Dory.

The Irish one has decided to start growing potatoes, on our kitchen windowsill.

I paused there so that the full horror of what I am telling you can sink in.

The man has ultimately thought about it long and hard, and has evidently come to the conclusion that growing potatoes, in an already crammed two bedroom flat in the middle of industrial Hell Manchester, is a sensible and normal thing to do.

And it’s not only potatoes.

It’s tomatoes too.

I, once again, am idealizing suicide.

Although the two events seemed to kick-start around the same time, I am almost sure they are not related.

Almost.

‘What in the hell is this on the windowsill?’

The windowsill, by the way, was the only surface in this godforsaken flat of Doom* that hadn’t already been taken up by some form of clutter.

(*If you are a potential buyer then I don’t mean any of this stuff I am saying by the way, it really is an upcoming area with great potential, filled with lovely people who only carry bricks because it looks cool,  and only look menacing because they are tired. Also this Apartment is genuinely in an ideal location for a single and semi blind person about town, who doesn’t mind the odd bit of Cancer, from the tiny industrial estate which really is further away than it smells, and also a small family who don’t tend to use their windowsills to START A FARM!)

My windowsill was glorious.

Half a meter of shiny white, varnished wood that on the one sunny day of the year would shine and glint, occasionally reminding me of sunsets in the Caribbean when I worked on the ships, of a life spent growing up in Spain free of the doldrums of this existence and occasionally in my darker moments, it would remind me of wood worm.

And then I would want to smash it to smithereens.

Because, seriously how can the very thought of a worm that eats wood just not freak you out?

It cannot be natural.

Does the worm go hard?

And if not?

HOW COME?

It is EATING WOOD!

“It’s Potatoes! Addy and I are starting a mini allotment! Isn’t it a great idea!’

I had been at work 4 hours.

This is how long it took  for an indoor allotment to be created in my kitchen.

Can you imagine what would happen if I left them to their own devices for longer than this?

Doodle would be sharing his bed with chickens, that is what would happen.

We are only one step away from chickens!

And I have a phobia of EGGS!

Anyway.

Are you bored with listening to me go on about my illness yet?

Blah blah blah, I want to hang myself, or suffocate myself, or maybe tie bricks to my feet and go for a swim in the Quays, blah blah blah… change the record.

I am bored of talking about it, but even more tired of feeling this way, of shuffling my dusty feet around and around in circles seemingly making absolutely no progress further than the occasional bout of euphoria, usually only caused by accidentally taking too much medication or perhaps spotting that Selfridges stock a new Marc Jacobs handbag.

I am sinking here, again.

I am so bored of sinking.

Of being.

So What the hell is he thinking?

Potatoes?

Is he trying to push me over the edge?

Our flat is tiny and already has four heartbeats crammed in to it.

8 if you count the Guppy fish we inherited from the neighbor who randomly moved to china in the middle of the night.

(*Seriously, LOVELY area.)

Do fish even have heartbeats?

Wouldn’t a heartbeat in something so tiny put them off their stroke?

Annoy them?

I am not going to be as predictable as to regale you with how I feel I can relate to those fish if I stare at them long enough, endlessly swimming around their prison, stuck, being able to see what life is like on the other side of the glass but never being able to reach it, with no hope, completely reliant on a small pair of bum smelling, 2 year old hands to provide their happiness, their sustenance.

But I will be honest.

Sometimes I think they may be communicating with me.

Boc Boc Boc Bo BOC BOC, basically means; ‘Kill us now you miserable bitch, or at the very least shave your damn legs and get off the Sofa.

(Boc Boc Boc is how fish talk. I am also aware chickens talk like this. DO you see a pattern emerging  here? BECAUSE I DO!)

But I can’t.

I have no energy left.

And the energy I do have I am certainly not going to waste on getting up off the sofa and shaving.

And now?

The Irish one is growing potatoes on the windowsill.

And most of my time is spent trying not to take an overdose.

Although the two may not be related, they definitely kicked off around the same time.

Oh.

And also, rather significantly, he recently told me he would never even consider moving to Spain.

And that,

May just be a Game changer.

Because if I don’t even have a hope of ever going home?

Never getting out of this fish tank?

Then really,

What is the point?

All I wanted was a tiny particle of hope.

The thought of one day going home, of heading back to everything i know? Well, as unrealistic as it may have been, it kept me going when things got very dark.

It was hope.

But now he is happily growing potatoes on the Windowsill,

And I don’t feel so lucky that I have something so precious to me, that he makes saying goodbye feel so much harder, than being forced to stay.

Even if his hands do smell of Bum.

So for now,

I will Just Keep Swimming and pray I don’t come home to poultry.

Boc Boc.

Black Eyed Fleas. (Journey.)

A lot of things have happened today.

I had my tattoo touched up.

I got tricked in to taking part in some sort of unorganized and ghastly impromptu nature trail by the kid.

But most horrifically, during the moments I wasn’t fully focused on the decorative agony emanating from my bruised, poked and horrifically damaged (but soon to be very pretty) wrist, or peering closely at, and pretending to be enthralled by a Worm split disgustingly in two, or a leaf that looked like a bit of mud, or gasping ‘Ooo look Addy, it’s a big dog poo! This is nature at it’s very best’ my mind was effortlessly wandering, as if it had a mind of it’s own (see what I did there?) on to thoughts, of the big D.

Death.

Yesterday I found a lump.

An actual real life, wobbly mass of tenderness, of indefinite size and shape, commonly painful, sometimes painless; Also commonly referred to in the medical profession as an abnormal mass or swelling that usually will cause irritation.

Mostly referred to in this household as ‘The Irish one.’

Joking.

I do not refer to that lump.

I am referring to an actual medical lump.

After the first fleeting and heart crippling thoughts of;

‘OH MY GOD I HAVE A LUMP, I AM PANICKING LIKE A MOFO, SOMEONE GET ME A DOCTOR AND SOME GAS AND AIR, STAT!’

had petered off and moved on to thoughts of;

‘WELL IF THERE IS A POSSIBILITY I AM GOING TO DIE, I MAY AS WELL EAT THESE SEVEN EASTER EGGS FIRST’

And I had poked and prodded and marched randomly up and down the hallway, in a blind panic, stress eating chocolate without really focusing on what I was doing, I found another one.

‘Irish one!’

‘What?’

‘They say I’m really sexy.’

‘What?’

‘The boys they wanna sex me.

They always standing next to me,

Always dancing next to me,

Tryin’ a feel my Lump, Lump.

Lookin’ at my lump, lump.

You can look but you can’t touch it,

If you touch it I’m a start some drama,

You don’t want no drama,

No, no drama, no, no, no, no drama

So don’t pull on my hand boy,

You ain’t my man, boy,

I’m just tryn’a dance boy,

And move my Lump.

My Lump, my Lump, my Lump, my Lump,

My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump.

My lovely lady lumps…

My lovely lady lumps’

‘She’d got me spinning, you got me spinning, what you gonna do with all that junk, all that junk inside that trunk, fillin out them jeans….’

None of that actually happened.

But it was a lot more interesting to write than what actually happened.

