Getting cold feet about egg freezing after hearing it's painful. I have a terrifically low pain threshold - when giving birth I had gas & air, a diamorphine injection and an epidural that was kept topped up for 18 hours.
The appointment is for next Friday. I've told the Prince, desperate he would scoop me up in his big warm arms and say "oh my darling you don't have to do it - cancel it. It's stupid. I know how much this means to you now and your happiness is so important to me. Let's get married and start afresh."
Instead, this was the reaction.....
"Oh."
Thing is, I know if he sits back and watches me go to Birmingham it's him basically saying he's not giving two fucking figs for this union. His only concern is his relationship with Rosie. He's a fantastic father, a great flatmate, a lousy lover/husband.
Christmas was good. The rope's getting looser now and the bubble's wobbling again. Just have to make it through January then I can start on selling the flat. Stay strong Indigo - not long to go.
Thursday, 27 December 2007
Saturday, 22 December 2007
Lesbian friend
Since the emergence of the dreaded Facebook, a few old acquaintances have crept back into my life. One of them is a DJ I used to work with in the home counties. She's a lesbian and over the last decade has moved from the south coast to London.
And it's been fantastic having her around actually, as an ear to bend. In true Londoner fashion, we haven't as yet met up. I don't think I've seen her for 10/11 years but we're talking almost every day as if we're major buddyroos.
She's a big shot DJ on a national station and has verbal diarrhoea (i know that's spelt wrong but again who cares).
Recently I asked her:
"What is it about you and straight women? you always seem to end up going out with them?" and she said of every group of say 10 girls there'll be around three up for trying some kind of lesbian combo.
Got a brief moment of "am I a big prude?" after burrowing deep into my conciousness to see if there had ever been the most fleeting consideration that I could enjoy sex with a woman only to find there hadn't. I told her.
"I can honestly say I've never thought about it," I said. "The closest I've ever come is fantasising about the Prince with another woman."
She assured me this was normal and we went about our lives.
Then a month ago she rang in a panic. Long story really really short as I just don't have time. She invites her cleaner for a year to trendy party, cleaner dresses up and is noticed by lesbian. Cleaner flirts despite being married with two kids. Husband works for council. Cleaner not even 30. Cleaner now in full on love affair and is infatuated with lesbian and about to leave husband.
Wanted to write this down as I know I'll forget and it's the stuff the world is made of. I'm updated minute by minute via text message. I know that he cried all night long, doesn't suspect a thing, came home wearing a nicotine patch and swearing he'll be a better partner and that she's dying for Christmas to end so the marriage can too.
Then she and Miss Lesbian plan to get married. Miss L is also getting her eggs frozen like me. We're going to do it together. My first appointment is Jan 4th. It's gonna cost me loads travelling to the middle of nowhere once a month.
Miss L wants a baby too you see.
Christmas creeps on. There's no slack in the tightrope right now, which is a good thing while I see out this festive spell where everyone's supposed to be happy and tinkling with sparkly smiley teeth.
The Prince keeps asking me what I want for Christmas. Why does he find it so impossible to hear my answer?
And it's been fantastic having her around actually, as an ear to bend. In true Londoner fashion, we haven't as yet met up. I don't think I've seen her for 10/11 years but we're talking almost every day as if we're major buddyroos.
She's a big shot DJ on a national station and has verbal diarrhoea (i know that's spelt wrong but again who cares).
Recently I asked her:
"What is it about you and straight women? you always seem to end up going out with them?" and she said of every group of say 10 girls there'll be around three up for trying some kind of lesbian combo.
Got a brief moment of "am I a big prude?" after burrowing deep into my conciousness to see if there had ever been the most fleeting consideration that I could enjoy sex with a woman only to find there hadn't. I told her.
"I can honestly say I've never thought about it," I said. "The closest I've ever come is fantasising about the Prince with another woman."
She assured me this was normal and we went about our lives.
Then a month ago she rang in a panic. Long story really really short as I just don't have time. She invites her cleaner for a year to trendy party, cleaner dresses up and is noticed by lesbian. Cleaner flirts despite being married with two kids. Husband works for council. Cleaner not even 30. Cleaner now in full on love affair and is infatuated with lesbian and about to leave husband.
Wanted to write this down as I know I'll forget and it's the stuff the world is made of. I'm updated minute by minute via text message. I know that he cried all night long, doesn't suspect a thing, came home wearing a nicotine patch and swearing he'll be a better partner and that she's dying for Christmas to end so the marriage can too.
Then she and Miss Lesbian plan to get married. Miss L is also getting her eggs frozen like me. We're going to do it together. My first appointment is Jan 4th. It's gonna cost me loads travelling to the middle of nowhere once a month.
Miss L wants a baby too you see.
Christmas creeps on. There's no slack in the tightrope right now, which is a good thing while I see out this festive spell where everyone's supposed to be happy and tinkling with sparkly smiley teeth.
The Prince keeps asking me what I want for Christmas. Why does he find it so impossible to hear my answer?
Sunday, 16 December 2007
Global warming does my head in
Feeling really confused about global warming and just don't know who to believe anymore. On one side there's a bunch of eminent scientists (a lot of them) saying we are all doomed unless we switch off standby lights; on the other there are another lot of scientists saying humans are arrogant to think we can reverse this natural occurrence.
My mother is firmly of the first opinion. But it's depressing how gloomy she gets. I refuse to lie in bed awake at night in anxiety over melting ice caps or sit in a sleeping bag wearing a fleecey hat while I watch TV in the evenings (ok that's not her either but I do know of someone who does that).
Equally I do my bit. I turn off the standby lights I can get away with without annoying the Prince. I wear cardigans and turn the heating down (sometimes). I do recycling to help prevent toxic landfill sites and use trains most of the time.
The Prince tells me I'm wasting my time and energy doing this. He says there's nothing we can do and I ignore him. But I'm so torn.
Who does one believe? The great mass of opinion on the IPCC panel that says we can slow this thing down and to ignore other views because they come from the right wing oil lobby? OR, the scientists who say the IPCC is a self-serving industry and has to keep its environmental grants flooding in (scuse pun).
Poor mum got a hot flush while we were discussing this yesterday because I got a bit cross when she said she'd been worrying about ice caps. I said she was resistent to hearing different arguments that contradicted her fixed view.
I do think she has a point in that some people use this other argument to justify lazing their pants off and doing sod all to change sloppy habits.
The Prince's mother who lives in southern Spain uses her tumble-dryer every day - even during intense heatwaves when small planes fly overhead trying to put out forest fires. There goes the drum - round and round, generating its own little heatwave in her laundry room.
