C'est la vie, say the old folks...

I got married in 1997. Throughout my marriage I was excessively faithful. This meant that during the whole of the twenty first century I'd only had sex with one person. I think that I may have held hands with a man who was not my husband, but the details are vague, and I suffered enormous guilt. One of the things that I liked about being married was the idea that I'd never have to take my frock off in front of anybody new, and I'd never have to pretend that my vagina could perform amazing tricks.
  Obviously, when my marriage ended I had to reappraise this position. I became a bit preoccupied with the idea that all the rules had changed, that I'd be laughed at by all the cool kids who were having incredibly adventurous congress. Nobody wants to be last years news sexually. As I said to someone at the time I couldn't really go up to people in bars and say, " Hi, I'm Clem, I like whisky, and slide guitar. What's new in the world of sex?" I also figured out fairly quickly that the first non Bounder shaped person that I slept with was bound to be, by its very nature, a bit odd and discombobulating. I'm not going so far as to say I viewed it as something to get out of the way. I'm not actually a big believer in the idea of meaningless sex. I think it always has meaning, even if that meaning is something as shallow as, " I'm wrecked, and you look pretty. " I was also adverse to the idea of calling upon any of my friends for a restorative seeing to. I figured that I was already dealing with the fall out from one relationship demise, I didn't want to risk complicating another one. So, yeah, not something to get out of the way, but, possibly, something that I had a fairly functional attitude towards.  Sorry, not especially romantic, I know.

So, one night, I got chatting to a boy in a bar. He was perfect in his unsuitability. He was, considerably younger, prettier, smaller, and more groomed than me. I don't know if there is any such magazine as Hoxton Hottie, but if there is then he would have made an ideal cover boy. All ear plugs, ironic badges, and cravat pins. Smelt good though, and I do like that. After I'd uttered, the always enchanting lines, " do you have any idea how Old I am young man?", we had a nice chat about all manner of nonsense, and made plans to meet up the next week. The plan was to meet for a drink, then back to mine for Scrabble, cake and music. The perfect hipster date.  That would have been a lovely evening. It's not what happened.

What happened is that I had a bit of a freak out about the mechanics of dating, the passing of time, the fact that I'm legally married, whether I'd be able to talk to, let alone kiss, a male human being who was not my husband. A very wise friend shared with me her one piece of dating advice which was, " For God's sake have a wank before you leave the house". I'm now planning on writing a book of relationship guidance with that as the title.

So, nervous, on edge, and no dinner inside me as I'd been faffing around applying false eyelashes, and baking a Victoria sponge cake, what could possibly go wrong? Actually it all started quite nicely. He was a good combination of sweetly geeky, and artistic, with just enough of an edge of roguishness,and slight shadiness. So, talking, drinking, bit of hand holding, and a lot of wine. I think that I had the best part of two bottles of red booze, and several Whisky chasers. Lawks, and indeed, a mussy, I was quite undone. Obviously, by now my ardent beau had missed his last train home, and anyway, I had made a cake, and it would have been a shame for the baking to have been in vain.
Back to my house. The marital home, the place I'd shared with my husband, and was now about to defile quite spectacularly. All my fears about just how much the world of courtship had progressed in my enforced absence were about to be realised. And then some. Just to clarify, although I do a good line in Outraged Victorian Virgin, I'm not a prude. I'd even go so far as to say I'm reasonably open minded, vanillary sluttish ,if you will. Moderately minxish .My friend, Moll, likes to claim that I'm actually a ginormous perve, but this is a,slight, exaggeration.  Bear in mind, that the combination of alcohol, shame and denial mean that I've tried to repress the worst of this, but to no avail, some of the memories are just too hideous to stay down. It's kind of like my Vietnam in many ways. So, ( hides head in hands, blushes a colour which clashes with my hair, and rocks backwards and fowards) some of the nights' highlights for your delectation and delight were,