Which was him ignoring me in favour of the football, then absentmind-ingly telling me not to worry as they were probably flea bites, off, and I quote ‘the Mangy Dog.’  (He is NOT MANGY HE IS A PART OF THIS FAMILY! WARTS AND ALL! Pay me some attention!!!)

Infuriating.

Anyway.

After a sleepless night tossing and turning, continually prodding different parts of my body, running through scenario after scenario in my mind and repeatedly reminding the Irish one that me checking my groin for lumps was not in any way intended to be any sort of come on, morning finally arrived.

‘Hi Dr Phillips, us again!’

Addison bowled in to her office, shouted ‘I am a Nincompoop!’ at top volume and made straight for the drawer where she keeps her stickers.

She fended him off like a medical Kung Fu Panda, and with a sense of ease I will forever envy, got him sitting messing with her thermometer, in no time.

(It was only after the event I was like – hang on, don’t thermometers have some sort of dangerous mineral in them? Liquid dynamite, or something?)

‘What can I do for you Lexy?’ She swivels away from my two-year-old time bomb and faces me expectantly.

I showed her my lumps. (My lovely lady lumps.)

‘Are you worried?’ she asks as I inadvertently envelop her in a smell similar, but not identical to cowpat and she professionally struggles, not to wretch.

‘Yes. I am worried.’

‘What about?’

I imagine I look at her in the same way Doodle looks at me when I say something he doesn’t understand.

I tilt my head to the side and open my eyes really wide, (stick my tongue out, start panting and manically scratch my ear… Not really. Ok…. A little bit.)

‘Is it not obvious? Doesn’t everyone immediately jump to concerns about Cancer the moment a lump is mentioned?’

She nods, and urges me to go on.

‘I am not scared of dying though. How could I be?’

I pause and look away for a split second to calm the noise in my mind and check Captain Bonkers is not swallowing a needle or something.

He is.

He actually has his head in her yellow ‘contaminated waste’ metal medical bin.

‘ADDISON!’ we both screech in unison.

He jumps out and smiles guiltily, chucking a pump of somesort behind him in a jerk reaction, before asking for the ipad and smiling sweetly at the Dr, who seems to be shaking somewat.

As I rustle in my handbag looking for my iPhone to occupy him, I continue, without really focusing on what I am saying.

‘I have spent the last three years swinging violently between wanting to die and being euphorically happy about finding cake in the cupboard. It is not death that scares me, it is the thought of having to say goodbye to Addy Woo. No! You cannot have a donut, mummy hasn’t got any with her!! Hang on I am looking for it…’

I turn my bag upside down on the floor and manically spread out it’s contents, vaguely aware as I ramble on, that my iphone doesn’t seem to be there.

‘But the thought of Death?’ I continue ‘Well that is the dream that keeps me warm at night. Yes baby, mummy is looking for it… Sometimes, I can actually feel the relief you see, of what it would be like, ceasing to exist. Quite something to behold. Doesn’t it just sound wonderful? To have the world disappear? I imagine it to be like lying on a sandy beach when you are nineteen, the heat of sun on your face, your toes digging in to the sand, your emotions deep and even, blissful. Where the hell is my phone?’

The doctor hands me my phone.

I don’t acknowledge how she has it. (I didn’t even realise she did have it until I was just writing this, how the hell did she have my iphone?? See? NINJA DOCTOR.)

‘Some days, it is all I can think about. Dying.’

Slowly the truth is loading. I am on a roll, getting faster and faster…

‘No longer feeling weighted down by love, no longer strung out by the white noise in my mind, the pain. And seeing my brother, feeling his protection again, but even if he isn’t there and it is just blackness, just … nothing. Not romantic at all, I still think it must be lush, better than this ignorance, this pain, this world where dogs kill children, and precious mummy’s have their babies stolen from them, where people hate just for hating sake. Imagine it! Just… nothing.’ I sigh, blowing it all out.

I then hand Addison my phone and begin putting my bag back together.

‘Give me half a chance to experience ‘the end’ without the blame I would most definitely get if I did it to myself, and I would take it. Cancer is acceptable, suicide, although it should be, is not seen as acceptable. When I talk about suicide, about how it has affected my life, my family, I see people recoil in discomfort. I don’t want to cause that for anyone.’

I glance up at her to check she is listening.

She is.

Intently.

This urges me to continue on as honestly as I can, without losing my courage.

‘Some days I am bursting with unshed tears and excruciating half remembered shadows and demons, that torment my every second moment.  Who I am, where I am, the continual voices, the continual annoyingly jovial people who try to jivvy me out of being miserable, when miserable and bleak is the only emotion I can feel without having to try, and that in itself is exhausting. And then I have the days where I can’t stop the happiness, it floods me and floors me, I am euphoric, and then bereft when it leaves. All I want to do when these mentally stable people smile kindly at me, is cry and scream and scrape at their faces with my nails, because I am so angry. I am so angry. I want to shout about how it is not fair that I will never be normal, I will never get to just be, so no, death doesn’t scare me. Death feels like heaven.’

The office is thick with honesty.

It is suffocating us both.

The silence is seeping under my skin, wrapping itself around my head and my heart.

I cough.

I know she is gawping at me.

‘So then why are you worried about these lumps?’

I snap my head up to look at her in the eye.

‘Should I be worried about these lumps?’

‘No Lexy, I am pretty sure these are viral lumps, swollen lymph nodes, but if they haven’t gone down in three weeks come back ok?’

I nod.

I am relieved.

After all this I am relieved.

I know Cancer doesn’t mean death, I know it is far from a death sentence these days.

But…

‘Saying goodbye to Addison. That is my daily fear, on top of all the others. Fear I am going mad, fear I am not going mad, fear I have cancer, fear my dad will die, fear the dog will go missing, fear I will never be happy, never feel light, I cannot live, die, exist, not exist, whatever – without him. The thought of leaving him is like…’

As I say this, searching for a painful analogy of what my life would be like without Addison, he looks up at me with his baby blue eyes and smiles.

This is it.

The overpowering love all the baby books spoke of.

‘Mummy?’

‘Yes baby?’ I ask him this while tracing my finger around his chin gently, looking down at his precious little face, my eyes begin filling up at the thought of missing out on his life, his tenderness, his beauty.

‘I am doing a big wee wee.’

I fly out of my seat like I have a rocket up my arse.

‘GOD DAMN!’

I nearly headbutt her desk in my haste to reach for my bag.

The Dr jumps up too ‘What, what, what is the matter?’

‘HE ISNT WEARING A NAPPY!’

I think I may have screamed in her face.

The appointment came to an abrupt end after that.

But not before she whispered the words every mental patient dreads hearing.

‘Have you ever wondered, ever considered, ever put any thought in to, or researched the possibility, that you may be Bipolar?’

No I haven’t.

And I won’t.

My son has sodden pants, lets just focus on that for now.

A lot later, as in, about ten minutes ago – as I lay in bed poking at my lumps which are still very definitely there, and wondering if I should, under her instruction, perhaps consider another, different medication I have not tried yet for my mental health problems, whatever the label they fall under, the Irish one trundles in.

