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.

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.

“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…

Poop Frogs. (And a Proposal.)

To be completely honest, I just wanted a one-night stand with the new Irish bloke that had recently started working in my office.

I thought he was fit, and I am a sucker for an Irish accent. I didn’t even refer to him by his name for the first month, instead calling him ‘Dublin.’

I was, and in lots of ways still am, that girl who is uncomfortable with any type of tenderness, will spit in the face of ever needing anybody and is absolutely terrified and repulsed by emotional intimacy.

I hate soppiness, I will positively beg for romance, but then when a moment is actually created, I will undoubtedly end up feeling like a bobble head doll, totally awkward, completely clumsy and usually absolutely detesting every single second.

I was that self-despising and arrogant girl, who’s self esteem was based solely on how thin she was and on having a boy, any boy who wanted her really, preferably one with an Irish accent to be honest, in her bed.

I was also that drunk and soiled girl who loved but also failed to understand why people hated her, who danced to her own loud and irritatingly repetitive beat and thought that being cool was not caring about anything and ignoring those who loved her.

I was a mess but I thought I had it all sussed.

Sure, there were times in my life that I had dreams of marriage but they were just that, dreams. I would dream just as easily of being a megastar pop star and dating Ryan Reynolds. I knew they would never actually happen.

When he walked in to my life, looking a lot like ‘the son of god’ in his white linen pants, with his bearded face and a tattoo of the crucifix on his forehead (joking.) All I wanted was to shag his brains out and then forget all about him.

** He is looking at me aghast as I tell him I have typed this, but I am not sure why, as he already knows this is the case, because when I finally did get to spend the night with him, right after the throes of passion (5 freaking weeks he made me wait, 5 weeks! And yeah the grand kids will hear it the other way around) I told him.

‘You were only meant to be a one night stand.’

And his response to that right now, in this moment?

‘I have never been a one night stand for anyone baby, that’s why I made you wait, Scoped you out, made sure you were gagging for it before I…’

He is still talking but I have stopped listening.

‘Lexy!’

‘Do you remember the time I knelt down beside you at your desk to ask you something, and you sneeze talked and spat green gob all over me and then patted my crotch for no apparent reason? God you wanted me.’

Ok I am leaving the room.

But he is right, god damn him.

He did turn me from a cool confident… slag (I suppose) in to a woman who dribbled coffee down her front, walked in to walls while trying to be sexy, and sneeze spat in his general direction.

I was adamant we were going to take it slow, so of course after I finally slept with him, he never left.

And he annoyed the hell out of me.

All I was interested in was ignoring who I was, ignoring the pain over my brother dying by drinking, swearing, having great sex and having a laugh, and all he was interested in was… ok great sex, and the inner workings of my emotions.

We fought and battled and clashed almost daily.

My blatant denial to discuss my inner being and his blatant refusal to never be a puppy dog and bow down to what I wanted drove me crazy.

We often questioned why we were still together, and even though on numerous occasions I begged him to bugger off, he stuck around like a man made Velcro mosquito.

Pecking my head.

Constantly.

Making me fall in love with him.

There were times I really didn’t want to see a future for us, because he wanted intimacy and all I wanted was to punch him in the face most of the time.

He made me feel and I hated him for it.

Then he let me down.

It was bound to happen at some point.

He may look like Jesus but I assure you he is only a normal man.

I finally had a reason to hate him.

And I was gutted.

And just when it looked like it really all was going to come to an obliterated end, I found myself with an Irish bun in the oven.

And everything changed.

For a brief nine months, all I wanted, needed and got was emotional intimacy. We shared every moment of my pregnancy, I shared with him my heart and my soul and he in turn responded by being an amazing, beautiful person to me.

And then everything changed.

Again.

I imploded, we imploded, the world folded in on itself.

I couldn’t cope, I needed him to hear me, understand me and carry me, without me asking.

Again.

He is Not Jesus.

He is also Not a mind reader.

Just an Irish man.

A normal Irish man, who likes potatoes and has a penchant for saying ‘Bejesus!’

He couldn’t cope.

We would go days without speaking.

Not a single word.

We would work around the baby, and around each other without uttering a word.

It was miserable, distressing and lonely.

But why would we speak when the only words we could say to each other felt like razor blades being dragged across old scabs?

I couldn’t accommodate myself in to motherhood, to being this whole other person.

I was terrified of his massive Irish family who all wanted to offer support and visit, and cuddle, and chat and laugh.

I hated it.

I wanted to be part of his family, to feel part, but I didn’t know how.

I couldn’t cope with intimacy from him alone and the man has 4 sisters!

I was terrified of them all and resented being thrown in to a world I knew nothing about.

We decided to break up (for the fifty millionth time) the day before I got in the bath and told him I wanted to die.

(I don’t know why I got in the bath to tell him this. I just did. It seemed logical at the time.)

We had nothing in common I told myself, we didn’t understand each other, I didn’t know who I was, and I felt sure my baby would be better off without me.

In the weeks following, while I was in hospital, all the while he sent me flowers, looked after Addison, sorted out work, bills, the house and called me daily to tell me he loved me and wanted me to get better and would do anything for me, I slagged him off in group therapy to anyone who would listen.

And then I listened, and was taught, and started to realise, what I was suffering with wasn’t a choice, but an illness and I began to see how lucky I was to have this Jesus lookalike standing by me, doing my head in, loving me, trusting me and mostly, supporting me through the hardest part of my entire life.

And I also started to realise slowly, that actually he wasn’t a nightmare, he was brilliant, and funny, and loving, and annoying, and arrogant, and precious and supportive, and a fabulous dad and actually still very sexy.

I saw that him not being a one night stand, was meant to be.