Anyway, I don't much care for her anymore. But that's another story.
My mother is firmly of the first opinion. But it's depressing how gloomy she gets. I refuse to lie in bed awake at night in anxiety over melting ice caps or sit in a sleeping bag wearing a fleecey hat while I watch TV in the evenings (ok that's not her either but I do know of someone who does that).
Equally I do my bit. I turn off the standby lights I can get away with without annoying the Prince. I wear cardigans and turn the heating down (sometimes). I do recycling to help prevent toxic landfill sites and use trains most of the time.
The Prince tells me I'm wasting my time and energy doing this. He says there's nothing we can do and I ignore him. But I'm so torn.
Who does one believe? The great mass of opinion on the IPCC panel that says we can slow this thing down and to ignore other views because they come from the right wing oil lobby? OR, the scientists who say the IPCC is a self-serving industry and has to keep its environmental grants flooding in (scuse pun).
Poor mum got a hot flush while we were discussing this yesterday because I got a bit cross when she said she'd been worrying about ice caps. I said she was resistent to hearing different arguments that contradicted her fixed view.
I do think she has a point in that some people use this other argument to justify lazing their pants off and doing sod all to change sloppy habits.
The Prince's mother who lives in southern Spain uses her tumble-dryer every day - even during intense heatwaves when small planes fly overhead trying to put out forest fires. There goes the drum - round and round, generating its own little heatwave in her laundry room.
Anyway, I don't much care for her anymore. But that's another story.
Friday, 7 December 2007
Exclamation marks rock... Not
I think Facebook has more drawbacks than benefits. The Prince is playing about 50 games of scrabble with people scattered all over the world. That's one of the good aspects but sometimes that gets blasted out the way by the vanity it breeds, mainly among 20-somethings.
They're constantly updating their status with exhaustingly boring statements like "Tracey is hungover" or "Mark is angry with his flatmates for logging into his Facebook page and changing his status" or "Crystal took meths - it was wicked man innit".
Plus they have to pepper their posts with exclamation marks !!! - like everywhere !!!!!! - as if they spice it all up !!!!! and make dull lives really exciting!!!!!! and cool !!!!!!!!!
Plus they constantly post new and shockingly vain photos of themselves, pouting and staring into spotlights so their eyes look bright.
Plus the fact you can't remove people from you "Friends" list without them knowing is a problem.
FB whinge over.
Life rolls along a tightrope in a bubble of ok'ness, not happiness, but bearability. Very often the bubble veers off course when an external influence pokes it from one side or other. Then the Prince and I land with a bump at rock bottom again.
The Nintendo Wii has bought a slight semblance of fun back into our lives. But it's all surface stuff. Deep down there are fires still raging.
It would be so good to know how long the rope is and when there might be some clarity. The clouds move in so fast and murky the vision.
Rosie's in the nativity play later (she's an angel again) and then it's Bluewater to Santa's grotto and a burger in Ed's Diner. Classy, me.
They're constantly updating their status with exhaustingly boring statements like "Tracey is hungover" or "Mark is angry with his flatmates for logging into his Facebook page and changing his status" or "Crystal took meths - it was wicked man innit".
Plus they have to pepper their posts with exclamation marks !!! - like everywhere !!!!!! - as if they spice it all up !!!!! and make dull lives really exciting!!!!!! and cool !!!!!!!!!
Plus they constantly post new and shockingly vain photos of themselves, pouting and staring into spotlights so their eyes look bright.
Plus the fact you can't remove people from you "Friends" list without them knowing is a problem.
FB whinge over.
Life rolls along a tightrope in a bubble of ok'ness, not happiness, but bearability. Very often the bubble veers off course when an external influence pokes it from one side or other. Then the Prince and I land with a bump at rock bottom again.
The Nintendo Wii has bought a slight semblance of fun back into our lives. But it's all surface stuff. Deep down there are fires still raging.
It would be so good to know how long the rope is and when there might be some clarity. The clouds move in so fast and murky the vision.
Rosie's in the nativity play later (she's an angel again) and then it's Bluewater to Santa's grotto and a burger in Ed's Diner. Classy, me.
Saturday, 1 December 2007
Funny old life
Poor neglected e-friend, so sorry to you and to November for keeping you out of the loop.
Things have moved at a rapid pace. There I was flat-hunting in Teddington, phoning local schools, telling all my friends, reading Rosie books about divorce in the library and trying to hide big fat tears plopping off my chin .... all of a sudden things took a new turn.
It happened one morning... coincidentally after he'd gone out with a mutual friend of ours for a heart to heart. The next day there were flowers waiting for me by the kettle at 6am. Chocolates too. And hugs.
Almost every day now he'll phone to say he'll pick up Rosie from school or give me warning if he can't. He's booked annual leave for her nativity play and another day off to meet her new teacher. He makes the dinner almost every evening and cleans up. He does "the bedtime"' every night and is much more attentive to Rosie.
I think finally he woke up to what he was about to lose, and the fear of losing Rosie has made him realise he has to treat me right too.
We're not really having sex much but that's mostly because I've been so tired. Tired of the emotions and my demanding new job. But he's trying and that makes me feel better. He's stopped his Facebook flirting and I am feeling more secure and appreciated.... thus happier.
When I first saw the flowers I thought "TOO LATE MATE". Something had shifted in my head.. it had to. How else can you mean what you say if you don't make that mental move? I truly thought I couldn't go back. But it feels as if the bad times have melted away. And it's the feeling of feeling loved that's done it.
We're not out of the woods yet. No siree. If he's still not budging on the baby front by February, I'll think again and I am still going to get the eggs frozen but in January, when the job won't be so intense.
But this thing has become so much more than just about a baby. It's about mutual love/affection/respect and appreciation. If you don't have those elements in a relationship you are doomed.
Two months ago I couldn't bear to be in the same room as him, let alone go on holiday with him. I had mapped a future without him and was moving at breakneck speed. Now I'm back in my cosy life and it's as if none of that happened.
Things are coasting. We both got a wake up call. Now I actively want to go away on holiday with him. It's nice just living in the moment.
Hope it lasts.
Things have moved at a rapid pace. There I was flat-hunting in Teddington, phoning local schools, telling all my friends, reading Rosie books about divorce in the library and trying to hide big fat tears plopping off my chin .... all of a sudden things took a new turn.
It happened one morning... coincidentally after he'd gone out with a mutual friend of ours for a heart to heart. The next day there were flowers waiting for me by the kettle at 6am. Chocolates too. And hugs.