I feel almost romantic.

Maybe I will allow him some sex this evening.

‘Addy has shit the bed. Do you know where the wipes are?’

It is these tiny moments of bliss that make life worth living.

Even with all the pain.

Together, we will clean up the poo.

And I will feel less alone.

A hitch in the Fairytale…

I don’t think I want to get married.

The thing is, I have this sinking suspicion I may be gay.

Or busy that day, or something.

I mentioned this to the Irish one last week, and unsurprisingly, the conversation did not go well.

‘I am not sure I want to get married.’ I accidentally shouted, desperate to unburden myself from the heavy feeling.

I probably should have waited until a more appropriate time.

‘You are telling me this while I am having a poo?’ came the irritable response from behind the door.

‘Sorry, I just couldn’t wait any longer.’ I responded, stroking the door handle ‘The thing is, I think I may be gay, or busy that day, or something.’

I didn’t get a response for a while and had naturally assumed he was busy crying at the sad loss of our relationship.

He wasn’t.

A moment later the door opened and he matter of factly put me back in my place.

He knows me too well.

‘You know,’ he started, as I caught his glance and upon realising I had been busted shuffled away in a halfhearted strop ‘even if you are gay, it is too late. This wedding is going ahead. You are going to have to get on a plane, you are going to have to wear shorts and you are going to have to bloody help me with the menu’s!!’

My feet aren’t cold or anything.

It’s not that.

I love the Irish one and the whole ‘Top o’ the mornin’ green leprechaun’ thing he has going on, and I suppose in the grand scheme of things, he will do as a life partner, he really does make great potatoes after all, it’s just, I can not be bothered with getting married.

It’s such a bloody FAF!

Am I missing something here?

‘I’ll have a hot chocolate please, with extra whipped cream.’

‘Are you ok Lexy?’ The lovely blonde Starbucks barista asks me, nearly dropping the cup in surprise as I detour from the usual enjoyment free, extra shot, extra dry, extra hot espresso I order.

The truth is, no.

I am not ok.

And although I know it is ok not to be ok, I just wish I was ok, because not being ok, doesn’t feel ok when I have so much to be ok about right now.

Does that make sense? (Hey, don’t forget to nominate me for best Writer in this years Mad Awards…ok? Because clearly although I am not ok, I am ok at being a literary genius ok?)

Ok.

This whole wedding Palava is driving me insane.

I am not a planner.

I hate planning.

How on gods green earth do I know what people will want to eat for dinner 7 months from now, on a hot Floridian Thursday afternoon?

Why can’t we just order our food on the day?

Why does it all have to be so organised.

I can’t be organised!!! It goes against everything I am!!!

Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck are coming, what more do we possibly need to organise?

I have already chosen my dress, my shoes and the man for gods sake, seriously, what more do you expect from me?

I am rebelling now and it is ok, I do realise this.

But I am not ok.

I hate wearing shorts.

I won’t be getting married in shorts, just to be clear, but one of the occupational hazards of getting married in Florida I guess is, at some point over the two weeks, I am going to have to wear shorts.

This basically means that as usual, my legs will rub together in a most ungainly way and ultimately I will end up spending the better half of our time there with ghastly thigh burns and having to walk like I have pooped my pants.

Also, I hate flying, with a passion.

I would rather suck a scorpion.

WHY DID I PICK DISNEY WORLD IN FLORIDA, WHAT WAS I THINKING?? 9 HOURS ON A PLANE!!!

And then we get to the crux of it.

Somewhere in my wedding speech, or someone’s wedding speech I want some one to talk about my brother.

And there we have it.

I want Jason to be there.

I need him to be there, protective and gorgeous and tall and sturdy in his finery, his blonde hair turning blonde in the sun.

I have these visions of him hoisting Addison up on to his shoulders, the same way he did with me when I was little, and throwing him in to the pool.

I have this fantasy of him being the one who collects me in the limo to take me to the church. He will open the limo door and I will scream and cry and run to him, because I dreamt of this for my wedding day and I am so happy he made it.

I have this daydream* of him being the one I have a drink with the night before, sitting on the white sands of the Grand Floridian beach like we did as kids, growing up together.

I spent my whole life dreaming of his speech and how it would go, of him presenting the rings, but unfortunately for me, none of this is going to happen is it?

Because unfortunately for me, Jason is unable to attend, due to an untimely case of being dead.

And that sucks arse. (Again. Don’t forget- BEST WRITER OK?)

Also, while I am on the subject, this whole wedding planning thing is also driving me insane, because to be honest, it just goes against everything I believe in.

I hate admitting I am in love.

I am in love, but why do people need to see it.

I hate admitting I need someone.

I can’t even admit it to myself.

‘Oh wow you are getting married this year!’ The barista gushes as she notices my ring ‘are you terribly in love?’

‘He’s alright’ I mutter, grabbing my whipped cream delight and disappearing in to my corner. ‘I suppose he will do.’

I know she thinks I’m weird, and ok, maybe I am.

But I think I have reason to be.

I am not sure I want to get married.

I think I may be busy that week, or something.

I feel itchy just thinking about the whole thing.

I do love him, though.

And I guess spending the rest of my life with him would be ok.

He is you know, the love of my life and I adore him and our time together, I miss him when I am not with him and he makes me laugh like no one else, plus you know, he is alright looking I guess. I definitely you know, love him. (Can we move on now?)

My therapist says I should just tackle one problem at a time.

SO.

With that in mind.

Does anyone know a cheap surgeon who would be willing to suck the fat out of my thighs as a wedding gift?

*A dream is a wish your heart makes when you’re fast asleep. In dreams you will lose your heartaches. Whatever you wish for, you keep. Have faith in your dreams, and someday, your rainbow will come smiling through. No matter how your heart is grieving, if you keep on believing, the dreams that you wish will come true. – Cinderella.

**It’s because I like you, I don’t want to be with you. It’s a complicated emotion.- Finding Nemo.

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?

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…

What goes Up, Must come Down. (Woof.)

‘How can you be so flamboyant with your rejection? How can you be so cold? So utterly devoid of emotion?’

It has been a long and soul-crushing six weeks.

Weeks made up not of days, but of moments where my breath has repeatedly been violently ripped from my harmless and on occasion quite hopeful chest, brutally and without warning, only to be immediately replaced with an unexpected and therefore shocking amount of icy cold fear, clinging gut wrenching hurt and steely eyed determination, to not be beaten.

I feel like a loving and dedicated sheepdog who has spent years doting, teaching and caring for her flock (is it a flock? Or is it a herd of sheep? And actually before you respond, maybe dogs have different names for these things so forget I asked, because remember I am the dog in this scenario – how do you know they don’t call it a TURD of sheep’s eh?) Having to watch all her sheep get shot in the face with a bazooka.

My emotional landscape, I would liken to a big pile of sheep entrails at the moment, all the fluff has been blown away but is still hanging in the air wondering where to settle and I have been splattered in blood and guts.

I am the wide-eyed and disbelieving dog, who just got up for work like on any other normal day, but instead found his life being blown to pieces.

