now stinking to high heaven of hospitals and bleach, tethered to a bed with an old man leaning over me, his teeth yellowing and his complexion pale, begging me to come home and get better.

I will recognise nobody.

I won’t know what happened.

I was putting my son to bed and I blinked.

The old man will be the Irish one but of course, I wont recognise him, having only seen him three minutes before when he was swearing in the kitchen and leaving greasy oil prints everywhere.

Now.

I mean… just then!

What happened?

I want to go back.

‘Lexy,’ he will tenderly whisper in my ear, his salty old coffee breath gushing over my senses, ‘I am your husband we have been married 30 years today, Addison is  here to see you,  can you remember him? Are you lucid?’

‘You don’t like coffee’ I will whisper confused, ‘you can’t be him’ my eyes wide with fear, my heart exploding with every beat from my chest.

‘Mike wazaouski’ he will whisper our private joke playfully in my ear, and I will instantly know it is him and I will turn to ice.

‘Mum.’ I will hear his voice before I see him and I will sense his tears, his heartbreak at how his mother went Bat shit crazy  ‘Mum, it’s me, Addison. Are you lucid?’

I will turn slowly, my head a dead weight filled with fear and disbelief and I will look at the grown up man stood at the end of my bed.

My heart will catch in my throat.

Don’t freak out.

I missed it all.

I missed him growing up.

I missed it all.

No.

‘No!’ I will want to scream long and hard.

‘Mum’ he will whisper, his little lopsided smile and cracked baby teeth, long gone, his baby blue eyes once filled with vulnerability now replaced by life experience I haven’t witnessed, a life with his mother trapped in another world. A life where his mother abandoned him.

And I will howl in desperation, where is my son, where has his smell gone, his little play doh and yoghurt stained pyjamas? Where are our moments?

The man at the end of the bed cannot be my son, he just can’t, my son is 2 years old.

And I will black out.

Ok. 

I think we may have a problem. 

Don’t freak out.

Everything is ok.

Addison is asleep in his bed.

Concentrate on the now.

But will now be the moment it happens?

That my years will be violently stolen?

I am still in bed.

I can hear Doodle farting.

Concentrate on the now.

It is all ok.

The Irish one has come in.

He is shouting at me to calm down.

He sounds worried.

I must be freaking out.

I am trapped in my imaginary world.

Heart racing, panicked, mouth dry, the room swinging in and out of focus.

I must live in the moment.

I must not forget to take my medication.

I must not freak out.

I must not get too upset and angry when I hear people off handedly label others, with mental health issues, funny names.

They simply do not understand that this is an illness.

I must live in the moment.

A panic attack will only ever be a panic attack.

I am going to go and hug my baby.

I am bat shit crazy.

But you know?

I will get through it.

Happy New Year!

Whiplash…

I guess, in the grand scheme of things, I do take a lot for granted.

It seems however that perhaps I should be more appreciative of stuff.

Like, my neck.

I never truly appreciated the momentous amount of effort my neck puts in everyday, not only keeping my humongous Sindy doll head with its erratic and uncontrollable bonce sitting on top upright, but it also seems to have some influence over my voice box too.

Who knew?

The neck and the voice in cahoots, I wonder if any medical people are aware of this phenomenon? Maybe I should write to … um… er… Google?

For the past week having been suffering with some pretty intense whiplash following on from my surprise fondling session with a glass wall, it has dawned on me just how much of my life I owe to my neck.

‘You are taking it a bit far Lexy. I am sure you could speak normally even if you are unable to swivel your head!’

The Irish one was frustrated with my whiplash.

The Irish one was wrong (as usual) as I had tried but totally couldn’t do ANYTHING normally without my neck agreeing.

It was like my GSCE drama was coming back to haunt me and for some reason I was really getting in to character.

As a Dalek.

Not only did I find myself having to walk and operate generally like I was in some dodgy parental version of Dr Who, but I was also, on account of my (Immense and fabulous theatrical background – seriously you should have seen me in the local theatre’s version of Drop dead Fred! I was the most life-like tree you ever saw!) I was also beginning to sound like a Dalek too.