And then what follows, a year and a half later, is a trip to Buxton where I am trying out how to be a bitch, he has packed nothing useful because men should never pack bags and Doodle has contracted doggy gastro- enteritis.

Again.

I was cleaning up shit from the hallway in our flat  (again) when he shouted me.

‘Lexy! Come in here I need you!’

‘Oh what now, for goodness sake! I think Doodle just shat out a tadpole! Can you imagine if it turns in to a shit frog?’

I shuddered at the thought of shit frogs taking over our home and ambled in to the living room.

‘Shit frogs, that’s all we need!’ I carried on, rolling my eyes, before stopping short at seeing Addison standing in the middle of the room holding something in his hand and giggling at me.

‘Poop Frogs I meant, Where is your daddy?’ I asked him confused.

‘Look mummy!’ he shrieked holding up what he had his manky fingers clasped around, closer to my face, so I could get a proper look.

It was a small box.

My heart kind of stopped.

And then in he sauntered in all his ‘son of god’ glory, looking, it has to be said, sexy if not a little terrified.

I was about to speak, I think, but then he shut me up by standing next to Addison and then getting down on one knee. (!!!!!!!)

I honestly thought at one point I was going to vomit all over his head in shock.

And then he just asked me.

I have to be honest, I did raise my hands to my face and gasp (and yes I had washed my hands) but I didn’t look in to his massive fearful eyes and answer ‘yes.’

It was all just so unexpected, and I had been cleaning up shit!!!

He asked me again.

And also, I was really, really shocked!!

‘Hello?’ He asked this time, taking the ring box off Addison and opening it as I just stared at him in disbelief.

‘Really?’ I blurted, ‘you want to marry me? Are you mad?’

And the romantic bastard smiled.

‘Yeah I do, but it is you, who is supposed to be answering me right now, you fucking nut. I love you. Will you marry me?’

‘But I’m a cowbag.’

‘You are a cow bag, that’s true. Will you marry me?’

‘But I am a nightmare!’

‘You are a nightmare that is also true. Will you marry me?’

‘But you want to marry me?’

He may have sighed at this point so I insisted we start over.

‘Ask me again Irish one, sorry ask me again. I’ll do it properly this time I promise.’

Addison had got bored by this point and wandered off.

He asked me again, one last time, beautifully.

‘Yeah I freaking will’ I responded eloquently before screaming and jumping up and down and scaring the absolute hell out of Addison, who was then summoned back from watching Tractor Tom to put the ring on my finger.

‘I love you and want to be with you forever.’ He said as he took me in his arms afterwards. (And I had to stop myself from vomming in my mouth a little bit.)

The end.

And Doodle still has the shits.

Ps – I know we could have been up a dobbing great big hill in some park, but I would have hated that. As it was he knew, that seeing me clearing up dog shit would be the perfect time to propose, and he was right.

Because he knows me inside and out and loves me in spite of this, and I know him inside and out and yeah, I think he is all right you know?

We have been to hell, and we have come back. Together.

I love him.

It really it is that simple.

These are the good old days.

PPS – This is for you Irish one because Pink Sums it up better than I ever could…

‘Sometimes I hate every single stupid word you say,

Sometimes I want to slap you on your whole face,

There is no one quite like you; you push all my buttons,

Now I know life would suck without you,

At the same time I want to hug you, I want to wrap my hands around your neck, You’re an asshole and I love you,

But I hate you, I really hate you,

So much I think it must be true love, you are my true love.’

God I hope we don’t get infested by shit frogs.

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?

Marbles. Scattered. Everywhere…

My therapist behaved like a goat today.

I am not sure I can be much clearer than that to be honest.

It isn’t a metaphor.

I was sitting on his plushy three seater purple sofa, my legs curled up underneath me, my phone on silent beside me, the summer rain angrily pounding the window behind me, and absentmindedly ploughing through my troubles, all inside of me.

The past few weeks there have been issues.

I feel as if on occasion, I have been forced to eat and chew through, and swallow and stomach a lot of different people’s dinner, and because I have been filling up and feeling nauseous and bloated from eating all of their food, there has been no room for mine, and no inclination for me, to eat my own.

When I have sat down to eat mine, while listening to some music, putting a wash on, playing Thomas the Tank engine and trying to decipher the council tax bill, I have felt so full and sick I have just ignored it.

Left it on the side to go moldy and sweaty. (God I hate sweaty food, don’t you?)

I have been ignoring the smell, ignoring the flies, the warning signs, and continuing to finish the dinner of others.

That is a metaphor. Obviously.

You see, I am currently trying to lose weight, so of course all I can think of is food.

But do you understand what I mean?

‘I understand, Lexy.’ James my therapist responds for the first time as a human and not as a farmyard animal.

I paused for a second at the sound of him speaking but when my phone flashed on the table beside me; I glanced guiltily towards it, trying to scope who had text me without it being obvious, when out of the silence, I heard it properly again.

He was baaing at me.

Like a goat.

Again.

He is quite sexy my therapist. He is what I would describe in this setting as a sexy, caring, cute, kind hearted, warm eyed and precious… goat. He sits, each time I see him, unraveled in front of me in his armchair, waiting and selflessly willing to help me ‘eat my dinner.’

Seriously. Cant. Stop. Thinking. Of. Food.

I am not sure what the point he was making was, although at some point I am sure I asked, I cant actually remember, but everyone has their own stuff don’t they? I didn’t want to press it, in case he got upset.

Maybe he was grieving for a long lost dead goat or something, I don’t know.

Like I say, I can’t remember.

I don’t remember much at the moment.

It worries me.

It’s like stuff is falling out of my head.

I don’t mean long ago memories and the likes either.

No.

I am not actually forgetting the stuff I would LOVE to forget.