I am that shaky and growling dog who now just wants to curl up with a doggy chew, perhaps stick a bit of Ceaser Milan on the telly and pretend none of it ever happened.

But with the lord as my shepherd and with the sheep as… only kidding.

Enough with the dog and sheep stuff already.

‘What the HELL do you mean you can’t sell me any?’ I am astounded.

‘Missis, we don’t have any left, we only sell them in autumn, we have moved on, it is Christmas now.’ And to give him credit, he looks sad for me.

I shake my head in utter disbelief and feel hot tears stinging my eyes ‘But It is only the 5^h of November.’ I am gutted, and forlorn, and am trying very hard to tame the unbridled anger swirling in my abdomen and threatening to fall out of my mouth.

‘Look, I get that you are upset and I am sorry, but it is Christmas Lexy. We even have the red cups to prove it now – look! I couldn’t just put an autumn coffee in a Christmas cup, it would be weird!’

Adam is my favourite Starbucks Barista in the world, he knows how to make a cappuccino dry and never over foams me, but at that moment, all I could think about were the opening credits from the movie SCREAM.

I wanted to hang him from a tree by his intestines.

My anger is quite uncontrollable and sudden I guess, really.

I am pretty sure I didn’t say this but he did immediately back off.

It must have been my crazy eyes.

‘You know what Lex’ he replied, noticeably taking a couple of large steps backwards ‘If you absolutely promise not to turn up at my house and bludgeon me to death while I am sleeping, I will go and check if we have any, just for you…’

I did not make eye contact with him as he handed over my red cup filled with autumn coffee, but I was grateful, even though I had given up my dignity, I was grateful.

A pumpkin latte is worth giving up your dignity for in my opinion.

‘How did it go?’ The Irish one asked me as I arrive home, clutching my coffee and kicking off my new interview boots.

‘It was ok, I went and got a coffee after…’ I pause at the kitchen door and note with intense concern, he seems to be waist deep in the boiler cupboard.

‘Please don’t mess with the boiler’ I snap as I place my coffee down, Kiss a poorly Addison and head in to the bedroom to change out of my smart clothes.

‘I wasn’t messing with it’ he sighs stroppily, ‘I was just bleeding the radiators, and I’m done now. How did it go really?’

‘It was ok’ I reply again, pulling on my Jammy bottoms ‘I was the oldest person there by about 10 years which made me sad and annoyed but…’

And then I stop.

And close my eyes very tight and try to pretend I am not hearing it.

The unmistakable sound of my hard earned Venti extra shot, skinny pumpkin Latte hitting the deck with a thump, followed by a loud sloshing sound as it gushes all over the laminate floor.

‘Oh O!!!’ my son hollers laughing ‘accident’s happen! Socks all wet! Doodle all wet!’

And a little later, when he finds me bent over the mop bucket sobbing uncontrollably;

‘Don’t cry mummy, don’t cry!’

‘Hmmm…’ James eyes me sadly, two days later, from where he is sat on his big purple therapy throne opposite me; his feet curled up underneath him ‘what were you actually grieving the loss of though?’

Immediately and without thinking I lean over and grapple in my bag looking for something to throw at him.

‘I was grieving for my coffee! Have you ever had one? Have you ever smelled it?’

The sun was shining directly in to my eyes when I was told I was being made redundant, I stopped trying to see and just shut them, 9 years, countless memories, so many friends… an era, I packed up my desk and left the same day, I didn’t even say goodbye, not properly, I just walked away.

Cavalier.

I will not be broken again.

I screamed out in pain when she first told me she wasn’t prepared to come to my wedding, I fell apart very briefly before taking out a box of matches and concentrating only on the silence, as I methodically and slowly burnt the hurt in to submission, extinguishing each anguished memory on my forearm.

I will not experience this again.

‘I just don’t know if I want to marry him…’

I admitted this to my best friend on Tuesday, while spinning around in a big white meringue.

The owner of the wedding shop in which I was currently stood (drinking her champagne) gasped loudly.

I ignored her and looked at my best friend in the mirror behind me sadly.

‘You do.’ She shrugged ‘You are just overwhelmed, it is normal.’

I spun around and ate up her words greedily, relieved.

‘Really? Is it? Because I do love him, I am just panicking like hell! It is so overwhelming. It is forever. Oh my god, I think I may be sick.’

‘Lets get this dress off you,’ I heard from behind me, as the owner marched over swiftly, her eyes on fire, and roughly tugged and pulled at me until, within mere moments, I was de-robed and left staring at my nude saggy self in all my glory in the biggest feck off mirror you ever saw.

Harrowing.

My timing was probably a bit off to make such a huge statement, looking back, so I guess that was her revenge.

‘I guess I just wish she were different… and I guess it is just starting to hit me I have lost my job… I don’t have a job… well actually I do, because I just got offered one, but everything has changed and I just… and he broke the fucking boiler! We have no heat until next Monday!’

James raises his hand and shoots me a look, signaling me to stop.

‘You haven’t dealt with any of the last couple of months at all, you have tried to push it all away, so the way I see it, when that Pumpkin latte hit the deck…’

‘May it rest in peace, god bless its soul’ I interrupt him, and he once again gives me a stern silencing look.

‘It all caught up with you. You can run Lexy, but you can’t hide.’

Other than sounding a tad creepy, I suppose he is right.

It has.

I have tried not to feel anything, I have tried to convince myself I am happy, I tried to push away the hurt and the fear, because for a good while, prior to all this change, I was content, and I loved it, I didn’t want to give up that feeling just yet, I tried to shield myself, I tried to cling, but I am human, and I do feel hurt, and I do feel pain and I do feel overwhelmed every now and again, so I suppose trying to ignore it all, well that was just dumb.

I am trying not to feel overwhelmed, but I am.

I am trying to feel cared for, but I just don’t know how.

I am trying to come to terms with all the change, but it frightens me.

I am trying not to injure The Irish One in his sleep for leaving us without heat and water, but in the dead of night when I am cold… it is hard trying not to plunge my finger in to his eye socket.

I blame Starbucks entirely, for all of this.

All of it.

I need the Pumpkin Latte’s, they compliment my anti-phsycotic medication perfectly. 

Motherhood Curriculum Vitae (Alternate.)

                    CV Lexy Ellis.

Address:
The institute of mental illness and chaos, 1 child -1 husband to be Road, Shatteredville, edgy town.

Telephone:
Can I one bell you? I honestly can’t remember it.

Date of Birth:
Sometime before now.

Personal statement.

An occasionally positive, occasionally suicidal, dynamic and passionate multi-tasker and head case, with 2 years experience of wetting herself in public for no apparent reason, repeatedly scorching her ears with hair straighteners, running around in circles clearing up poop, accidentally interrupting funerals by running over squirrels and then screaming very loudly at the atrocity of it all, and managing to stand on a plug each and every time I am found running barefoot, who is also proudly bringing up, nipple-less, I may add, a two year old with fully functioning bite reflexes.