1. Being bitten hard enough to leave discernible teeth marks, in a variety of places including my thighs. My response of " bloody hell, that hurts" was misinterpreted as delight. It wasn't. I do bruise easily, but the next morning I looked like I'd been beaten up by a gang of rabid wolf hounds. Not especially hot. 
2. Being asked if I had " any toys, so I can do both ends at once" I'm sorry, is this what passes as pillow talk these days?  Doris Day would have been horrified. 
3. I think that he left his socks on, but they were quite nice socks, and in the scheme of things this is a trifling detail.
4. This is the most delightful thing of all. My young gentleman caller attempted to, erm, impale me bummily, without asking if it was OK, and without any additional lubrication. Yep, dry bumming. On a first date. Really, is this normal?????? Do all boys do this nowadays? Do all girls love it, do they actually request it ? Is it so much a part of first date behaviour that it passes off without mention, does it now go, meet, have a drink, talk about films, flirt a bit, go home, perform greekish act, have a cup of tea, leave?? Am I a freakish prude, should I get me to a Nunnery?  I was simply staggered, and made my displeasure felt most vocally. Exit, stage right, pursued, if not by a bear, than at least by a cat wearing her best, " You're not my Daddy, and WHATINTHENAMEOFALLTHEBLESSEDSAINTS are you doing to my Mummy?" expression.

So, yeah, that was my first foray into the world of dating. Just lovely. I've learnt from it though. I now have a self imposed three drinks on a first date limit, and have learnt that Victoria Sponge is clearly code for unsolicited anal penetration. Am considering getting cards made for future squires. They will say something like, " Hi, I'm Clem. I quite like having my hair pulled a bit, as long as it's reasonably gentle. I am probably prepared to do some manner of pretending to be a girl held captive by Albanian revolutionaries type nonsense. I may even indulge your, frankly odd, thing for long johns. But under no circumstances, even if you're Richard Armitage, it's your birthday and you come bearing vintage Champagne, and exquisite, hand crafted, silk underwear, should you attempt to commit acts of a bottomish nature upon my person on a first date, without asking first. Thank you. xxx"  I think it just makes things clearer for all parties, and I've come to realise that clarity is quite important.

Don't want to be on top of your list, phenomenally, and properly kissed.

Today my colleague, Miss Catwalk HeartofStone, caught me in the stock room. I had a large Moomintroll toy clasped to my chest, and I was, somewhat tearfully, explaining to it that " I'm simply not in a place where I can love anybody, not even you, and besides I kind of have the hots for Snufkin" This is partly true. I do have a mahooosive crush on Snufkin, in many ways he is the perfect man. It's also true that I was weeping over a soft toy in the stock room. Catwalk and me have worked together for many years, we're fond of each other, and fiercely protective of our department, but we have nothing at all in common. I think that she views me in the same way she would a Panda, intriguing, and mildly diverting, but ultimately a bit pointless. I tried to argue that in my new job, nobody would look askance at such behaviour, rather they would accept, embrace, and encourage it. I don't think she was convinced. 'Tis true though......

P U N K A , We never learnt to play

Warning, this post will be bought to you by the letters E, M, and O. I know, I'm too old, and it's unbecoming. Like whatevs....
I've been ill. This always makes me sad. I started a migraine on Sunday morning. Not unusual. It tends to be my body's way of keeping me sane. When things get too hectic I get felled by migraine, it makes me stop. This one didn't respond to any drugs, rest, darkness, coffee, bathing in lavender, nothing. It got worse, and worse, until yesterday morning I was convinced that my only choices were death or insanity. I phoned my lovely Dr in floods of tears, and babbling incoherence. The lovely man, ( I have a big old crush on my Dr,I'm now somewhat mortified that he's now seen me with vomit in my hair), gave me an injection which made it all go away. I don't know what it was, I'm assuming it was some kind of morphine thing, but to be honest, at the time he could have recommended that I go out and score crack and I wouldn't have blinked. Blinking really bloody hurt. So, today I'm pain free, but groggy, and blue.