Remember falling off a table headfirst in to the crotch of your best friend’s dad when you were drunk, and shouldn’t have been, on your 16^th birthday? Check.

Remember what letter comes after K in the alphabet? Um….

I’m losing the mundane stuff and none of the stuff that still makes me go red!!! (Sorry Mr. Torrebadella.)

I now, am unable to spell ‘house’ without spell check (haus) and on Friday last week I was interviewing someone for my ‘aunty Janice’ (she needs an assistant for her new business) and forgot their name at least 34 times during the half an hour slot.

I was already mortified but when he went to leave I was quietly confident I finally had it nailed and merrily shouted ‘goodbye Steve!’ as he left.

And do you know what I heard him mutter under his breath?

‘Its Fucking Dave, you moron!’

Oh the shame.

I am a moron.

I do remember however, that when I was sectioned ‘they’ mentioned memory loss as all being part of depression, but to be honest, I struggle with that.

I don’t like to think depression could rob me of anymore than it already has.

The word depression is really starting to scare me.

In a big way.

I guess I am only now beginning to fully understand the consequences and the potential physical harm of constantly fighting and living with this illness myself.

It is frightening me.

It is just so foreboding and intimidating.

Anyway… So when I remembered this, I did what I always do with stuff that scares me (phone bills, the gas man, eggs….) I locked it in the cupboard marked ‘THINK ABOUT IT SOME TIME NEXT NEVER’ and instead decided to take matters in to my own hands, and diagnose myself, by of course typing Memory Loss in to Google.

The sensible thing to do.

I thought if I could prove it wasn’t depression, I would have nothing to be scared of.

Turns out that instead of depression, I potentially now have either, Aids, south American worms living in my inner ear, Dementia, Alzheimer’s or the EBOLA VIRUS!

It was at this point and with a huge sigh of relief that I unlocked the ‘THINK ABOUT IT SOME TIME NEXT NEVER’ cupboard (letting out the gas man too- poor bloke was starving) and felt slightly relieved that I probably wasn’t going to shit out my gall bladder any time soon and that it probably was depression causing my memory loss.

Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.

‘What makes you believe you are forgetting things Lexy?’

(Therapist rule number one – NEVER ASK WHY, ALWAYS; WHAT WHO OR WHERE. WHY IS UNANSWERABLE!!!)

I shift in my seat, secretly pleased he has stopped behaving like a goat and beginning to wonder if I had imagined the whole thing. I then begin to panic about what else I may have imagined,  and after pondering whether the Irish one actually did do the washing up this morning or if I just imagined it,  I then come to and realise, shit! He has asked me something!!!

‘What?’ I whisper.

‘What? Are you Joking?’ He doesn’t look amused.

‘What?’ By now I am alarmed.

He sighs. ‘You have an irritating way of making a point, I asked what is it that is making you think you are forgetting things!’

It was at this point I started to cry.

It was as if a damn had burst.

I was gutted, and sad, and lost and mostly scared.

‘Probably because I have the Ebola Virus or Aids, or lots of tiny worms living in my ….’ I burst out between sobs. ‘Or maybe, maybe I am losing my memory because this depression is actually sending me mad.  I am scared James, I am so scared. This illness terrifies me James. I feel like it has the power to steal me from myself. Sometimes all I hear in my head are monsters. The noise is so loud. Louder and louder. Everybody’s voices, everybody’s troubles, my own voices, my own self hatred, my mother, my father, I even hear Doodle barking!’

I pause and reach for a tissue. My hand shaking. The worst was still to come.

‘Yesterday I made Addy dinner and forgot to feed it him. He must have been starving! I only realised when I had put him to bed. He had his desert, and his bottle and I was praising him for eating all his dinner, but he didn’t eat it! It was sat by the sink!’

I shake with guilt and fear.

He waits until I have finished.

And.

Then.

The bastard… BAA’S AT ME AGAIN!!!!

Snot flies down my noes as I explode with laughter, all over his rug. (Sorry again Mr. Torrebadella.)

‘You have to slow down. I am putting you back on one thing at a time. You have to be able to eat your own dinner. Try to politely refuse everybody else’s issues. When it gets too much, apologise and walk away…’

‘But then I feel badly for doing so! It is a never ending cycle!’ I interrupt, frustrated ‘then my brain tells me I don’t care, or I am not a nice person, or that they hate me!’

‘Homework.’ He responds. ‘In the moment.’

‘This week you are not allowed to multi-task at all. AT ALL. If you are playing with Addison, put your phone down. If you are washing up, wash up. Dance, please try to enjoy the feeling of doing one thing at a time.

I want you to slow down. Your brain my speed up at first, but eventually it will slow down. Do you hear me? ONE THING AT A TIME. Slow down.’

‘Ok’ I sniffled, and after spending at least 20 minutes looking for the car, I finally set off home.

The problem is, I don’t know how to do one thing at a time anymore.

I am a mother.

But I think it may be important to at least try.

Which is why I am going to stop typing while I eat this cake.

MMMM cake.

Anyway, what was I saying?

Oh that’s right!

My therapist baa’s like a goat at me, and I can’t remember why!

Maybe he has the Ebola virus.*

*Or tiny mexican worms in his ears.

Oh my god!!! I can’t believe I just ate CAKE!!! I am on a diet!!!!!!!!!

Another baby!!! (Really??)

What is wrong with people?

It is like a mental assault on a daily basis.

When did mugging someone’s privacy become conventional in idle chitchat?

It is happening at the moment, All. Of. The. Damn. Time!

Example.

Picture the scene.

I’m stood in the lift, it is 7am and I am busy minding my own business.

I am bleary eyed and trying to re-focus my mind before the day ahead.