Almost every day now he'll phone to say he'll pick up Rosie from school or give me warning if he can't. He's booked annual leave for her nativity play and another day off to meet her new teacher. He makes the dinner almost every evening and cleans up. He does "the bedtime"' every night and is much more attentive to Rosie.
I think finally he woke up to what he was about to lose, and the fear of losing Rosie has made him realise he has to treat me right too.
We're not really having sex much but that's mostly because I've been so tired. Tired of the emotions and my demanding new job. But he's trying and that makes me feel better. He's stopped his Facebook flirting and I am feeling more secure and appreciated.... thus happier.
When I first saw the flowers I thought "TOO LATE MATE". Something had shifted in my head.. it had to. How else can you mean what you say if you don't make that mental move? I truly thought I couldn't go back. But it feels as if the bad times have melted away. And it's the feeling of feeling loved that's done it.
We're not out of the woods yet. No siree. If he's still not budging on the baby front by February, I'll think again and I am still going to get the eggs frozen but in January, when the job won't be so intense.
But this thing has become so much more than just about a baby. It's about mutual love/affection/respect and appreciation. If you don't have those elements in a relationship you are doomed.
Two months ago I couldn't bear to be in the same room as him, let alone go on holiday with him. I had mapped a future without him and was moving at breakneck speed. Now I'm back in my cosy life and it's as if none of that happened.
Things are coasting. We both got a wake up call. Now I actively want to go away on holiday with him. It's nice just living in the moment.
Hope it lasts.
Tuesday, 30 October 2007
Bleak blog
Bleak blog update.
Break up talk has dominated.
Not sure what to say anymore. Shame it got to this point.
Prince looked for rooms to rent. Rosie and I may move to be near my parents. Single motherdom beckons. We can be grown ups about it though. I don't hate him, just feel desperately disappointed i landed with such a commitment phobe.
Get out now my friends say while there's a new window of opportunity.
Break up talk has dominated.
Not sure what to say anymore. Shame it got to this point.
Prince looked for rooms to rent. Rosie and I may move to be near my parents. Single motherdom beckons. We can be grown ups about it though. I don't hate him, just feel desperately disappointed i landed with such a commitment phobe.
Get out now my friends say while there's a new window of opportunity.
Saturday, 6 October 2007
Hope
Feeling bad about writing such personal stuff on the internet. Heard a woman on a radio programme saying "it's an abuse of the internet to write about personal things".
Still fathoming that one out. Not quite sure why that's an abuse. No one has to read it. It's only there for me - then again, I guess I should click the "private" button or whatever it is so no one else could read it to prove how noble and pure I am.
Anyway, who gives a shit.
Had the results of my blood test back and it's good news. I have a healthy stock of eggs and my panic to act has been alleviated a tad. Still planning to freeze them though but in November as I've just started a new job.
Lots of stuff going on. Spoke to the Prince three times about leaving. Absolutely meant it too. But he is making a huge effort - even confirming me as his wife on Facebook and looking at the shelf full of rings in Argos.
I have had my flat valued, talked about selling it (estate agent says to wait because of end of year blues) and checked out properties and schools in south west London near my family.
So in the head it's all go. My heart is saying "stay put" this ain't over yet. I do still love him. Don't think he loves me but here I stay, hoping, hoping that one day...
Still fathoming that one out. Not quite sure why that's an abuse. No one has to read it. It's only there for me - then again, I guess I should click the "private" button or whatever it is so no one else could read it to prove how noble and pure I am.
Anyway, who gives a shit.
Had the results of my blood test back and it's good news. I have a healthy stock of eggs and my panic to act has been alleviated a tad. Still planning to freeze them though but in November as I've just started a new job.
Lots of stuff going on. Spoke to the Prince three times about leaving. Absolutely meant it too. But he is making a huge effort - even confirming me as his wife on Facebook and looking at the shelf full of rings in Argos.
I have had my flat valued, talked about selling it (estate agent says to wait because of end of year blues) and checked out properties and schools in south west London near my family.
So in the head it's all go. My heart is saying "stay put" this ain't over yet. I do still love him. Don't think he loves me but here I stay, hoping, hoping that one day...
Saturday, 15 September 2007
Emotional Business
The blood arrived. I just checked. It will go in a fridge now until Monday when they'll start the tests. Well on the road now to my ice baby.
At last week's marriage therapy the counsellor said she thought I could benefit from sessions by myself with someone new. Nat laughed all the way home "see there's nothing wrong with me! ha ha".
Went to see new woman this week - by god was I in a hurry. She was flippin' marvellous.
She said: "So neither of you know how to make eachother feel special anymore. You feel unloved. He feels loved simply for his sperm?"
It threw up something I'd never thought about so I asked the Prince. He said yes. But then he would wouldn't he. This is a little life line for him.
I don't know how to make him feel loved for anything other than that right now. Things have just gone too far inside the head. Am at a loss.
Talked about how to break up.
"You sit and establish the relationship is not working anymore - no one's fault, it's simply not. Then you take the emotion out and you treat it like a business. You work out how to divide your assets, the biggest of which is Rosie."
Felt calm after that. Put it to him this morning. I said, "come on, you can't honestly tell me you want to carry on like this - it's been going on for such a long time."
And he replied, "things have to get worse before they get better!"
"How much worse? they surely can't get any worse than they are now - we are cold strangers who never make love and both feel unloved."
Then Rosie came in and luckily for him the conversation drew to an end.
At last week's marriage therapy the counsellor said she thought I could benefit from sessions by myself with someone new. Nat laughed all the way home "see there's nothing wrong with me! ha ha".
Went to see new woman this week - by god was I in a hurry. She was flippin' marvellous.
She said: "So neither of you know how to make eachother feel special anymore. You feel unloved. He feels loved simply for his sperm?"
It threw up something I'd never thought about so I asked the Prince. He said yes. But then he would wouldn't he. This is a little life line for him.
I don't know how to make him feel loved for anything other than that right now. Things have just gone too far inside the head. Am at a loss.
Talked about how to break up.
"You sit and establish the relationship is not working anymore - no one's fault, it's simply not. Then you take the emotion out and you treat it like a business. You work out how to divide your assets, the biggest of which is Rosie."
Felt calm after that. Put it to him this morning. I said, "come on, you can't honestly tell me you want to carry on like this - it's been going on for such a long time."
And he replied, "things have to get worse before they get better!"
"How much worse? they surely can't get any worse than they are now - we are cold strangers who never make love and both feel unloved."
Then Rosie came in and luckily for him the conversation drew to an end.