     On Saturday I told Alpha Girl that I'm leaving. A is The Bounder's daughter, and right now she's the person I love most in the entire world. Certainly she is the only person that I'd consider staying down here for. Because she is 48 different sorts of awesome she is really happy for me, recognises that it is the most amazing opportunity, and is looking forward to coming and visiting. I'm just so flattered that this incredible, cool, kind, beautiful girl wants to hang out with me. To compound my position as world's most responsible adult we went to see Russell Kane. In between laughing like a loon on loon pills I was deeply conflicted. Torn between thinking, " Lord I've bought her to see a man talking about his fear that a naked glamour model is going to try and put a non lubed champagne bottle up his bottom, I'm an appalling human being", and, " meh, she hears worse at school, I'm sure". Suffice to say she loved it. Her first words to me on the whole thing were, " I Love Him". There you go, my child, that is my gift to you, a lifelong tendresse for slightly wrong boys in eye-liner. I hope it serves you as well as it has me.

Today Miss Mimsy went to live with The Bounder. I can only thank the heavens that I was still probably a bit mashed on morphine or I don't think that I could have borne it. The thing that made me most sad was the realisation that this was just the first of the many goodbyes I'm going to have to say in the next three weeks. Whilst I'm ridiculously excited about my big, ginormous adventure I am leaving behind pretty much everybody I love and hold dear. Although, rationally I know this to be stupid, I was struck with the idea that now he has the kitten, The Bounder has no further need to come see me. The idea that the last time he saw me I was stoned and weeping is upsetting.  An unkind person would point out that this would be oddly apposite. My fourteen year marriage ended four months ago. Obviously I won't have come close to processing how I feel about it all. Still, I was surprised by how upset I was by the idea that this might be the final meeting. It's not, really, really, not, that I think that there's anything marriage shaped to be salvaged. I wouldn't want to, towards the end we were properly misery making. It's just all the memories, where do they go, what happens to them ? There was love, y'know, in spite of all my jokes about moustache wax, intemperance, and the housekeeping being spent on coke and hookers, I did love him. I think that it's the idea that the person who knows me better than anyone is no longer an essential part of my day to day life. I've been thinking about the short hand which long established couples slip into, the easy familiarity, the sentences which only needed half starting. The Bounder is the only person alive who knows what I mean when I say, "Eleanor Rigby", who knows why certain episodes of The Simpson's make me cry like a baby, and who knows what effect the opening bars of "Like A Hurricane" have on me. For illustrative purposes, here is a text exchange between us from earlier today. Bounder, " A bit of cat chess, but no kitfriction yet. Ver rocitous methinks"  Me, " Von Tocitous, good lass".  Spell check, and all right minded folk will be baffled, but to us it makes perfect sense, and the fact that one day soon it won't makes me a bit sad.
I do know that I'm concentrating on the good bits. There were lots of bad bits too. It had become all about what was unsaid, the awkward silences, the having to make an effort, when previously it had been so easy. I clearly remember wishing that The Bounder would live up to his name and have a proper, public, shaming affair, so that I'd have a reason to leave him. I am happier now. I wake up in the mornings and I have stuff, both tiny and seemingly inconsequential, and enormous and life changing to look forward to. Sometimes, all this change is just so massive and exciting that it, literally, takes my breath away, it makes me gasp, and hop up and down squealing like a simpleton. I catch myself smiling like an idiot when I think nobody is looking. I am so grateful, and happy, and excited, but that doesn't mean that I'm not the teensiest bit blue too.

It's the biggest rocket I could find, and it's holding the night in it's arms.