I am barely awake myself but being a mother, even at this early hour, I feel like I have already lived a full day of emotions, having just abandoned a distraught baby at nursery, nearly ran over a woman at the bus stop while screaming at the baby in the back to stop hitting himself, spilling coffee all over my only work shirt because I’m now wobbly on sky scraper heels that seemed like a good idea pre child but now I am precariously tottering on, like a hippo on stilts, all the while clutching on to the remains of said coffee like a 2 year old to an Ice pop wrapper that used to be an airplane. (?!)

And in they come, one by one.

My tormentors.

Which one will it be today?

I try to avoid eye contact.

Stare at the floor. Stare at the floor.

Nope never works.

‘Morning Lexy! How are you?’

(Obligatory head cock of course if they know I went stark raving mental, and in a normal chirpy voice with no head tilt if they don’t.)

‘I haven’t seen you in ages!!! How old is your little one now? What is his name again?’

‘Oh, Hi person I have spoken to 3 times in my entire life and only in the lift’  I will respond politely  ‘Nice to see you too. Wow it is so early!’ (HINT – Stop talking to me!) ‘He is 2. Addison.’

The lift by now has began to fill up, the doors refusing to close as more people press the PING BUTTON (official name) just as we are about to depart upwards, thus ensuring we have now been joined by an uncomfortable audience of morning zombies trying to stifle yawns and checking their watches, and we are inadvertently shoved backward and pressed against the wall.

‘Wow 2!’ the person will expectedly gawp head bent at an awkward angle so they can continue the conversation over the top of another strangers head. ‘WOW! That has flown by!’

I of course, respond by sticking a slight smile on my face and widening my eyes obediently before nodding back as if I cant quite believe it myself.

Which FYI?

I totally fucking can. I haven’t slept in 728 nights.  (I just had to do 2 x 364 on my calculator to work that out! Before realising there are actually 365 days in a year and having to re-calculate!! That’s how tired I am!)

But of course, ever the people pleaser in case someone decides they don’t like me, or considers me rude (my worst nightmare), I will nod in agreement as I am supposed to, and maybe murmur a non committal ‘Mmmm’ or sometimes depending on which number coffee I am on, if I am buzzing my boobs off ‘Oh it really has! LIKE TOTALLY!! SO NICE TO SEE YOU!!!’

I do this in a usually failed attempt to avoid, escape or drown out the inevitable next question which always, always, feels like a massive intrusion of my privacy.

‘So, are you trying for anymore?’

‘So, do you think you will have another?’

‘OOOO shall we expect number 2 soon then?

And then the cheeky bastards ALWAYS glance down at my uterus, as if checking to make sure it is still there, and then I ALWAYS end up briefly sucking my stomach in and firing off a warning look, just in case they think I already am up the duff and have the audacity to ask when I am due.

At this point, after we have jumped the hurdle of my uterus never fully retracting (that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it!) I usually sigh internally and wish I had the balls to be more like Roxy. My evil twin.

(I just TOTALLY decided I totally need an evil twin!!)

‘Yes actually,’ Roxy would respond for me ‘in fact the Irish one and I just had sex this morning but unfortunately the sperm splurted and glooped down my leg in the shower not long after. I’m devastated of course! But what is a girl to do? I said a little prayer.’

Ok, maybe an evil twin is a bad idea.

But come on!! Surely unless you are engaging in a full conversation with somebody you are relatively good friends with, then this question is a little personal, no?

What is the best policy for answering?

Honestly?

IS honesty always the best policy?

‘Look I just don’t fucking know ok? The thing is actually, my vagina is still pretty sore from the episiotomy I endured after a 68 hour labour, just over 2 years ago. I’m a little bit worried sex will always be painful now, and of course, what with all that nasty business of me being sectioned and almost going mad and killing  myself, I am just not sure if I am ready yet you know?’

Pause to get my breath.

‘The thing is, person in the lift, and 4 other strangers in the lift wishing they could shove their breakfast butty’s in their ears, the Thing is, we are only having sex at the moment on a Sunday, because the rest of the time I’m just too damn busy trying to sleep, and also really, cos I’m still trying to figure out how to work the pelvic floor muscles pregnancy left behind and to be honest, I only have sex at all on a Sunday cos I feel guilty that if I don’t, he will go mad over the credit card bill or start expecting blow jobs.. yeah, like that is ever gonna happen again! Haha!So another baby? Jaysus. I just don’t know.’

Pause for breath.

‘Also, Addison is a handful. He just started saying ‘For fucks sake!’ a lot, and very loud. I mean, I know it’s not funny but it’s hard not to laugh, could I put up with that in stereo and not lose my marbles again? What do you think I should do stranger in the lift? What are you going to do? Yes, what about you semi stranger? Have you abandoned condoms yet? How are your pelvic floor muscles? Husband’s swimmers ok? Does he like blow jobs? What is your sunday schedule?’

It’s just too long an answer for a lift ride. Isn’t it?

Yes, that’s whats wrong with that answer. Its too long.

But you know why I really really hate this question more than anything?

Because, I don’t actually have an answer to be honest.

(Ok. We do have sex more than on a Sunday…. Honest. (He told me to put that in here as a slight amenddendadum. Yeah I can’t spell it, but you know what I mean. Notice there is no amendadedendam on the blowys. Ahem.)

It is just all so complicated.

I just don’t know.

If I won the lottery, yeah I would be barefoot and pregnant constantly somewhere across the Atlantic taking my brood on fabulous holidays all the time, and I’d have all their names tattooed on my toes, but in reality? I’m not sure we could afford it.

I don’t mean that just from a money perspective either, although that obviously does massively come in to it , what I  also mean is, we can’t really afford it from an Irish perspective.