‘Talk normally!’  He bellowed as he approached me from behind (not in a dodgy way) in the kitchen.

‘I ser-iou-sly carnt.’ I had mechanically responded turning slowly around to face him with my shoulders, a look of horror etched on to my face.

Just before this happened you see, I had been in the throws of attempting to erect a makeshift splint for my neck made out of an empty KFC bargain bucket and seven ice lolly sticks all glued together.

Addison, who had eaten the 7 ice lolly’s in a bid to seem useful was now swinging from the light fixtures screeching like an over sugared Russian monkey gymnast. Seriously, only dogs could hear him.

So upon shuffling in to the kitchen to fetch more glue for my whiffy chicken sponsored neck upholstery and discovering as I felt something remotely poo like squidge between my bare toes (as obviously Dalek’s cant look down) that Doodle had released his bowel all over the floor, I totally felt it normal if not necessary to shout.

‘EXCREMENT!! EXCREMENT!!’  In the most mechanical Dalek voice I could muster.

It just came out naturally, actually. (Which is also how doodle later explained himself.)

I have noticed though, that having whiplash is also akin to having just given birth.

In that, you are in all this pain but no one gives a damn cos now there is a baby (ours who was by now licking the windows,) you may as well be a lump of whale skin. (Although saying that, I’d make a nice lipstick me. They could call me – Shit Tinkle Brown.)

So anyway, here are my new years resolutions.

1) Stop walking in to glass walls as this ultimately leads to runny poo ending up between your toes and you being unable to clean your feet cos you cant bend down without either a) screaming like a girl or B)…. Screaming like a girl.

2) Keep the fish alive, because when the fish are dead they hold no entertainment value and a ‘holiday down the toilet’ is now just not cutting the mustard with the child. He is also now starting to believe, on account of us having to change the story, that to get to heaven, you have to flush the loo. Awkward.

3) Do more stuff that involves vodka.

4) Stop forgetting to take my medication.

And that’s me out.

‘Irish one!’

‘What?’ he replies a look of concern passing over his features.

‘Lick my poo toes!!’ I snort at how funny I think I am.

‘You are gross. I can not believe we are getting married this year!’

OH MY GOD.

I want to walk down the aisle dressed like a Dalek!

‘HE MUST OBEY! OBEY!’

I wonder if Disney would allow it? I bet they have the costume and everything…

Actual Social Suicide.

I didn’t see it coming.

I was trying to play it cool while carrying my tote bag, my handbag, Addison’s toys and a large red box in one hand, and the wriggling chocolate covered, sticky fingered juvenile himself in the other.

‘Can I just leave this here with you?’ I stoutly questioned the security guard on our way out of reception while fumbling in my pocket for the phone I had found on the three-story dismount from my office.

It’s a shame I am unable to step in a lift as if I could, none of this would have ever happened.

It would certainly make my life easier too, but alas, my fear of being stuck in a tiny unmoving box with a two and a half-year old, in the dark, ensures we always climb the stairs.

Up and down.

Up being no easier than down.

It adds an extra twenty minutes to my commute.

Addison comes in to work with me now, you see, at my brilliant new job for Elite magazine.

Unfortunately though, the office is on the third floor.

Which is great if you aren’t a two-year old who seems to believe stairs are magical concrete boxes which give you powers of aviation, so that usually ‘taking the stairs’ means mummy having to have the emergency services on speed dial, or mummy dislocating her shoulder and his wrist as she dangles him mid-air from each step in a bid to get him to ‘JUST BLOODY WALK PROPERLY!’

Sweating slightly as I keep one of the bags aloft with my teeth, I hand the phone over  ‘I found it on the stairs.’

‘Thanks.’ comes the gruff voice.

As I reposition the bag in to my hand and shift Addison’s weight on to my hip and place the phone down in front of him, all jute bag and rustling, I look up. ‘Is that ok?’ I squeak.

He is a lovely looking lad with blue-green eyes and incredibly white teeth.

He looks a bit like Harry Styles.