Friday, 14 September 2007
Seismic shifts
Lots going on in head. Confusion. Chaos. No calm round the corner.
Had the blood taken at a private hospital in Blackheath. Took it to post office - sent guaranteed next day delivery to Birmingham. Keep thinking of it sitting in some post bag getting all warm in the sun. It's supposed to go in a fridge when it gets there, til they can do the 'ovarian reserve' test, to see if I still have eggs in me.
Lots to talk about with the Prince but it's never the right time. I can't write my thoughts down honestly anymore because he could if he chose check a look at this, now he knows how to locate it. Funny that he doesn't.
Does he have any idea what seismic shifts are going on?
I think he wants to be alone with his books, newspapers, the Facebook girls, the stalker ex, the phone porn and have his independence with his old buddyroos. That's ok. I'm ready now. Is he?
Had the blood taken at a private hospital in Blackheath. Took it to post office - sent guaranteed next day delivery to Birmingham. Keep thinking of it sitting in some post bag getting all warm in the sun. It's supposed to go in a fridge when it gets there, til they can do the 'ovarian reserve' test, to see if I still have eggs in me.
Lots to talk about with the Prince but it's never the right time. I can't write my thoughts down honestly anymore because he could if he chose check a look at this, now he knows how to locate it. Funny that he doesn't.
Does he have any idea what seismic shifts are going on?
I think he wants to be alone with his books, newspapers, the Facebook girls, the stalker ex, the phone porn and have his independence with his old buddyroos. That's ok. I'm ready now. Is he?
Wednesday, 12 September 2007
Yoga and blood
God it's a bit scary all this. My GP said "we don't take blood for you to send off to some private practice" as if I was some Tory grandee.
Spent the day looking after two tiny sick kids, emailing a mass list of clients for a new and highly boring job and trying to establish just where the hell I'm going to get my blood taken.
It's supposed to be extracted on day 4,5 or 6 of my period and sent guaranteed next day delivery to the place in Birmingham to test immediately. Problem is day 4 is Friday, day 5 Saturday etc. So when are they going to do the tests? I don't want to wait another month... by then I might be infertile. My second hand is really loud and fast now.
Started a yoga class this week. It's all about slowing things down... the mind, the thinking, the breathing. The quiet came in waves - would stay for 5 seconds (if I was lucky) then be forced out by a whirlwind of heavy thought that set my heart racing.
In the end I found a private hospital in Blackheath that will take my blood for £13.50. I'll pop in after dropping off Rosie. It's in the same road as her nursery.
The Prince has gone to Sweden tonight for a job. Lovely and peaceful - no huffing and puffing, disgusting smells or tension. Bliss.
Spent the day looking after two tiny sick kids, emailing a mass list of clients for a new and highly boring job and trying to establish just where the hell I'm going to get my blood taken.
It's supposed to be extracted on day 4,5 or 6 of my period and sent guaranteed next day delivery to the place in Birmingham to test immediately. Problem is day 4 is Friday, day 5 Saturday etc. So when are they going to do the tests? I don't want to wait another month... by then I might be infertile. My second hand is really loud and fast now.
Started a yoga class this week. It's all about slowing things down... the mind, the thinking, the breathing. The quiet came in waves - would stay for 5 seconds (if I was lucky) then be forced out by a whirlwind of heavy thought that set my heart racing.
In the end I found a private hospital in Blackheath that will take my blood for £13.50. I'll pop in after dropping off Rosie. It's in the same road as her nursery.
The Prince has gone to Sweden tonight for a job. Lovely and peaceful - no huffing and puffing, disgusting smells or tension. Bliss.
Tuesday, 11 September 2007
Ice Babies
Sorry for the details but it's day one of my period.
This means in three days time I will start the process of FREEZING MY EGGS... then one dayI might have my very own ice baby. Rosie will have an ice sister or brother. A whole clan of ice siblings.
Well c'mon you have to look on the bright side or you'd just keel over. It's the start of something good... the future's bright, the future's syringe.
This means in three days time I will start the process of FREEZING MY EGGS... then one dayI might have my very own ice baby. Rosie will have an ice sister or brother. A whole clan of ice siblings.
Well c'mon you have to look on the bright side or you'd just keel over. It's the start of something good... the future's bright, the future's syringe.
Saturday, 1 September 2007
Facebook Paranoia
God it helps having my efriend here. I can be brutally honest about Facebook. I hate it. It represents to me everything that's wrong in my life. I am totally paranoid.
Why does he check out friends on Bunny's page?
Why does he not have me as his friend?
Why does he check out what some girl from his school looks like, about 15 times?
(All there on the History page)
Why does he say he's 30, when he's 31? (his answer to this is "it's so I can take a year to be used to my real age." Pathetic. How does that make me feel when I'm 40 next year? Are we really just not right anymore? If so, let's not waste time. We can do this amicably - no more pretending things are going to get better. They are getting worse.
I hate the internet age. It's awful. It's made me a paranoid, insecure WRECK. A fucking schizophrenic.
I asked him "what am i supposed to think when you don't even come near me anymore?"
He replied, "well we're going through a bad time."
I'd rather he owned up. Just be honest and say he's curious to check out these women, you know what they look like? Are they fanciable?
He gets so ANGRY if I try to bring these subjects up. Tries to make out I'm an idiot and it makes me "unattractive" and "pushes him away even more".
And something else happened which I can't even write here to you efriend. I think he lied to me about something during his tirade that I'm imagining all this.
Instinct and I are old friends - it's never let me down - EVER. I trust that more than him at this raw stage.
Why does he check out friends on Bunny's page?
Why does he not have me as his friend?
Why does he check out what some girl from his school looks like, about 15 times?
(All there on the History page)
Why does he say he's 30, when he's 31? (his answer to this is "it's so I can take a year to be used to my real age." Pathetic. How does that make me feel when I'm 40 next year? Are we really just not right anymore? If so, let's not waste time. We can do this amicably - no more pretending things are going to get better. They are getting worse.
I hate the internet age. It's awful. It's made me a paranoid, insecure WRECK. A fucking schizophrenic.
I asked him "what am i supposed to think when you don't even come near me anymore?"
He replied, "well we're going through a bad time."
I'd rather he owned up. Just be honest and say he's curious to check out these women, you know what they look like? Are they fanciable?
He gets so ANGRY if I try to bring these subjects up. Tries to make out I'm an idiot and it makes me "unattractive" and "pushes him away even more".
And something else happened which I can't even write here to you efriend. I think he lied to me about something during his tirade that I'm imagining all this.