‘What if you go freaking mental again?’ He will balk when I bring the subject up. ‘Then I’d be responsible for a feet shuffling, god mumbling, suicidal pill popping wife, a ferocious 2 year old and a baby! Anyway why are we discussing this now?’

‘Some woman in the lift wants to know.’ I will respond munching on square crisps and swatting the child away ‘’Wait, hang on… Wife? I’ll be your wife? WHEN? You know I want a square diamond right?’

And that is usually as far as we get before he heaves himself off the sofa and wanders off muttering about priorities and medication.

What if the minute the sperm made contact with the egg I lost the plot again?

What if I wanted to die again?

What if I couldn’t afford square crisps?

What if my belly flopped back down to my ankles?

What if I can’t get pregnant?

What if I deserve to be punished because I tried to die when my baby was relying on me, and I die during labour and never get to see Addison grow up?

What if one day I want to die again and never get to cuddle Addison again or the new baby? What if the illness grabs me again and tears my soul out and I lose my little boy again, the baby, and myself, but forever?

What if I end up in hospital again and miss out on all the bits I yearned to feel the first time around?

What if my heart breaks open again?

Why am I even thinking of this?

I am happy at the moment!!

Oh yeah that’s right, it’s the seemingly dangerous after effects of idle chitchat with semi zombie stranger’s!!!!

I think on Monday I will respond;

‘Another one? No I couldn’t you see because, basically my vagina was so badly torn with Addison, right from chuff to anus..’

At which point I will bend over and show them a cutting hand movement from front to back, for effect.

‘So I had this gaping, flapping hole where my bits should have been, for ages!’

At which point I will pause again, and proceed to mime a gaping, wide flapping hole that lives between my legs.

I may even add in a ‘swoosh’ and an echo for affect.

‘So basically when the doctor eventually did get round to stitching it back up again, which took hours by the way, he ended up having to re route my birth canal out of my arse, so essentially if I do get pregnant again, i’d have to poo the baby out while squatting. That scares me a bit to be honest. Big poo’s hurt.’

At which point I may or may not imitate a giving birth squat, depending on my mood and the time of day.

Then, just as the lift doors open, I will stand up and grin before strutting out with a fabulous Timotei toss of my hair.

‘Have a great day!” I will shout.  ‘Enjoy your bagel!’

Bloody intrusive lift folk.

Another baby indeed.

Like it is that simple!

It is true though, my gaping hole is none of their business.

Fortune Teller. (Don’t grow up yet.)

Dear Teenage Me,

Please listen.

I may be able to help you…

Your stepmother isn’t evil so stop writing in your diary that you hate her and just wish she would die.

You don’t.

But you are right she has got crap hair, but bless her, it’s the 90’s and to be honest your hair could use some work too.

In about 20 years, something called GHD’s will be invented and you will be transformed, so until then, tie it up and find a better hiding place for your diary BECAUSE SHE IS READING IT!

(Which is why your dinner is always the burnt one and why she never sticks up for you!!! Can you blame her? You are wishing her dead for crap hair?? A little dramatic don’t you think?)

Actually, once you have hidden your diary, pull on your new and funky in line skates, go to the bookshop if you can make it that far without breaking an elbow, and look up how to make hand held iron’s for frizzy arse hair, then stop wasting your time playing on the Super Nintendo and spend your time inventing them.

Believe me when I say, you will make a fortune and be revered as the frizzy haired wonder who invented Good Hair Days.

Jennifer Anniston will love you.

She’s the one you fancy out of that new show ‘friends’.

While we are on the subject of your hair? Erm… purple? Really?

Also, pay more attention in school, it may be funny now to try and Bunsen burn your boobs but seriously in a few years you’ll wish you payed more attention to what you were actually being taught.

Specifically when you get a U in biology at IGCSE and get kicked out of school.

Also, when you use a pipette to squirt water at Laura’s head, remember to make sure it isn’t boiling water. Poor Laura. It really isn’t funny what you put that girl through.

Actually, while we are on the subject of school, in 1996 there will be a cheese and wine night to introduce you to your new six form college, do NOT go behind the bike sheds with Hubert. He isn’t cool and neither is his name, also Mrs. Almeida will catch him fingering you. This will not go down well with your dad and even when you are 30 you will cringe at the memory. Nobody likes to remember being caught, getting fingered. Seriously. Getting fingered is not cool. 

Do not let Laura drive your moped 2 days after you buy it, she will crash it and while you are weeping she will be trying to find what is left of her ankle. Neither of you will see the light of day for at least 2 years.

Being grounded is not fun, and yes her ankle is more important than your bike. GO HELP YOUR BEST FRIEND PUT HER ANKLE BACK TOGETHER!

Do not drive up a one way street by accident on the day you are finally let free and then in a panic at possibly being grounded again, try and win a high speed chase with the Guardia civil.

You are on a clapped out moped, they are in a 4 by 4. It is the most pathetic short lived high speed chase ever, even if you did feel like Penelope pitstop at the time, You will inevitably get grounded again.

Nobody likes to see their daughter in handcuffs.

Do not leave Spain, ever.

EVER.

You think you want to live in England but all that awaits you there, is misery and a life of falling in to drugs, and friends who manage to let you down at the very time you need them the most.

Call your brother and tell him you love him everyday.

Do not drunkenly stumble in to your mum’s bedroom at 2 in the morning after a night out with a ‘new lady friend’ and announce very loudly to her sleeping head, that you think you might be a ‘Lezzy Lesbian.’

There are ways to potentially come out of the closet, and this isn’t one of them.

Make your mind up about which way you swing by yourself, then do what most people do if they decide to be gay and send your parents a letter explaining things, before boarding a plane to Guatemala for a good while.

Then at least, if you decide you are straight, it will be because you chose to be, not because you weren’t allowed to be anything else but.