This is a picture of my girl cat, Miss Fanny Dango, aka Mimsy von Whiskerton. I love her an immoderate amount. She is the sweetest natured, kindest, silliest girl cat in the world. I loves her a big old lot. The Bounder and I got her as a rescue kitten. She is now seven years old, but is very much still a kitten. She likes cheese, licking my nose, chirrrping, and hunting moss. I can't take her with me. A hotel, no matter how boho chic, is no place for a ,somewhat nervous, very small cat. She would hate it. Also, there is the matter of guests with allergies to consider. This is breaking my heart. I literally can't talk about it without wanting to cry. Mims, will be fine. She luuuurves  The Bounder. Whenever he comes to visit it is disturbingly like the final scene of The Railway Children. She will have all the fuss, love and attention that even her demanding little heart could ever wish for. She has promised to write. I know that this is the only possible outcome. It's kind of testimony to how much I want this change to happen that I'm even prepared to consider not having her with me. Someone should warn the cat's of Whitby though. There will soon be amongst them a woman with the compelling need to stop and talk to every single one of them There will be fuss. Songs will be composed in their honour and aliases will be established. They're not going to know what's hit them.

Like some modern day gypsy landslide

found via pinterest.com

For the last four months I've been living with change on a daily basis. I've got used to it. I even welcome it now. This is, in itself, a huge change. For the previous ten years next to nothing had changed in my life. I was married. I lived in Cornwall. I worked in a bookshop. I had slowly creeping unhappiness. I had wonderful friends. I spent far too much time weeping in the bath. I had no reason to think that these things would change. I still have wonderful friends. That's the only constant.

Some of these changes have been public. It doesn't matter how Celia Johnson one is, it is nigh on impossible to separate from one's husband without people finding out about it. Even when it's amicable, and mutual, and all for the best, there is always fallout. There are always moments of public meltdown, and of vomiting in other people's en suites. However, a significant part of this period of change has been conducted in relative privacy. I'm not referring to the internal changes. I don't think that there's been a moment of ," and, lo there I was, a beyooodiful butterfly" type transformation, although I am happier, more confident, and more together. I'm thinking more of the whole moving to the other side of the country state of affairs. For obvious reasons very few people knew about this. I'll write about the whole bizzare process that will take me to Whitby some other time, suffice to say it was somewhat unconventional. Until a week ago it was nebulous and something of a secret between me, the universe, and a couple of other people. The universe is great at keeping secrets. I recommend it. 

  The very fact that I'm writing about this kind of implies that it's no longer a secret. I can pinpoint the moment when it stopped being a secret. Biggest apologies to anyone who was in Whitby towards the end of last week, and got to witness the unedifying sight of a lass with bonkers hair, and far too much cleavage on display, tripping around town in the snow, grinning like a half wit,and squealing " I get to live here" whilst jumping up and down. It was a happy moment. Thank you for sharing it with me. The act of handing one's notice in at work also becomes public knowledge pretty sharpish. Especially down the book mines in February. Not a whole lot to talk about. 

  This brings me to the word brave. Several people have dropped a B Bomb in relation to me in the last couple of days. This baffles me. Lots of people are brave, anyone with children, artists, explorers, people stuck in difficult relationships, anyone who puts their heart out there to be judged by another human being, anybody who uses ladders in their daily lives, these people are brave. I'm not. Firstly, bravery implies involvement and choice and my life is just kind of unfolding around me. Secondly I'm pretty terrified much of the time. When I was at school I learnt about negative capability. From what I remember this involves being reconciled to two opposing states at the same time. I think that the therapy speak for this is cognitive dissonance . I have a big old load of that going on at the moment. Terror and joy are wrestling for position in my brain. Most of the time silly, giddy, ecstatic joy wins out. Doesn't leave much room for bravery though. 