Highly personable and honest with a great impending sense of doom I am consistently task focused on accomplishing an incredible number of missions during an unrealistic time frame – such as but not limited to – feeding the world, and making it a better place for you and for me and the whole damn human race, liking 75 of my friends Facebook status’, organising a wedding and acting as camp councillor for the dog who seems more depressed than I am, all before the bedtime routine starts at a time when I would rather stick my head down the toilet and repeatedly brain myself with the lid.

 I achieve all of this of course, while also smiling.

Work History;

Mum – 2010 – present.

• To lead and develop a child in to a well rounded individual who doesn’t need therapy in his teens and who suffers no lasting damage caused by repeatedly having to have conversations with his mother while her head is down the toilet.

• To ensure a consistent quality of service by not appearing harassed when the dog vomits in the car just after being de-bollocked, by always talking in calming voices even when one feels close to a mental breakdown as the child has once again proudly announced he too has now shit his kecks all over the shag pile, and by always ensuring 5 back up dinners are cooking on the odd chance the child may not fancy his actual meal, and then eating them yourself because you like beans on toast, jam on toast, fish fingers on toast really and by this point the idea of cooking seems less appealing that drinking a pint glass of one’s own urine.

• To be positively, passionately and completely awake at all times. Sleeping with one eye open will only ensure you get poked in it, by a finger that smells suspiciously of bum.

• To instigate all areas of play as if one could not think of anything better one would like to do with ones time other than make another play doh snake, make a digger dance the Macarena dance for 4 hours, bring the sandpit in the house, act out the role of trampoline, cultivate an ant farm and be force fed a worm, just to prove that people don’t eat worms.

• To pretend to like the sound of whinging. To ignore the sound of whinging. To wish you have gone deaf to the sound of whinging. To eventually start whinging yourself, because if you cant beat them… to take this all out on your other half when he gets home and doesn’t understand why you have your head in the oven.

• To take Post Natal Depression and being sectioned in to a mental hospital in your stride and to not slap people when they ask you stupid questions like – do you feel guilty about it? Or even better – Do you feel selfish? To not forget to take your medication and when you do to completely deny your mood has anything to do with that and instead blame the fact your child flushed the toilet while you had your head down it.

• To pretend to want sex as much as your other half even when you haven’t slept in 8 months and you can smell something suspiciously like Bum. All. Of. The. Time.  To moan and groan and make all the right noises while surreptitiously planning tomorrow’s activities (washing, ironing, world peace acquisition, cleaning up poop.)

• To mentor and coach and support your other half by consistently nipping to the local off licence and purchasing copious bottles of wine that undoubtedly increase productivity standards on his part. Using the time commonly known as ‘mummy time’ to set individual targets and feedback to your other half on why you are so much better than him at everything. Apologising like you really mean it when you sober up.

• Thinking outside of the box to develop possible solutions for situations such as having no childcare and having to work, only having enough money to buy beans and hiding mental illness by repeatedly singing ‘old MacDonald had a farm’ instead of a song you recently made up, titled ‘Shoot me in the head. Shoot me in the head now.’

• As a mother I have to consider and demonstrate sound and logical reasons for decisions such as ‘No eating poo.’ ‘No eating worms’ and ‘Stop putting your toys up the dogs bum.’  I also have to provide detailed and thoughtful responses to complex questions such as ‘Why is the grass green?’ ‘Why does the dog have a pink bum hole?’ and ‘What does dead mean?’

Normal Person – Up to 2010.

• Never weeing when one sneezed and enjoying control over all bodily functions.

• Judging all parents who didn’t seem to have a well behaved child. ‘God have they never watched Supernanny? My child will never behave like that!!’ 

• Avoiding children at all costs but marginally feeling broody when I did see one, for like, a second before returning to my life.

• Partying and showing my toned midriff. (Slight exaggeration possible.)

• Having an idealistic view of how happy and relaxed family life would be for me in the future and how well behaved and beautiful my child would be and how my figure would simply ‘snap’ back in to shape after pregnancy. No Impending sense of doom, basically.

• Lie in’s, without the sound of ‘Daddy’ screaming and losing control in the back ground, while I fight to stay in bed to the sound of all manner of chaos just outside the bedroom door.

• Television that didn’t involve three Channel Five presenters dressed like cucumbers doing the Macarena at 6 in the morning. (How have they not been victims of a bloody good beating yet?)

• Being able to call the Irish one by his name, instead of the now commonly used ‘Daddy’ or ‘Dickhead.’

• Reading a book in bed without the use of a torch.

• Sleeping.

Qualifications;

Stretch marks.

Broken Perineum.

Nipples that graze along the floor.

Ability to smile in the face of a hell of a lot of poop.

Snapped back.

Sore Legs.

Bags under eyes that resemble extra cheeks.

INTERESTS

Wine.

“Drama Queen” (Me??!?)

‘You mean you aren’t just saying no?’

I pounce on him the minute I hear his keys jangling in the door.

His high collared coat is up around his neck protectively, his headphones still plugged in to his very red tipped ears. He detangles himself from his very ‘manly’ man bag (adjective added under duress) and plonks it on the sofa opposite me.

He fixes me with a look that says he isn’t impressed with my greeting and picks his son up off the floor, where he is busy playing with spoons, (Yeah, spoons – So glad we spent a fortune on toys) to give him a cuddle.

‘Hi babe!’ he responds to me sarcastically fashioning a stupid voice which evidently is supposed to be me, ‘Did you have a nice day? Yes thanks.’ he continues.

I just watch him silently wanting to smack him across the face and ask him why on god’s green earth, whenever he does an impression of me, he makes me sound like Joe Pascuale, all high pitched, and more worryingly, American.

He carries on answering himself regardless of my tense silence ‘what did you have for lunch today sweetheart? (Um… I don’t think I ever call him sweetheart?) Well Lexy I had…’

I stop this the only way I know how.

I pull my bare feet up on to the sofa underneath me so I am almost standing, but not quite, and jokingly begin to mark the catholic symbol of the cross across my shoulders and my head.

He stops talking and looks at me quizzically.

I just look back at him.

He raises an eyebrow.

So I pretend to pray.

‘What are you doing?’ he stammers, with Addison now trying to shimmy up his leg.

‘No idea, but it got you to shut up – So! Are you thinking about it? Are you Are you Are you Are you Are you?’

He shakes his head in resignation and falls on to the sofa beside me and kicks of his shoes, inadvertently sending Addison flying. (Not really.)

And… He says….

Nothing!

(ARGHHHH!)

‘Irish one I need to know! I just need to know! If it is a no, which I am really hoping it isn’t, then it is a no… But if it is a yes then you will make all my dreams come true!!  (I jump off the sofa at this point and do a spin, imagining myself as Rapunzel)… But if it is a no, (I get down on my knees by his feet for dramatic effect and lay my face on his thigh) then I will just have to accept it. (I sigh and do my best sad face)… Although I am not sure how you would ever live with yourself (I look worried for him) or even more why you would even want to destroy all my dreams? Why? (I stand up again and stomp my foot)

Why would you want to do that to me? I just need to knowwwwwww.’  I whine.

He has become my Simon Cowbell, the Villain who holds the key to my soul.