Instinct and I are old friends - it's never let me down - EVER. I trust that more than him at this raw stage.
Friday, 31 August 2007
Eggs and holidays
Spoke to him yesterday about the egg freezing and the holiday. It's strange, if the holiday had been booked just a couple of months ago I'd have been totally excited. Now I just feel confused. It's not booked yet.
"I would love to go to Egypt with you," I said. "But as your lover, not as a flatmate."
"Well remember Rosie's sharing a room with us," he said.
So what to do? It's hugely expensive. We do need to try and work this out. Am terrified we will be silent strangers, pretending to enjoy ourselves. He quizzed me about why I appear reticent re. the holiday and I told him about the egg freezing. He was fairly shocked.
"How come you're suddenly able to find £3,000," was his first comment. He doesn't like the idea. But money shmoney - it's gotta be done for my sanity. I may have an ice baby one day in the future.
Am quite used to ice people - I'm living with an ice man right now. If our hands accidentally touch in the night he whisks his away. It's so lonely. Are we going to be able to get back on track? I don't know how to do this.
"I would love to go to Egypt with you," I said. "But as your lover, not as a flatmate."
"Well remember Rosie's sharing a room with us," he said.
So what to do? It's hugely expensive. We do need to try and work this out. Am terrified we will be silent strangers, pretending to enjoy ourselves. He quizzed me about why I appear reticent re. the holiday and I told him about the egg freezing. He was fairly shocked.
"How come you're suddenly able to find £3,000," was his first comment. He doesn't like the idea. But money shmoney - it's gotta be done for my sanity. I may have an ice baby one day in the future.
Am quite used to ice people - I'm living with an ice man right now. If our hands accidentally touch in the night he whisks his away. It's so lonely. Are we going to be able to get back on track? I don't know how to do this.
Wednesday, 29 August 2007
Age Gap
Job's calmed down so can keep daily diary, though it's still a fairly negative old write. At this week's therapy I said:
"I think he feels he's with the wrong person for the wrong reasons but can't admit it. I feel he wants to get out of the relationship and hang out with people his own age - have a bit of freedom. Basically, I think the age gap is a problem. We want different things."
HER: "Age doesn't matter if you want the same things." (no shit sherlock)
ME: "But we don't want the same things - he doesn't want domesticity/babies and a big family and I think it has a lot to do with the fact his friends in Chelsea are still single, go clubbing and are not having babies."
HER: (to him) "And what do you say to that?"
HIM: "It's not true. I do not want to leave the relationship. It sounds more like she does." (did he only just clock?)
ME: "Are you happy with the way things are?"
HIM: "Things have gone a bit bad since we started this thing (the counselling)"
HER: (to me) "And how do you feel about that?"
ME: "Just want an answer - need to know where this is all heading. Feel only he can provide that."
HER: (to him) "And how do you feel about that?"
HIM: "Well I don't know what more I can do..."
HER: (to me) "And how do you feel about that?"
ME: "Show me some loving?"
HER: (to him) "And what do you say to that?"
HIM: "It's hard to love someone who's so angry all the time."
ME THINKING: "Vicious circle - anger comes from no talk/no commitment - no talk/no commitment gets stronger with each angry outburst"
ME: "I just want us to be happy - and if we can't be happy together let's move on... so we can be happy elsewhere. Why flog a dead horse?"
HER: "He's made an effort with finding a holiday and making dinner to eat at the table hasn't he?"
ME: "Yes and I appreciate that." (I do - it's something, even though a part of me says why mess around with peripheries at this crisis stage?).
HER: "Time's up."
Write cheque for £60. Awkward atmos as we shuffle about getting our coats and say goodbye to this stranger. Drive back in silence through Greenwich Park, me pillion on Nat's new Vespa.
"I think he feels he's with the wrong person for the wrong reasons but can't admit it. I feel he wants to get out of the relationship and hang out with people his own age - have a bit of freedom. Basically, I think the age gap is a problem. We want different things."
HER: "Age doesn't matter if you want the same things." (no shit sherlock)
ME: "But we don't want the same things - he doesn't want domesticity/babies and a big family and I think it has a lot to do with the fact his friends in Chelsea are still single, go clubbing and are not having babies."
HER: (to him) "And what do you say to that?"
HIM: "It's not true. I do not want to leave the relationship. It sounds more like she does." (did he only just clock?)
ME: "Are you happy with the way things are?"
HIM: "Things have gone a bit bad since we started this thing (the counselling)"
HER: (to me) "And how do you feel about that?"
ME: "Just want an answer - need to know where this is all heading. Feel only he can provide that."
HER: (to him) "And how do you feel about that?"
HIM: "Well I don't know what more I can do..."
HER: (to me) "And how do you feel about that?"
ME: "Show me some loving?"
HER: (to him) "And what do you say to that?"
HIM: "It's hard to love someone who's so angry all the time."
ME THINKING: "Vicious circle - anger comes from no talk/no commitment - no talk/no commitment gets stronger with each angry outburst"
ME: "I just want us to be happy - and if we can't be happy together let's move on... so we can be happy elsewhere. Why flog a dead horse?"
HER: "He's made an effort with finding a holiday and making dinner to eat at the table hasn't he?"
ME: "Yes and I appreciate that." (I do - it's something, even though a part of me says why mess around with peripheries at this crisis stage?).
HER: "Time's up."
Write cheque for £60. Awkward atmos as we shuffle about getting our coats and say goodbye to this stranger. Drive back in silence through Greenwich Park, me pillion on Nat's new Vespa.
Birmingham... mmmm
Am going ahead with the egg freezing. It's going to cost £3,000 in all. I'll have to take out a loan. I spoke to a doctor there today. She said I've absolutely no time to waste - that I'm positively ancient.
"If you were 23 there'd hardly be any difference in your fertility in a year. When you're 39 it's rapidly going downhill. Women aged 39 and 40 who get pregnant have a 40% chance of miscarriage. The odds that one of your eggs will have a deformity are so high - that's why so many women miscarry. Even if we extract eggs from you there's no guarantee the eggs will be of sufficient quality anyway.
"It's the opposite for men," she continued. "They can go on making babies way into their sixties. It's terribly unfair."
Great.
Asked to think about it and she recommended not taking too much time. So I figured to hell with it. I'm taking action. I'm grabbing the bull and going for it.
Now I'm waiting for some tubes to arrive to take to my local nurse on day four of my period. She will take my blood and I have to take it to the post office and send it back next day guaranteed delivery. This is the "Ovarian Reserve test", which should tell them whether or not it's worth bothering with me... or whether I'm even too much of an old maid for this.This bit alone costs £250.