  

So: enough of this terror we deserve to know light

At half past three this morning I was woken up by my girl cat shredding a packet of boy entrancers, ( false eyelashes). This set off an almighty fear reaction. Full on physical panic. Some of the things which went through my brain included;

1.  I have a washing machine, a freezer, one of those bags for storing plastic bags in, and an electronic juicer. In the eye's of the world this makes me an actual grown up. Actual grown ups don't decide to junk in their entire lives and move 350 miles away from pretty much everyone I know, all my support structures, and everything which allows me to pass as sane.
2. I have a cat who hunts false eyelashes, 76 bottles of nail polish, enough notebooks to open a small branch of PaperChase, and a list of boys whom I'd like to do the kissing with. Clearly, I am a fifteen year old girl. Fifteen year old girls are not allowed to decide to junk in their entire lives and move 350 miles away. Where are my parents? Why has nobody staged an intervention, and given me a stern talking to? 
3. Which mugs do I take to Whitby with me? I don't really need to take any, I'm going to be living in a place that is, literally, awash with vintage china, but I love my mugs. I'll feel sorry for the ones which get left behind. A while back I was discussing the vexed issue of which books to take with me. I may have compared my situation with that of Sophie from Sophie's Choice. I'm prepared to concede that this comparison was somewhat immoderate. Not with the mugs though, perfectly valid point to make, I reckon. So, yes to the Moomin mugs, but what about all the others? Middle Class Problem, much? I may set up a support group.
4. Do I spend £60 on buying a small external hard drive on which to store my music and films, or do I spend £350 on buying a lovely new iPod for the same purpose? Why have I convinced myself that the iPod is the sensible option. Also, why am I considering buying more underwear?
5. I need to get a divorce. Quickly. The Bounder and I are on excellent terms, but I really don't want him to be the one who gets to decide what to do with my life support machine when I fall over and concuss myself on a box of vintage crockery, or drown under the weight of cushions. Ideally, I'd quite like Guy Garvey to get to make those decisions. How does one go about arranging such a thing?
6. My beloved kittens can't come with me. They're going to live with The Bounder. They'll be fine, he luuurves them tres muchos, and lives in a lovely village with access to a fish mongers. I'm going to be an almighty wreck. I may have to take a day or two off work for weeping purposes. Even the thought of not having their gorgeous black and white faces around breaks my heart. There was weeping at four o'clock this morning. 
7. I won't know anybody. Clearly I'll never make any more friends. Even though I'm good with my own company I'm clearly going to go mad from loneliness. Obviously living in a hotel means that I won't meet anybody. Ever. 

Y'know that thing about how things seem better in the morning? Turns out that it's true. I did get back to sleep. I woke up at seven with the lyrics in this post's title in my head. Seemed perfect. The subconscious is an odd, and wonderful place. Am going to spend the day making practical plans, but first there will be coffee, and possibly cake.

Our Inclinations are Hidden in Looks

At the moment I live in a house. It is not a very big house, but it is, nonetheless, a house. A house full of books.

Eighteen months ago I lived in a bigger house. This too was full of books. This is something of a sore point. Actually, it's a great big, festering wound of a point. When we were moving house Tweed Lord insisted that some radical downsizing take place. To the tune of around 300 books. His argument was that hanging on to actual physical books was a form of unattractive arrogance, showing off which did me no credit, and actually made me seem horribly insecure. This was the point when I sat him down and pointed out that now would be a really convenient point to separate. We didn't. I kind of wish we had, at least that way I'd still have all my books. 

When we moved into the new,smaller, house the first thing I did was unpack my books. Again several things should have set the alarm bells ringing here,but at the time I was a grand master of selective deafness.  Firstly, there was the fact that I was making sure that my books were snug and cosy long before I built the marital bed. Secondly, I was doing all this stuff by myself. Not by choice, I'm the clumsiest person I know,me and a hammer is a recipe for a quick trip to A and E. No I was doing this myself because my erstwhile beloved was erstwhile. If by erstwhile you mean in the pub. 