Also Lezzy Lesbian?…Really??

Forgive yourself everyday and eat more cheese while you can, you have an amazing body right now.

When you are 19 you will move to America.

STAY AWAY from Matt Marioux.

He will break your heart in to a hundred thousand pieces and it will take you years to recover, meanwhile, he will barely remember your name.

Also don’t get drunk and try and park Peter’s car.

Yes.

It was your fault that it ended up in the Lake.

AND NO.

It isn’t funny.

A car in a lake is no laughing matter Lexy Ellis!

You could have drowned.

Sigh.

When you go on the Disney cruise do not have a strop about how fat you are and refuse to leave the room the entire trip.

You are not fat, go and pick up a prescription for some anti-depressants and eat more cheese.

Never walk backwards on a raised train platform to get the attention of a hot boy. You will make a total cock of yourself and having pins in your arms?

Not fun.

Or attractive.

Just ask Laura, poor Laura, her ankle never recovered.

Call your brother. Chat to him and tell him you love him. Do it now. Tell him if he is sad and depressed he can get help. Tell him you understand. Tell him he is loved and you will always be there for him. Tell him he isn’t alone. Tell him you need him and not to die. Tell him never to die, because you need him. Tell him not to die. Tell him you are his little sister and you can’t live, you wont know how to live without a big brother. Remind him of all your memories. Remind him how you rode on his shoulders, remind him you can’t live without him. Beg him not to die. Never let him go. Tell him you need him.

Don’t stay in and cry because nobody loves you, go out and dance because there is nothing to be ashamed of in loving yourself.

Always wear knickers, especially when meeting the mother of your new boyfriend. Just take my word on that. Seriously.

Enjoy your life, young one, and I’ll see you when you are 32!

Oh and Lexy? One last thing…

What he is doing to you isn’t right.

You are still a child.

Tell somebody. Tell anybody.

Tell your brother. Tell your dad.

You may think you can make him stop, but you don’t have that power little one.

It isn’t your fault.

(Also he better god damn hope he never comes in to contact with the 32 year old you, because she will stamp on his face, hard, before ripping out his heart and squashing it up in to his face, while kicking his balls out of his back passage.)

Forgive yourself as you grow up.

But don’t be in a rush to grow up either, one day you will know that ‘Immature’ is just a word old people use to describe fun people. (Kind of…)

Much Love, Lexy.

Be yourself.

Me x

Ps- Accept an epidural earlier. Believe me, you’ll thank me the first time you sneeze.

Hickory Dickory STOP!!

I had an argument with my mother last week.

This isn’t an oddity, as my mother and I, well, although we do get on famously well when discussing anything important like  ‘handbags, make up, perfume and when the Selfridges sale starts’, we don’t always seem to see eye to eye when it comes to the more miniscule of life’s details, like, oooo I don’t know, successful parenting?

She has her tried, tested and successful parenting techniques you see, parenting techniques that ‘did you no harm’ and ‘worked fine with you so I don’t know why it’s all changed now’, and I of course have my ‘new fangled, totally wrong but go ahead and try it, I look forward to saying I told you so’ techniques.

*DO not ever bring up Baby led weaning in our presence PLEASE. I’m serious. Just don’t. Baby led weaning is the root of all-evil! I have been reliably informed it was to blame for the bubonic plague and also that the Queen and Kate Winslet themselves think it is cruel, just cruel!!! It is obviously also the reason Addison doesn’t like vegetables now too, as I ruined his early childhood memories of eating. (Obviously.) So just don’t mention it ok? Please.

I love my mother, I love her lots, Addison adores her, she has done us countless favours and even though over the years we have had our differences (usually because she has been right and I don’t like to admit it)  I have to be honest, she has and is right most of the time when it comes to stuff like… handbags and make-up.

And ok, I relent. She has been right occasionally when it comes to Addison too. (Turns out ice pops aren’t full of goodness and aren’t one of the daily recommended 1 of 5! – Who knew?) ok, she is always right. Thanks mum. I love you.

Anyway, last week as I approached the drive to her house at a sensible 60 miles an hour with ‘that awful Rihanna’ blaring out and Addison ‘head banging in the back of the car’ (this is how she would describe it) we ended up having a little tete-a-tete about suitable childhood music, and I like a naughty teenager, was duly handed a CD of nursery rhymes for the drive home.

Much to my dismay, Addison seems to prefer it to Eminem (It was radio 1!!!! Its not my fault what they play is it? But ok whatever) so I have been forced to endure HOURS OF MINDLESS NUMPTYNESS over the past week instead of the usual array of musical greatness we usually head bang, I, erm, I mean, listen to and I have, in fact come to this conclusion.

NURSERY RHYMES, or EARLY LEARNING SONGS as they are called on this CD actually teach much crueler and much more careless lessons than Rihanna or black Sabbath ever could. (….I don’t actually listen to Black Sabbath, I’m more of a Chesney Hawkes kind of girl, but that’s totally beside the point….was I the only one who grieved when he got his mole removed? Anyway… )

Don’t believe me?

Check these out!!

5 little ducks went swimming one day, over the hills and far away, mummy duck shouted quack quack quack….  Ok, first off, who in their right mind lets their children swim over a hill and far away? Even if it’s a sunny day, that just bad parenting, I mean, and to let them keep going even though she seems to be losing one at a time?? DOES SHE NOT CARE? She is lucky to get any of them back I’m telling you, I’m seriously considering ringing duck protection services the next time I forget to take my meds!!