Then - Harley Street for scans and consultations. Most of it can be done in London. A week later my test results come back and if my ovaries are in shape (ie, not frazzled and old) I have to administer hormone injections to stimulate egg growth (if my ovaries are really past it I'll have to have quite a lot of this drug and it's really expensive). Then I'll have to go to Birmingham (that's the worst bit) for another consultation and scan. She was ever so negative about my age.
The egg collection itself will be an outpatient's procedure in Birmingham and can be done in a day if someone drives me. No general anaesthetic or anything. Yikes.
But as the Prince said the other day "you only live once". I feel my purpose on this earth isn't quite fulfilled yet. There's another purpose dying to pop out - so I'm ensuring it has a chance... one day in the future.
Hey ho. Another day in this mad old life.
"If you were 23 there'd hardly be any difference in your fertility in a year. When you're 39 it's rapidly going downhill. Women aged 39 and 40 who get pregnant have a 40% chance of miscarriage. The odds that one of your eggs will have a deformity are so high - that's why so many women miscarry. Even if we extract eggs from you there's no guarantee the eggs will be of sufficient quality anyway.
"It's the opposite for men," she continued. "They can go on making babies way into their sixties. It's terribly unfair."
Great.
Asked to think about it and she recommended not taking too much time. So I figured to hell with it. I'm taking action. I'm grabbing the bull and going for it.
Now I'm waiting for some tubes to arrive to take to my local nurse on day four of my period. She will take my blood and I have to take it to the post office and send it back next day guaranteed delivery. This is the "Ovarian Reserve test", which should tell them whether or not it's worth bothering with me... or whether I'm even too much of an old maid for this.This bit alone costs £250.
Then - Harley Street for scans and consultations. Most of it can be done in London. A week later my test results come back and if my ovaries are in shape (ie, not frazzled and old) I have to administer hormone injections to stimulate egg growth (if my ovaries are really past it I'll have to have quite a lot of this drug and it's really expensive). Then I'll have to go to Birmingham (that's the worst bit) for another consultation and scan. She was ever so negative about my age.
The egg collection itself will be an outpatient's procedure in Birmingham and can be done in a day if someone drives me. No general anaesthetic or anything. Yikes.
But as the Prince said the other day "you only live once". I feel my purpose on this earth isn't quite fulfilled yet. There's another purpose dying to pop out - so I'm ensuring it has a chance... one day in the future.
Hey ho. Another day in this mad old life.
Tuesday, 28 August 2007
Tipping the Scales
Just for the record I really do love the Prince.
I know you'd never have figured that from this rantish diary. He just drives me fucking insane with his lack of communication and habit for sweeping stuff under the seagrass.
It kills me because I really really love him and want him. I just want him to want me too. And I don't think he does or we'd not be here.
He wants everything to be fine and happy all the time. He can't cope when it's not, just withdraws.
But isn't that what life is supposed to be about? Working on changing feelings/compromising in order to make marriages work?
I've tried to adjust to a future without my big family/doggy/cat dreams and just end up feeling resentful.
I don't think he'd put up much of a fight to save this thing if I was to ask him to leave.
It's sometimes a good idea to list things - bad and good points to see what outweighs what. So let's give it a go:
HIS GOOD POINTS
He's funny (and still makes me laugh)
He's got great taste
He's a great dad
He's gorgeous
He's knowlegable/intelligent
Not bad re. housework
Has v interesting job
HIS BAD POINTS
He doesn't like talking
He's not affectionate
Thinks "being here" is enough contribution to the relationship
He's immature
He's a raving snob
No empathy (can't put himself in anyone else's shoes)
Treats me like a mother
Often puts me down
Doesn't want any further commitment than what we have already
Doesn't want to marry me but asked twice (why?)
Doesn't want to spend an evening with me at dinner or theatre
Is a loner
Picks his nose disgustingly
Farts a lot (not that important)
Leaves dirty clothes on floor instead of washbasket (not that important)
MY GOOD POINTS (according to me)
Kind
Caring
Considerate
Empathetic
Loving
Hard working (don't expect the man to be main breadwinner, go half half on everything)
Ok looking
Up for a laugh
Good mummy
MY BAD POINTS (according to me)
Worry too much
Too obsessed with equality
Highly strung sometimes
Anger control issues
Like wearing slobby clothes
Anyway, I get my 50 minutes of listening time this evening. Am going to put it to him that he wants out and see what he says.
I know you'd never have figured that from this rantish diary. He just drives me fucking insane with his lack of communication and habit for sweeping stuff under the seagrass.
It kills me because I really really love him and want him. I just want him to want me too. And I don't think he does or we'd not be here.
He wants everything to be fine and happy all the time. He can't cope when it's not, just withdraws.
But isn't that what life is supposed to be about? Working on changing feelings/compromising in order to make marriages work?
I've tried to adjust to a future without my big family/doggy/cat dreams and just end up feeling resentful.
I don't think he'd put up much of a fight to save this thing if I was to ask him to leave.
It's sometimes a good idea to list things - bad and good points to see what outweighs what. So let's give it a go:
HIS GOOD POINTS
He's funny (and still makes me laugh)
He's got great taste
He's a great dad
He's gorgeous
He's knowlegable/intelligent
Not bad re. housework
Has v interesting job
HIS BAD POINTS
He doesn't like talking
He's not affectionate
Thinks "being here" is enough contribution to the relationship
He's immature
He's a raving snob
No empathy (can't put himself in anyone else's shoes)
Treats me like a mother
Often puts me down
Doesn't want any further commitment than what we have already
Doesn't want to marry me but asked twice (why?)
Doesn't want to spend an evening with me at dinner or theatre
Is a loner
Picks his nose disgustingly
Farts a lot (not that important)
Leaves dirty clothes on floor instead of washbasket (not that important)
MY GOOD POINTS (according to me)
Kind
Caring
Considerate
Empathetic
Loving
Hard working (don't expect the man to be main breadwinner, go half half on everything)
Ok looking
Up for a laugh
Good mummy
MY BAD POINTS (according to me)
Worry too much
Too obsessed with equality
Highly strung sometimes
Anger control issues
Like wearing slobby clothes
Anyway, I get my 50 minutes of listening time this evening. Am going to put it to him that he wants out and see what he says.
Thursday, 23 August 2007
Mini Break
We are thinking of taking a mini-break after the disastrous weekend of last. The Relate woman said:
"So tell me about Saturday. You had one day to yourselves while your daughter is at her friend's house and what do you do?"