My entire future is resting solely on his answer. (I really don’t understand why people call me a drama queen?)

I am poised to jump in the air and attempt a Fame-esque star jump over the top of Addison’s mop top the moment the ‘yes’ I so DESPERATELY need, the ‘yes’ I can almost taste, leaves his mouth but… alas… it doesn’t.

‘Look,’ he sighs, and for a moment I am sure I can hear music kicking in and am almost certain he is about to burst in to song; (God I would have loved it if he did!)

‘I am just in from work, it is a Tuesday!

All this on a Tuesday?

Can I not just take my coat off,

Maybe rub my feet,

Enjoy some time with my son,

Maybe, just maybe,

Eat dinner,

Potatoes!

Before you jump down my throat, and behave this way, about this topic once more?’

(You are imagining it as a Disney song aren’t you? SO AM I! It would be amazing!)

I breathe out a massive sigh.

He doesn’t understand.

I slouch out of the room in a semi-tantrum to wash up.

He follows me in some time later in his Simon Cowbell Pyjamas.

‘Tell me about it then.’

So I do. Every last detail. The cake and the dress and the weather and the special guests and the rides and the hotel and the prices and the look I imagine on Addison’s face when he meets Buzz Lightyear. The free bar, the Lie in’s, the money we will save…

(I play to my audience – what can I say?)

‘Ok.’ He says some time later when we are lying in bed and I am staring at the ceiling thinking about who else I could potentially marry there, if he says no.

‘I know how much Disney World means to you, I know how poignant that would be for you, I know you have had some terrible memories there, and this would be a chance to start again for you so no, I am not just saying no. I am saying lets do it!’

I turn to look at him and he looks excited.

I won’t lie.

I jumped up and down on the bed for about half an hour.

‘But Lexy?’  He interrupts 3 hours later, in the early hours of the morning when my best friend and I are still gushing down the phone over the finer details.

‘Yes?’ I answer happily lost in a world of stuff I have never really cared about before.

‘I draw the line at Cinderella’s coach. I am a meat and 2 veg man. I am not getting in Cinderella’s coach.’

I nod solemnly to him as I hear my best friend whisper down the line.

‘What if it just turned up on the day by ‘accident?’ it’s not like he could refuse then!’

I try to hide my smile as he walks out of the room…

‘And Lexy?’ He calls as I giggle down the receiver plotting.

‘Yes?’

‘Try and remember this wedding is about me and you yeah? You aren’t marrying Julie. And if it does turn up by accident (HOW DID HE KNOW?) all bets are off.’

Damn it.

Foiled again.

I am getting married at Walt Disney World.

I need to work out a way of getting there without flying….  I need to overcome some demons… I need … oh god…

I’m going to be a wife. (Um… does that mean I have to peel his potatoes?)

How am I gonna get Cinderella’s coach?

… Kidding…

…Of course I would respect his wishes…

…Honest…

The MAD Blog Awards 2012 (Squirm.)

I think in the end I had to promise him I wouldn’t get drunk.

‘You will though!’ he had huffily called through from the bedroom where he was busy slamming down his work bag and heavy handedly taking out his frustration at me, on the bedroom fittings, opening windows making sure they banged and clattered loudly.

It was his own special passive aggressive way of letting me know just how annoyed he was that I had a social life and I intended to use it (whatever!)

‘You always say you won’t get drunk, but you always do, and Lexy, I am sick to death of having to pick up the pieces the next day!’ he said, padding barefoot in to the kitchen behind me.

During this unnecessary (completely necessary) and totally unfair (so fair) tirade I had slowly and carefully, so I didn’t miss a single word, taken two slices of bread out of the toaster and placed them on the counter.

‘You are irresponsible and out of control once you have had a drink Lex ’ he continued from behind me with a heavy sigh.

I placed the butter knife down, closed my eyes and counted to ten, trying to keep my temper in check.

I hated it when he behaved like a geriatric!

Why must he be so boring?

‘Anyone would think you needed alcohol to have a good time, but then you never do, you are always sick, usually all over me and then you cry for hours on end and blah blah blah. I mean I am sure if blah blah blah it would be a danger and I blah blah blah…’

It was once I had picked the knife back up and was busy buttering my bread and ramming the ham on top of it, as if the pig itself had personally done me an injustice, that I eventually could not bite my tongue any longer.

“You’ve gone too far!!! Screw you Irish one!’ I eventually exploded turning to face him angrily, in a whirl of butter knife, bread and hair. “If you don’t like being with me, then how about you hit the road! We aren’t married! I am an adult you loser, and you are not my sodding dad! I have enough people …”

‘Fuck off Lexy. One day maybe I will.’

And that had been the end of it.

We finally did make up, we made up the way we always made up, the tried and tested way.

We made up by Successfully ignoring each other for the rest of the night and eventually letting 9 hours of unbroken sleep clear the air.

I must pause here at the mention of 9 hours unbroken sleep,

I need a minute’s silence for the death of the 9 hours unbroken sleep.

May the 9 hours unbroken sleep rest in peace.

I was 28.

We had been together 6 months.

He had moved in.

(I am still thinking about 9 hours unbroken sleep.)

He was trying to control me (he wasn’t) and I was sick of it.

I wanted to go out, and ok, so I promised eventually that I wouldn’t drink so he would stop having a go at me but how Dare he try to suggest I couldn’t even go to a concert with a colleague without getting raging drunk and making a fool of myself (I couldn’t) in the first place?

How dare he moan at having to look after me! That’s what he was there to do!

That’s what a REL-ATION-SHIP was!

And really! I mean I hardly ever got drunk (on a Tuesday) anyway! SO who the hell was he to try and tell me what to do?

I do not remember much from that fateful evening as it happens, but my colleague told me 3 days later, when I dared to show my face in work again, that there had been a giant elephant and the band of my youth, who I had been so desperate to see, had all climbed on, and they had indeed played my favourite track and that yes I had been there and had sang along.

‘I sang along? How can I not remember that?’ I asked as Bev recounted the concert and I sat shaking my head slightly in the cafeteria, picking at a salad with my fork and trying to avoid the Irish one’s glare from over by the coffee stand (we had broken up again on the back of me vomiting all over him.)

‘Yes.’  Beverley replied with a glint in her eye ‘you did. Surely you must remember, because That babes, was right after you wet yourself.’

I coughed on a particularly spiky morsel of salad and inadvertently spat a full cherry tomato back on to her plate, where it plopped in to her spaghetti Carbonara with some force, and caused a little back splash of gloopy sauce to splat on to her nearly neon pink shirt.

As she picked my half chewed tomato from her plate with a look of amused disgust on her face and popped it in to my white plastic drinking cup, I coughed and spluttered and died a little, in the chair opposite her.

Eventually silence resumed and I sat, aghast for a jolly good while.

She said nothing, letting the full meaning of what she had told me sink in.

‘I wet myself?’ I asked in whispered tones, leaning in to her now, pushing my plate away, my appetite having completely vanished, and glancing over at the Irish one on the other side of the cafeteria still shooting me evils, in case he had developed super sonic hearing and could actually radio in on the extent of my bad behaviour ‘oh my god.’