Hickory Dickory dock…. Ok there is too many things wrong with this song. Firstly why have they rhymed dock with clock and why use dickery? That’s just too funny and I intend to use it the next time The irish one and I are trying not to swear. ‘WHAT THE DICKERY ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?’ and then lets see if mum thinks it’s appropriate huh? And also, Have these people never heard of pest control? Mice are vermin for godsake!! If it’s run down the clock may I suggest a) setting a trap? And b) sealing the hole in the back of the clock? I mean what if it messes with the time? Then what!!!! You’d be dickery Docked!

12345 once I caught a fish alive, 678910, then I threw it back again…  Did you even stop to consider the impact this would have on the fish? It’s just inconsideration.

This old man (what old man?) he played… KNICK KNACK PADDY WHACK ON YOUR WHAT??? Who is this old man and why do I need to give a dog a bone? Is he rolling home from the pub? What kind of lesson is that? I am trying to teach Addison to respect women and not drink in pubs, sure he is only 2, but you can never start too early, and what if he asks me what knick knack paddy whack is huh? What do I say then? His daddy is a paddy!!! Is that not politically correct? WELL THEN NIETHER IS THE SONG! (Just go with me.)

Please pudding hot, please pudding cold? Please pudding in the pot nine days old…some like it hot, some like it cold, and some like it in the pot nine days old… SERIOUSLY? Yes, and some prefer not to get GASTROENTERITIS.

Pat a cake bakers man…– now I like that one. Apart from all the tossing and pricking that is. Just give me the damn cake and baby isn’t getting any. It’s mine.

Do your ears hang low, do they waggle to and fro, (?!?!?!) can you tie them in a knot? Can you tie them in a bow? Can you throw them over your shoulder like a regimental soldier? – Why? What if they did? WHAT IS THE POINT IN THIS SONG???? Is it ok if I can’t do it with my ears, but can with my boobs? DO I still count????

There was a farmer who had a dog and bingo was his name… STOP RIGHT THERE PLEASE DON’T SPELL IT… oh my god. You spelled it. 40 times. And now I need to go back to the mental hospital. But seriously, what was the name of that dog? I forgot.

Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, (OK SHE HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME!) Polly put the kettle on, we will all have tea. Suki take it off again, Suki take it off again, they’ve all gone away… I’m unsure as to whether they all left because you refused to stop singing at Polly or because this song is trying to teach children it is ok to mess with kettles. IT ISNT!! THIS SONG IS DANGEROUS!!!

I’m a little teapot… HERE IS MY SPOUT?  Really? I am re-naming willy to spout from now on. IRISH ONE! KEEP YOUR SPOUT AWAY FROM ME. That is an order, and I will throw my boobs over my shoulder like a regimental soldier to prove it.

Wind the bobbin up… What is a bobbin thank you please? To be honest, it seems to involve a little too much effort for my liking. Why am I pointing to the ceiling? Why am I pointing to the floor? And WHY do I need to put my hand on my knee? IM DRIVING!!! HAVE YOU NEVER HEARD THAT OPERATING A BOBBIN WHILE DRIVING IS DANGEROUS?  I should have this CD reported to the DVLA.

And don’t even get me started on the spider ones!

I like hey Diddle Diddle though. It was clearly written by somebody on day 2 of new medication while staying in a mental institute. I remember it well.

It was me who jumped over the moon, and the dish did run away with the spoon. I KNEW IT!!!!

ANYWAY, as of tomorrow we will be listening to Rihanna again*.

‘When the sun shine, we shine together, told you I’d be here forever, said I’d always be your friend, took a note and now I’m gonna stick it out till the end, now that its raining more than ever, know that we’ll still have each other, you can stand under my umbrella…EE EEE EEE EEE !!!’

Those lyrics say more to my son, inspire more hope in me, and ensure more smiles, than 5 little speckled frogs sitting on a speckled log eating poop (not original lyrics) ever could. (That’s my excuse and I am sticking to it.)

HEAD BANG ADDY HEAD BANG!

*I may change to nursery rhymes sometimes. If I have to. On a Wednesday. Between 10-11. If it’s raining… or if he tantrums… which is likely…  you know what? I’ll just buy ear plugs.

Home is Where the Vomit is. *

‘Time waits for no man but true love lasts forever.’

Well, except when it doesn’t.

Because lets face it I am sure we have all ‘fallen in true love’  a few times, at some point.

You know, back in our histories, back when true love didn’t involve cleaning vomit out of our eyelashes at 3am, we must have all, at some point,  lay in our beds at the age of 19 or 13 or whatever and fantasized and Romancasized (and other words ending in ‘sized,’) about this ‘one true love’ we just met!!!

And we all also no doubt whittled away countless hours day dreaming happily and excitedly to ourselves before falling in to a contented sleep about this amazing ‘true love’ who we had totally ‘fallen for’ who we really believed was the dogs gingganggooli’s.

(Sorry. I could have just written the ‘dogs bollocks’, but I have been trying to get ging gang gooli’s in a post for so long now and I saw this as my opportunity. Go on… it’s ok. Sing the song! I am! Ging gang goooli goooli goooli gooli gooli, ging gang goo, ging gang goo!)

Because that’s what girls do!! It’s the whole fairytale thing!

‘This is it. This person is ‘the one! THIS is TRUE LOVE’ we surely have all smiled to ourselves excitedly in bed, picturing the wedding and the ring and, well usually I would think about how fabulous and drunken my hen party would be but whatever, this isn’t about me, this is about us, ‘this person is the one!!!’

Yes you.

Me and you. We have all done it.

Me as in the one writing this, and you as in the one reading it. Ok? Admit it. Even if it was Jason Donovan you were picturing, you pictured it. I know you did. You did? Right?

And now we, (us) can undoubtedly and inevitably look back on those failed flings and relationships and think ‘how did I not see back when I was with him that he had a penchant for, I don’t know, watching animals fornicate or something. (Seriously reader, you have been out with some right weirdo’s!!) How could I have not seen what an absolute Tool he was back when I first starting dating him?’ and we shudder and carry on washing up, changing a nappy, cleaning up sick bleary eyed or talking to the wall or something.