ME: "We went to the movies, then went to Waterstones and read books in the coffee shop."
HER: "What no talking? No communication at all?"
ME/NAT: (uncomfortable laughing/shifting in seats) "No."
HER: "Well I find that amazing - here you both are faced with a chance to reconnect and you watch a film and read books. You're in your own worlds. What about sitting and watching the world go by? Talking about the people you're seeing out of the window - you know, chit chat."
ME: "Nat doesn't do chit chat."
HER (to Nat): "And what do you say to that?"
NAT: "It's true, I can't listen to really long winded stories... and sometimes Indigo's go on and on and on... and I only said 'give me the headline' once. But I don't really enjoy talking about nothing."
HER: "So it's not so good then?"
ME/NAT: "No."
NAT: "In fact on Sunday when she exploded at me for no reason because she couldn't get a lie in, I was actually looking forward to going back to work."
ME: "Me too, I couldn't wait for him to get out of the house."
HER: "Oh dear. How are you going to get through this coming bank holiday weekend?"
US: "Don't know."
ME: "Maybe we should have a mini-break, you know, so he can learn to miss me again."
HER: "Oh, ok then. Time's up. Same time next week?"
He's been different since then. Collecting Rosie from school, doing her dinner and bedtime. He's made dinner and asked me about my day! And we've been eating at the table, face to face - not on trays infront of the TV. He is making a big effort - I see it. Something has changed though in my head - as if my own shutters have come down.
The baby/family/me getting to the end of my biological clock issue is still the same. Have found a place in Birmingham that freezes eggs successfully. There were problems once and conception via this method didn't have a good score. But apparently now it does work. It will cost me £2,500 but will lift the pressure and ease the aching throat that occurs whenever I think about this thing.
Mentioned this to the Prince last night (and asked if he might even loan me the money) and he laughed uncomfortably.
"So tell me about Saturday. You had one day to yourselves while your daughter is at her friend's house and what do you do?"
ME: "We went to the movies, then went to Waterstones and read books in the coffee shop."
HER: "What no talking? No communication at all?"
ME/NAT: (uncomfortable laughing/shifting in seats) "No."
HER: "Well I find that amazing - here you both are faced with a chance to reconnect and you watch a film and read books. You're in your own worlds. What about sitting and watching the world go by? Talking about the people you're seeing out of the window - you know, chit chat."
ME: "Nat doesn't do chit chat."
HER (to Nat): "And what do you say to that?"
NAT: "It's true, I can't listen to really long winded stories... and sometimes Indigo's go on and on and on... and I only said 'give me the headline' once. But I don't really enjoy talking about nothing."
HER: "So it's not so good then?"
ME/NAT: "No."
NAT: "In fact on Sunday when she exploded at me for no reason because she couldn't get a lie in, I was actually looking forward to going back to work."
ME: "Me too, I couldn't wait for him to get out of the house."
HER: "Oh dear. How are you going to get through this coming bank holiday weekend?"
US: "Don't know."
ME: "Maybe we should have a mini-break, you know, so he can learn to miss me again."
HER: "Oh, ok then. Time's up. Same time next week?"
He's been different since then. Collecting Rosie from school, doing her dinner and bedtime. He's made dinner and asked me about my day! And we've been eating at the table, face to face - not on trays infront of the TV. He is making a big effort - I see it. Something has changed though in my head - as if my own shutters have come down.
The baby/family/me getting to the end of my biological clock issue is still the same. Have found a place in Birmingham that freezes eggs successfully. There were problems once and conception via this method didn't have a good score. But apparently now it does work. It will cost me £2,500 but will lift the pressure and ease the aching throat that occurs whenever I think about this thing.
Mentioned this to the Prince last night (and asked if he might even loan me the money) and he laughed uncomfortably.
Sunday, 19 August 2007
Red hot rant - warning: long groan
Forget trying to be positive. It doesn’t help and makes me even more depressed.
Our first marriage therapy went well.
Second not so good. He hardly spoke to me for days after.
The third was still a struggle. There's so much going on. It's been scratching to get out for years and now the surge to be heard gets 50 minutes a week. I won't be defeated. Not yet anyway.
Three things that happened since the last session that have made me hate him
1) Hellish Thursday
Spent the morning taking his dear lovely grandfather to Gatwick (he'd had a fall and is in a wheelchair). But it was much much longer than expected because the airport is crap. I was pushing an old man in a wheelchair and pulling the luggage trolley behind me. How did they expect me to get up the escalator, let alone walk a mile up a ramp. Ended up on a car park roof where we waited half an hour for an electric buggy.
Drove fast to get back to computer at 2.30pm. Thereupon discovered major flaws with work emails. Threw PC and laptop into car and headed back PAST Gatwick to Haywards Heath, where the computer doctor lives on one of those modern estates in beige.
But before I left I called the Prince to explain what was going on. I apologised and said I would not be able to pick up Rosie and so please could he do it? Instead he said he’d been asked to help out at work with the Peru earthquake (in his spare time, he finishes at 3.30pm).
“It’s the first time I’ve been asked to use my Spanish and I really want to do it.”
“I need you to help me,” I said.
“I’ll call in half an hour and see if you’ve sorted it,” he said.
I put the phone down perplexed. Half an hour ain’t gonna fix this problem and duly he rang back 30 minutes later.
“Are you still going?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’re not going to make it by half past five if you haven’t left now”
The sad thing is he wasn't concerned at all about whether I made it in time – there was only one thing vexing him. Himself. He didn’t want to come home and collect Rosie. He wanted to show his dedication to his work buddies but what about his girlfriend? He's NEVER left work for a domestic crisis... EVER.
(Not even on the day I couldn't lift my head off the pillow - or the day my Granny fell and was rushed to hospital and had a pacemaker fitted. I spent a lip biting day at the hospital dealing with the escalating health problems, trying to be strong for my terrified Grandmother but having to sneak out to the corridor to arrange childcare because the Prince wouldn't leave work early. That day I almost died of hypertension racing back at a stupid stupid speed and then getting stuck in 20 mile gridlock on the M25. And I didn't collect Rosie until 8.30pm from her classmate's house in Blackheath.) But I digress...
The Prince thinks because I’m working at home, it’s not really work. I’ve been getting up at the same time as him (6am) yet my workload appears to have increased.
Since working at home I’ve suddenly been tasked with all the school drop offs, the pick ups, dinner, bath and bedtime. Nine times out of ten the Prince comes home, goes to the “bathroom” then flags infront of the TV. At least when I commuted I only got to do either the morning or evening childcare.