 Four months ago today my marriage finally ground to an end. In the intervening months I'd gained about another 150 books but still not gotten around to building the bed. We were still sleeping, or rather not sleeping on a mattress on the floor. It strikes me as interesting that the start and end of a relationship are both characterised by spending nearly all your time in bed not being asleep. Insomnia and weeping are nowhere near as good for the complexion as round the clock fucking. Once again my books were about to be torn asunder. I have this ridiculous need to always be generous and magnanimous even when it ends up being to my detriment. Especially when it ends up being to my detriment. Eldest child, girly swot thing. Anyway, in the great book division of December 2011 I came off badly. Anything that TL had shown even the passing interest in went with him. I went from having a bookcase full of cookbooks to having a shelf full. This house is now a Will Self  free zone. I am without Evelyn Waugh.

    At this point I should probably point out that I'm an almighty paper pervert. I love books, I love the look of them, the smell of them, all that knowledge and imagination and brainy stuff is proper hot. Library's, and proper book shops are basically porn to me. I even met my first love in a library. I define myself by my love of books. Books comfort me, stimulate me, and help me to find my place in the world. For the longest time I believed that without my books I would lose my groundings, and, simply, float away. This makes what I've  spent the last couple of hours doing all the more extraordinary.

    In 36 days time, (gulp), I am moving to Whitby. I won't know anyone. I've somehow got the most amazing job in the most glorious hotel in the most beautiful part of the world. It's a live in post. This means that I need to reduce my stuff by about 80%. This includes books. I've decided that I'm allowed to take 40-50 books with me, and the rest need to be found new homes. I've started the process of adding them to Librarything, link to the right, have  a look, see if you want owt. I'm totally OK with this. I'm even a little excited by the narrowing down process; I love the idea that all that remains will be the pink of perfection. Already I feel lighter, less encumbered. I think that I may, possibly, be ready to stop hiding behind other people's stories, and actually start living my own.

Mr Gosling appears via librarianheygirl.tumblr

Daylight is good at coming at the right time

This time last year I was married. This time six months ago I was married. In a month's time I will be packing up my,vastly reduced, belongings and moving 350 miles. I will be leaving behind my, former, husband, my cats, most of my friends, a washing machine, hundreds of books, my job, and my ideas of what my life was going to be like. I'd held on to these ideas for a long old time, even though they were no longer fit for purpose. Like a much beloved jumper, I clung onto these ideas even though they were full of holes, the colour had long faded to washed out grey, and, frankly, they no longer even fitted, and made me feel sad, ugly and disappointed. The time for darning and repairs had long since passed.
  Many years ago I had a very wise friend. She told me that there are three main areas to life. Firstly there was the emotional stuff, friends, lovers, family, all the stuff you do with other people. Secondly, there is the work stuff, the stuff you do which brings in money, which enables you to buy shelter,food, nail polish, notebooks, and knickers. Finally, there is the stuff which happens inside your head, thoughts, ideas ,dreams, interests, all the stuff which you do for yourself, and which makes you happy and healthy. As she is a wise and practical woman my friend argued that most people don't have the good stuff going on in all three areas at the same time,and that the trick is to find balance, your job may be a bit dull, for example, but it allows you to travel , and your partner is kind, funny and supportive,and awesome at the sex ,and on balance your life makes you happy. Not me. I have this really vivid memory of lying awake at three in the morning about six months ago, listening to my husband, The Tweed Lord, snoring. I was trying to do the very silent, very still crying that I'd gotten so good at and had a moment of appalling clarity. I realised that I didn't love my husband, and that he didn't love me. We were together because we were frightened, and because I thought that this was what adults did. Even though I was taking a small pharmacy worth of mood stabilising drugs I was still pathetically unhappy, and stuck in an pre-adolescent state of self loathing and masochism. I had no self confidence, and was utterly incapable of deciding what I wanted for breakfast, let alone what I wanted to do with my life. I had no reason to believe that this would ever change.
This is the story of how things did change. It is the story of how I changed. It involves a large chunk of coincidence, a vast measure of good fortune, a fair dash of courage, and the town of Whitby, as shown in the photograph. It is the story of how I grew myself a life.