Although there is the mystery of my wet jeans solved, I thought to myself, resting my forehead on the damp Formica table, not caring now, who saw me.

‘Yes you did.’ Bev’s voice continued from above me, ‘That was right after you told the ten year old standing next to you that you saw dead people and hated it when they woke you up at night.’ She paused for dramatic effect and I groaned in response.

‘I was busy arguing with her mother trying to defend you and what you have been through and when I turned around you announced you had peed and you were soaked.’

‘Oh my god. I am so ashamed. Why didn’t I go to the toilet?’ I asked lifting my head up only slightly so I could make eye contact with her. Begging her silently to tell me none of this had happened.

‘You said it made sense to wee where you were standing, as no one would notice and you really didn’t want to miss your childhood song.’

I squirmed in my seat.

I was this girl’s manager.

Did I forget to mention that?

Yes.

At the time of the concert I was Bev’s manager.

She had invited me and I probably shouldn’t have gone.

But as I mentioned earlier, my intention was not to drink.

‘Then you showed me your nipple.’

My head hit the Formica table once more as she howled with laughter above me.

‘Oh Bev. I can’t believe it. Did it end there? Tell me it ended there! In fact, Can we just forget it ever happened?’ I begged this from below the table, staring at my thighs and wondering if it was too late to invent a time machine.

She tore off a tiny piece of garlic bread and as I brought myself upright once more, glancing towards the Irish one who was now staring over, Puce, she fixed me with an evil grin.

‘Nope’ she said as she popped the bread in her mouth and methodically began to chew. She was enjoying this. ‘I feel it would be cruel if I didn’t inform you of your complete goings on during the tram journey home.’

‘Oh please don’t!’ I semi laughed, trying to win back some humility by pretending I was ok with how I had behaved and not absolutely dying of shame inside.

‘But it was very exciting. You decided you needed a wee urgently this time, so you crept in to a bunch of trees. I stood on the road waiting for you and after a while you emerged informing me, and all the other people leaving the concert that you had just been fingered by a bush.’

I just stared at her.

‘At the top of your voice.’ You then repeated this, numerous times on the tram, and rang your dad to tell him, and then you rang the Irish one.’

That explains radio Silence off my dad then.

I may have been sat there for an hour, or it may have been 3 weeks. But I just sat and let this all sink in, while she grinned at me.

A bush fingered me? I was fingered by a bush?

Oh my god.

It’s like a truly awful version of Dirty dancing.

No carrying a watermelon for me though, this wasn’t Hollywood!

Just a porno bush.

‘I hand delivered you to the Irish one practically in a coma.’ She finished, throwing her napkin on her plate ‘you were brilliant. Hands down Lexy, you are the best manager I’ve ever had.’

If it wasn’t for the cafeteria closing, I honestly think I would still be sat there now, just staring off in to the deep cavern of my shame!

That was the same night I had laid on my back after apparently unsuccessfully convincing the Irish one I wasn’t drunk and hadn’t been drinking at all! Honest! And had then gone on to nearly choke to death in my sleep but instead had just vomited all over him and me (and the dog – he just shouted this from the kitchen) in the middle of our king size bed.

A month later, as I hadn’t left the house, I got pregnant. (Make up sex.)

And we all know what happened then.

To this day, I am unable to listen to Take That without cringing.

Thankfully Bev is now one of my best friends and I no longer manage her.

But this kind of explains why I have been absent since… well since the awards.

I have been suffering with an illness commonly known as ‘mortification.’

A mortification of Take That! Sized proportions.

You know that filter thing that most people have that stops them talking to Myleene Klass about vaginal discharge and scabies? Yeah…Well although I have spent a lot of money in therapy searching for mine, well, it turns out- I don’t have one.

I am really sorry Myleene. *Cringe*

You know that voice in your head that says ‘smile nicely’ when you see a camera, don’t lie down and fake depression and definitely don’t try and cram a whole cake in your mouth, give people the V’s or show people your bottom? Well that voice was comatose by booze.

I think in my acceptance speech I may have called the Irish one annoying and said that my little boy wasn’t the point of my existence but that actually twitter was.

I absolutely don’t mean that. (Much.)

(Apart from the Irish one being annoying, bit.)

My little boy is the reason I am still here. He is definitely the point in my existence ok? (Oh the shame!)

I think what I meant to say when I drunkenly stumbled on to that podium to accept my award was;

Thank you for your countless support, for carrying me through the hard times and for enjoying the good times with me. My readers, my friends and my family, I couldn’t have done it without you, my little boy and, really, the Irish one isn’t that annoying (on a Tuesday.)

I also should have Thanked Sally, because the thought of this event did keep me going during some tough times over the summer.

Thank you.

I won’t be back here until I can talk about the evening without cringing.

So it may be a while.

On the plus side though I learnt a valuable lesson.

I can’t hold my Vodka. (And now it is not only Take That, which makes me cringe, but looking at my award does too!)

I’d also like to thank The Boy and Me for being brilliant and sharing a room with me and for not laughing when I did a million embarrassing things. She is wonderful. Truly precious. I’d also like to thank her for educating me on what frost bite feels like and teaching me to appreciate Central heating.

I’d also like to thank the Sainsbury’s lady for the Ipad and also apologise to the Sainsbury’s lady for pretending to grab her boob in the acceptance photo, and thinking this would be funny.

It wasn’t big and it wasn’t clever.

As far as nights go though, it was wonderful. ( I wasn’t sick on anyone as far as I am aware!!! RESULT! (Especially for the Boy and Me.)

Thank you to everyone who voted for me and who has written me in to follow up blogs and not mentioned I was paralytic and at one point managed to nearly rugby tackle Myleene. (Sorry Myleene – you are fabulous. Sorry for swearing. But seriously, who is Caitlin Moran?) I am sorry if I upset, annoyed or irritated anyone (so so sorry Sonia!) when my paranoia got out of hand…

I  loved every second. I think, from what I remember…

Wanna see my nipple now?

A proposal, and a Bucket full of Hamsters. (Yeah.)

‘Who the hell do you think you are Lexy? What kind of person are you? Tell me!’

I catch my annoying therapist’s eye very deliberately for a very brief, uncomfortable moment in the silence immediately following this onslaught; but instead of answering him, I lean down very slowly and purposely, to unlace my big brown boots with their big brown laces.

I wasn’t expecting James and his bucket full of dead hamster questions to be so direct today.

(I call them his ‘dead hamster questions’ because nobody likes a dead hamster do they? And It also kind of reminds me of the ‘Harry and his bucket full of dinosaurs’ song, so I often whistle it on my way in to therapy, and it cheers me up, but yeah, I’m weird I know this. But you get me right?)

I glance up at him once more, a little less confidently, it has to be said, as I pull my legs up underneath me and prepare to respond by reaching for and wrapping my arms around, one of the very many purple cushions with the gold tassels and Latin writing (Classy,) which share the sofa of doom with me.

I push it in to my chest, using it as a sort of shield to protect myself.

Now.

Now that I am all folded in on myself I may continue.