I am instantly hit with how carefree he seems to be, it is oozing off him from behind the desk.

Young, carefree, maybe a little hung-over and definitely relaxed.

As oppose to me.

Old, laden with crap, stinking of a night squidged in to a cot bed with a sticky two-year old and so rigid, I’d make a ruler jealous.

‘Yeah.’ He responds cockily, sliding the phone towards himself and then frowning in barely masked disbelief as Addison decides at that very moment to stick his tongue on my eye-ball and I yelp like a mauled mongrel.

I must appear to be the most harassed, overloaded, red-faced and agitated, carrying a huge stuffed finding Nemo plush under one arm, out of breath ‘associate’ in a suit, anyone has ever seen in this posh office building.

I smile back, after pushing my son’s face away a little and acknowledge I look a bit weird with a wink. Yeah I am weird and have responsibility but yeah, I am cool yeah? I can still be ‘down with the kids yeah.’ I can manage all of this, and still pull off sexy, calm, collected and cool yeah?

He smiles a little oddly at me so I decide it is time we move on.

I am probably coming across like a mental patient.

I huff like an elephant as I begin re positioning the weight of our belongings and start marching in the general direction of the exit.

And then everything happens at once.

As I turn to leave the busy reception area and get away from the crowds of young people, my phone starts to vibrate against my leg distracting me, I notice it is raining heavily outside, the clock on the wall tells me we are running very late for job number 2 so I speed up, and for some unknown godly reason Addison decides to stick his finger right up my nose.

I didn’t see it coming.

I was extracting a sticky knuckle from probing the depths of my inner face cavities and I was in a rush.

I heard the panicked shouts of ‘NOoooooo!’ from a few people in reception before I actually felt the pain, but by that point it was too late.

I, rather embarrassingly, strode in to very clean, squeaky clean some may say, Glass bastard wall.

I witnessed actual stars popping about my head cartoon like as I was tumbling backwards on my boots, boxes and bags, tampons and toy trains exploding from different parts of my person, in to the air around me before thudding to the floor and screeching across the classy marble in every direction.

I may have shouted an expletive in to the ether before hitting the deck and trying to stop Addison head butting me on the way down.

I may have shouted something a long the lines of someone’s mother being a fucker as my nose started to bleed and the stunned silence was slowly replaced by gasps of horror from all around us.

I could taste my embarrassment in the audible silence before I tasted the blood.

I didn’t know what to do.

It was too late to brush anything off.

I couldn’t limp off pretending it hadn’t happened.

It will probably appear on You’ve been Framed or You Tube at some point!

I couldn’t even open my eyes properly to locate my son, my god the pain was unbelievable.

Mortification and actual pain.

My face felt like it was sliding off my chin.

And the Silence was only serving to magnify my injured grunting and moaning, that oddly I was aware did sound a little sexual. (Very random.)

And then somebody sniggered.

I snapped my head to the left, holding my nose together, to peep through the tears at who the perpetrator was.

It was Addison.

He was rolling around on the floor grasping for his trains and trying to open my tampons in barely concealed delight.

‘MUMMY ALWAYS LOOK WHERE YOU ARE WALKING!! SWEETIES!!!’

And then he started properly laughing, the little sod.

And then the tittering from the rest of the room started.

So I just lay back on the floor staring at the ceiling as strangers passed me back my tampons and the security guard got me some tissues for my bleeding nose.

Me and my black eye are working from home from now on.

I used to be cool.

Honest.

Pete.

His name is Peter Smith.

As I crouched down next to him on the filthy concrete floor where he was laying on his side, his face almost resting in a puddle and his yellowing fingernails clutched around a wallet of sorts, I have to be honest; I did curse myself for stopping and becoming involved before I fully really realised what I was doing, especially while wearing my new suede boots.

While trying to grind his face in to the floor in an attempt to disappear, or feel more stable maybe, he tells me that his name is Peter Smith, but whispers that I can call him Pete.

I lean over him, my hand on his shoulder, and ask him how old he is.

He tells me he is sixty.