So the tagline for the film ‘Forever Young’ a 1992 classic starring Mel Gibson, (bear with me this will all make sense in a second) isn’t exactly true but whatever, I am willing to overlook that for the purpose of this post.

Have you ever felt homesick for a time that has passed?

Mel Gibson is a soldier or something, don’t quote me on that, and in this breath catching, stress popcorn eating film, he basically asks his friend to freeze him cos he thinks his girlfriend is dead. (As you do) Which his friend actually does for him (FYI- what kind of friend does that?? Why couldn’t he just, I don’t know, let him grieve at the pub or whatever? And seriously! Who has a person freezing machine handy anyway?! ‘Oh come in, make yourself at home! This is not a sunbed no! It’s my cryogenic coffin, just in case you fancy becoming an ice pop later!!’ I mean it is so bizarre but anyway.) What ends up happening (spoiler alert!) is that he wakes up forty years later in 1992 (which is such a coincidence cos that’s the year they made the film) and his whole world has zoomed on forty years and it turns out his girlfriend wasn’t even dead and they find each other, and well she turns in to a frog.  (That last bit may not be true but I didn’t want to ruin it for you if you hadn’t seen it.)

But basically the point I am making is, that is how I have felt for the last two weeks while I have been ‘home’ in Spain. (But without the dead girlfriend, the frog and the friend who wants to cryogenically freeze me. Because with friends like that, who needs enemies??)

I sat on my dad’s wall one night while I was there, staring at the coastline lit up by the clear night sky, legs dangling down on to the rocky mountain below, glass of wine in hand and feeling a bit well… melancholy.

The silence, as I sat there, drinking it all in, was only broken by the odd echo of a car horn in the distance and the ever present night time sound, the deep hum that gives away the baseline to a party that is no doubt happening somewhere without you.

It came as a shock to me right then, with the palm trees rustling and blowing in the wind beside me to my left, and the humid air dancing around my shoulders, that I had been homesick for a very long time.

It was overwhelming how acutely this speared through me.

I must (seriously!!!) be an idiot not to realise how homesick I have been. Why has this never come up in therapy? Had I blocked it out because it was just too painful? Or was I really, just a flipping idiot, and had not realised?

Every light, every car horn and every twinkle has a memory attached, but, but… it isn’t the same as it was…  everything has moved on, has changed, has evolved.

I pressed the side of my forehead against the cool air-conditioned car window as we weaved down strange roads during the daytime, roads, streets and alleyways, which I used to know and adore, like family.

Every corner had a memory attached, every smell made me inadvertently close my eyes, breath in and secretly smile to myself.

But when I would open my eyes, having seen and felt myself so vibrantly in the moments of the past, heartbreakingly, everything was different and I couldn’t recognise the place it now was.

Different school children running down the street, not my friends or their younger siblings, instead faces I would never know, could never have known, and would never recognise.

10 years have passed.

How could 10 years have passed?

My friends all grown up now, and with children who vomit on them at 3am, all of their own.

The flats where I lived, where I spent my happiest years, demolished. A Starbucks and a shopping center instead, stood majestically and polished in the place where I laid my head every night, and grew up.*

That night I sat on that bloody mountain (with my ever present glass of wine) and I re-lived the way it was.

I took in as many deep breaths as I could and I smiled.

I remembered the laughter (3 girls all squished on my moped piss drunk at the age of 14?) and I laughed.

I remembered the tears (1 of the 3 girls crashing my moped because she encountered a rock and didn’t know what to do – DRIVE OVER IT LAURA!) and I cried for the way it was, for the times I didn’t appreciate until right at that instant.

I remembered my home, when it was my home and I was sad. Sad that now people were drinking frozen Frappuccino’s in the exact place where we buried the dog. *

And maybe it was never as perfect as I remembered it, but if I could just go back and touch it, revisit it, for just one evening, I would.

My childhood. (The good bit.)

Because I miss it, and I am pretty sure that is how Mel Gibson must have felt when he woke up after 40 years of being a human choc-ice, and found out his girlfriend used to be a tadpole and he had made a stupid choice and missed all the bits in between. (Like the bit where she grew legs and hopped out of the pond.)

Before I licked the wine glass clean though, I caught sight of the stars.

And I smiled.

The stars were still exactly the same.

(Look reader, if you study astrology then you are probably dying to comment right now and tell me that they aren’t the same as they were 10 years ago, as we see them how they are five years ago or something, but I am asking you nicely not to ok? I need the stars to be the same SO JUST LET ME THINK THEY ARE THE DAMN SAME, OK?)

The stars, I noticed, were still EXACTLY THE SAME. Still winking mischievously at me, and cleverly reminding me that I can see them from where ever I am, at any time. (Obviously not in the mornings, but you know what I mean.) And that I carry my memories with me. And they can never be stolen. (Except maybe by dementia, but let’s just ignore that for the moment.)

The stars reminded me of one simple truth, and eased my pain.

Home, is now, and will forever more be, wherever Addison is.

And that is the future for us to carve.

And that, Dear reader is fine with me.

————————————————-

*Why does Addison only every vomit at 3 am?

*How cool is that??? A Starbucks where I used to live!!! Its destiny is what it is!!! I’m like Mel Gibson! Maybe true love doesn’t die?? MAYBE STARBUCKS IS MY TRUE LOVE!!! Oh my god!!! It’s a total sign!!!!

** Not Doodle. Doodle is alive and well. Just so you know I would never bury Doodle while he was still alive.  Well not totally anyway, having fun in the sandpit doesn’t count does it? DOES IT?