When I am ready.

I intend to make him wait at least half an hour before responding but then I remember this therapy is actually is costing me a fortune and he would probably love to sit there and have a snooze, so actually the sensible thing to do would be to get on with it. (DAMN IT!)

‘I am a manager. A tired one who bullies herself daily…’ I fire out like a machine gun in to the thick silence.

‘Not in your day job Lexy, I mean…’

‘I am not talking about my day job James;’ I interrupt boldly.  ‘I am talking about my life. I feel like a bloody manager all of the time, in that, I feel responsible for everybody and their happiness, all of the time. I feel pressured by every relationship I have in my life. I live in constant fear that I will let somebody down or upset him or her and then he or she will end up hating me for it. But then at the same time, I almost want them to hate me for it because then I no longer have those expectations and I can happily push them away and live in peace. Does that make sense?’

He doesn’t answer, so I begin to finger the cushion, (not in a porno way just to be clear here,) and continue to ignore his gaze burning holes in to my face, before I carry on.

‘I live in constant fear of letting people down, of not being enough, my insecurities are out of control, and I am exhausted.’

‘And if you let them down, that will mean they don’t like you, or that you are actually worthless?’

(Whahiiiiiii… –that’s the sound of a dead hamster being tossed through the air towards me, by the way.)

‘It will mean I am not perfect.’

(PHALUT. That’s me batting the hamster away with a table tennis bat.)

‘Do you think you are perfect?’

(WHAhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii… he bats the hamster back. Poor little dead creature.)

‘No. I personally think I am a dog poo. I just don’t want everybody else to see that. I want them to think I am a cool you know? So I end up putting everyone before myself and then when I do let them down, because eventually I cant live up to my own expectations I set for myself, I can push them away, cut them off, even if I don’t want to because I like them, and it is a relief. ’ (PHALUTTTTTTT. That ones brains exploded.)

‘This makes no sense.’

‘Welcome to my brain James, right now as we talk I am picturing dead hamsters flying through the air between us!’

His words catch in his mouth and he looks at me quizzically for a split second, before he raises his hand, refusing to take me up on a change of conversation, even a conversation about dead hamsters (everyone knows conversations about dead hamsters are intriguing!) And instead decides to plough on with the therapy. (Boring bastard.)

‘You have to keep people happy? That in its self is impossible. What if you aren’t successful, what if you don’t keep them happy? (Whahiiiiiii…)

‘Then I feel selfish and naughty.’ (Phalut.)

‘Naughty?’ (Whahiiiiiii…)

‘Naughty.’ (PHALUT.)

‘And what do these friends have to do for you?’ (Whahiiiiii…)

‘Nothing.’ (PHALUT.)

‘That doesn’t seem very fair.’ He responds.

I shrug, like a miffed teen.

None of this conversation makes sense to me anymore, how could he expect me to be following this with all these dead animals flying everywhere?

‘How would you feel about being naughty this week?’

‘Whahiiiiiiiiii…. Sorry what?’ I stop doing dead hamster sound effects and concentrate.

‘I want you to have a week off, shirk the responsibility be ‘selfish’, be ‘Naughty.’

As I positively bounced out of his big therapy house twenty minutes later, my big boots crunching over the gravel, I smiled a little smile to myself.

I will take you up on your challenge James; I need a week off from my brain! I need a week off to just be, to just be, without the guilt or the worry of upsetting people constantly, I want to just be! Without the constant insecurity that having an opinion or doing what I want to do will result in me being unloved. 

I am going to do what I want to do, be who I want to be.

OOOO what fun!

(Erm… I may have got a little carried away…) 

‘Have you packed for our weekend away?’ The Irish one asked me excitedly as I walked through the front door two hours later, all excited as he was taking me away for my birthday.

‘Nope.’ I responded happily launching my bag on to the bed with flamboyant disregard  ‘You booked it. You pack.’

And with that I lay on the floor and let my little boy climb all over me while the Irish one stood in front of me with a boc boc fish mouth, stumped and surprised.

‘Have you put petrol in the car?’ He asked me as we pulled out of the drive a few hours later, after I had watched him wandering around aimlessly trying to remember how to do stuff for himself, with an evil grin on my face.

‘Nope.’ I answered, flicking the indicator. ‘You think we will need some? Do you have money? You booked it.’

He didn’t fly off the handle as I suspected he might if I wasn’t my usual people pleasing self; he merely smiled between gritted teeth and advised me we would need to stop for some.

A little later on, once I had eaten cake for dinner because that’s all I wanted, once I had drank far too much red wine because that’s what I wanted to do and once I had refused to do anything remotely romantic because I didn’t feel like it, I gave him a hug, told him I thought I loved him (drunk me is even less self assured than sober me) and fell asleep with a fart. (The fart was for effect.)

The next morning he seemed a little disappointed when I refused to walk up a dobbing great big hill in the park, because ‘I didn’t feel like it.’

‘Do you think I am the hill walker type Irish one?’ I asked petulantly ‘I mean, do I look like I am the kind of girl that looks comfortable in wellies? DO you not know me at all?’

(For the record, I told him earlier in our relationship that I loved hill walks. But that was when I was trying to snatch him in my lare, and I thought HE loved hill walks, if you know what I mean. So yeah, I lied about a tiny part of me, the anti hill walking part, so that we had more stuff in common. We’ve all done it!!! Right?)

‘Why are you being such a grumpy bitch?’ he mumbled kicking a stone towards the stream where Addison was currently trying to hand pick a fish, unfortunately downstream from where Doodle was helpfully having a poo.

‘I am not being grumpy Irish one. I am no longer managing you, or anyone else, for that matter. I am being like everyone else and not worrying about if you hate me when I say stuff I want and don’t like. And yeah I may be taking it a bit far, but that is my god given right as a WOMAN! I AM A WOMAN AND I DON’T LIKE HILL WALKING! I HAVE SPENT YEARS HILL WALKING WHEN I DON’T LIKE HILL WALKING DO YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN IRISH ONE? WELL DO YOU?’

‘Not really no.’ he responded before being distracted by the troublesome twosome and jumping in to action  ‘Addison NO! THAT’S NOT A FISH, THAT’S NOT A FISHHHH! PUT IT DOWN! PUT IT DOWN!’

He then turned back to me and smiled sadly before searching in his bag for bleach and a butt plug. (Antiseptic wipes really.)

‘Do you hate me?’ I asked him feeling a little guilty after my outburst and desperately wanting a hug, but not knowing how to ask for one, especially seen as he was now busy trying to save Buxton’s famous streams from being ruined in history forever by Poodle Squit.

‘No. I hate James. Come on lets go home. ADDISON PUT THE DOG DOWN!’

And off home we went, me in a guilty mood, him in a disappointed mood, Addison piss wet through and Doodle covered in shit with 3 tadpoles in his belly.

Ahhh good times…

*It didn’t end there … (HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW HE WAS PLANNING TO PROPOSE????) But anyway…  I have to go now… because I want to go home and see my son… I’m sorry to cut off the story half way through… it really is a good ending too…. Do you hate me?