I tell him, while fumbling for my phone, that he doesn’t look sixty years old and as I am connected to the emergency services I notice out of the corner of my eye, his eyebrows raise ever so slightly and he tries to turn and make eye contact with me.

When he does, he smiles slightly, naturally, in surprise.

I smile back at him and want to cry, as people flood by us, without even a second glance.

I decide at this point to stop being such a selfish twat and be grateful for what I have been given.

With glum regard at knowing I am doing the right thing but still not being entirely sure I want to, I take my coat off and rest his head on it, it will be warmer, the inside is fur lined and at least now, this old man’s head is off the floor.

I am a human being and so is he.

If I were lying on my side on the floor next to a church at 10.30 on a Monday morning at sixty years old, I would hope somebody may do the same for me.

He thanks me and sobs.

I ignore him, feeling I too could sob, even more so as I witness him dribbling all over it.

His blonde hair is matted and in his ear, I notice, as I am leaning over to speak to him, he has encrusted mud.

Pete is sixty years old and he has mud in his ears.

His yellowing brown leather jacket, formal brown trousers and old lace up shoes do not tell me he is homeless, they tell me he is an old man who at one point took great pride in his appearance.

How does someone go from that, to having mud in their ears?

It was his shoes that stopped me in my tracks as I was on my way up the hill towards Wilkinson’s to buy christmas presents for Addison.

I may bitch about my new boots getting dirty and my coat (Sob!), but I didn’t even consider walking on, like those around me, I promise.

I couldn’t, even though people told me to keep walking, that he was here all the time, even though my common sense was telling maybe I shouldnt get involved, I stopped and I got involved, because the minute I saw Pete’s shoes, I was stopped in my tracks.

They were like a knife in my heart.

One solid lace up brown kicker type shoe, lying on the top of the other, his knees slightly bent, facing out towards the passing traffic.

Shoes like my son wears, sturdy brown shoes that are built to last.

Pete is somebody’s son.

Pete is sixty years old.

Pete has mud in his ears, and this morning Pete had half a bottle of Vodka for breakfast.

Pete has a story and I want to know it.

Pete has caused heartache to all his family and when the ambulance men get here they will roll their eyes and shout at him.

Pete tells me all this and sobs loudly.

He tells me he wants to die.

I look up to the sky and curse.

Of all the people in all of the world Pete, I am probably not the person you want to have sitting with you now.

Rolling as I am in the waves of a minor relapse.

‘Me and you both mate.’ Didn’t seem like an appropriate answer, so I stayed shtum.

He tells me he is a diabetic and an alcoholic and he wants to die.

He shakes and sobs as I sit back and watch the realisation of where he is dawning oh him over and over again.

It reminds me of the way the immediate and shocking realisation at my brother being dead hit me over and over again any time I got drunk in those first few months.

The pain would get more and more blunt each time.

‘Pete. What happened today can you tell me?’

‘I don’t know.’

And I can tell he doesn’t.

He doesn’t have a clue how he got here.

He tells me he wants to go home and a small part of me connects to something I can not put in to words.

I am connected to being lost.

When the paramedics arrive they address him like an old friend.

‘Hi Pete.’ The brown-eyed one says ‘You having a bad day mate?’

Pete sobs again and I move back after rubbing his shoulder one last time, to let them do their work.

They thank me, and promise me he will be ok, that they will look after him.

‘Bye Pete.’ I shout as I leave, and I blow him a kiss.

‘Your coat!’ he whispers hoarse and I bend down to retrieve it. ‘Thank you.’ He says and I know he means it.

Or maybe he doesn’t.

Maybe he won’t remember me by now.

He probably won’t.

My coat is in the wash; all traces of Pete will be gone soon.

But I have a feeling I will remember him for a long time.

I don’t know why.

It’s just got to me.

He was somebody’s son, and he had mud in his ears.

I wonder what his story was, or could have been, if it wasn’t for the illness, the addiction, and the alcohol?

My boots are fine by the way.

I wiped them down when I got home.

Life goes on for both of us.

I bought Addison a Transformer.