I wonder what he thinks he gives this “partnership”?
Back to nightmare Thursday… in Haywards Heath for an hour and a half. Migraine firmly set in place. Computer doctor works miracles. But migraine is hurting and he’s talking an alien language. Feeling ill and want to go home.
Handle recovered PC as if it’s a premature baby. I place her gently on the front seat. Driving out of surburban nowheresville, back on the road to London, it is now half seven and I call the Prince. He sounds grumpy.
“Rosie’s in bed. What shall we have for dinner?” he says.
Grapple through jaded mind as I follow signs to the M23 to think what could possibly be in the fridge.
“Um, um, um, I don’t know,” (Why the fuck can’t he just say “Oh listen you must be feeling so exhausted after your stressful day, I’ll fix blah blah for dinner and have it ready for you when you get home” He doesn’t.)
I remember the smoked salmon. “Ok, how about smoked salmon and scrambled egg?”
“I can’t do scrambled egg,” he quips.
“I’ll do it when I get back,” I stupidly offer.
“When will that be?”
“Should be around half past eight but I’m not going to hurry, I’ve got a long drive ahead.”
He sounded so cross. I accidentally cut him off but when I called back (twice) he didn’t answer! Finally he did and he was really pissed off because I said I didn’t want to hurry. He shouted with such gentle undertones:
"OK, I SAID DON'T HURRY... I WILL WAIT FOR YOU."
Wept convulsively ALL the way home, absolutely all of it.
Got home. Eyes puffy. Look like Ike Godsey from the Waltons. Made dinner. Worked at computer all evening.
Friday night – he was tired as he’s been looking after his grandfather a lot, plus getting up at 6. See? I acknowledge these things (part of the reason I did all the drop offs and pick ups and now seem to have set a precedent).
So he was asleep in bed when I went up. I kissed him gently and stroked his head (don’t worry, no sex expected) and went to turn his light off. But he’s got one of those ridiculous lamps that you have to touch to turn on and off and this one DOES NOT WORK. I stood next to him for about five minutes, touching it fast, hard, lightly, dampening my fingers, tapping it. Anything I tried didn’t switch the light off. So I pulled the darn plug out (which he hates) and went over my side of the bed. He raised his head Loch Ness monster style, checked his plug socket and said in hateful tones
“why did you unplug it?”
“Because it wouldn’t switch off.”
“Only you are so stupid as to not know how to switch the lamp off, it’s so easy.”
Should I just give up being nice to him as it always seems to deliver such a harsh blow?
Saturday - Rosie's at her friend Finn's house again. The Prince and I go to the movies. After we take a wander round Greenwich market - hand in hand! He says:
"I suppose one thing this stuff with my Grandfather has shown me is that you have to live your life.. you know, it's too short."
Hope soars! Might he be coming round?
"You know, I'm glad I bought that scooter.... you only live once."
2) Heart bash
Then, Sat night in bathroom – talking about Rosie’s little friend who’s 4 and started getting erections.
“Maybe he’ll be a highly sexed man,” I said.
“I can’t remember when I got my first erection,” the Prince replied.
“Maybe that’s why you’re not highly sexed,” (it wasn’t an insult it’s fact).
"What do you mean?” he said.
“Well let’s face it, you don’t appear to need or want sex very much.”
“I used to,” he said. And didn't qualify it. More bashing to my poor old heart.
Later in bed – ask him if he still fancies me. He says he does. Ask him why he won’t have sex with me anymore. He says “I’m too tired.” It’s the catchphrase of his thirties.
3) Sunday lie in
Sunday am – 7.30, get up and put Scooby Doo on for Rosie so I can sleep in (am very very tired at moment). Go back to bed. The Prince gets up and goes to the loo (irritating because he could have done the Scooby Doo run). Comes back to bed as I’m trying to fall back to sleep and it feels like the elephant in the room has got into bed with us. He’s thundering about all over the place, getting comfy to read his book, going online to read the Sundays. Whatever. Just as I get to sleep Rosie starts patting my face.
“Wake up mummy, Scooby Doo’s finished.”
I actually hear the Prince say “come on let’s go downstairs and look for your toy.” Inside I smiled, hurrah a lie in. But he buggered off by himself and she kept on patting my face.
Got up in foul mood. Came downstairs and he was lying on the floor watching motor racing on the plasma. I complained vociferously which made him fly in to a rage.
“WHAT HAVE I DONE WRONG? JUST TELL ME WHAT I’VE DONE WRONG!!!” Over and over. Went and got the washing out of machine and started hanging it up (third lot this weekend).
Every time I think I like him again (like after we saw the Bourne Ultimatum yesterday) he does something to set me right back. He’s hostile, rude and not very supportive. This is a farcical marriage.
In the interests of fairness I should add a few positives:
1) he's actually asked about going on holiday just the three of us in October to Egypt!
2) he did Rosie's dinner and bedtime today (Sunday)
3) he unloaded the dishwasher today, yesterday and Friday and did our dinner twice (and last night cleared up afterwards too)
Sunday, 5 August 2007
Rosie’s world - Part II
Walked into the nursery playground on Friday to be bombarded by Rosie and her two friends.
“We’ve changed our names,” they cried in unison.
“I’m not Rosie anymore.”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Daphne.”
“Me too,” said her friends.
It’s a new crush they’ve developed on Daphne, the glamorous red-head from Scooby Doo. Poor old Thelma doesn’t get a look in. Rosie has even said that Princesses don’t wear glasses which I struggled to argue with. Eventually she agreed that Sleeping Beauty may very well have needed glasses for reading but we’ll never know because we never see her with a book.
All day yesterday Rosie kept saying “I’m just going to think about Daphne,” then she'd withdraw into a quiet state of concentration. She did this at the swings while all the other kids played and later on the train. She ordered me to as well, so I did.
As well as Daphne she likes the three Ps - pink, princesses and ponies. She has a pink Christmas list the length of the Chinese Wall but as well as these dainty gubbins she's totally in love with toilet humour. She orders the Prince to burp on demand, says "bum" continously and then laughs hysterically especially if any adult might choose to join in. In Spain she said "culo" to vary the mix.
She's getting so big it's scary, but she'll always be my baby.
Friday, 3 August 2007
Going for Broke
I'm going for broke. There's nothing more important right now. My savings are there for rainy days, and let's face it, there have been too many of those this month.
So the Prince and I went to a marriage counsellor to find out what the heck's going on. He didn't/still doesn't want to go but is making the effort "to make me happy". And that's appreciated. I found out more in 45 minutes than I have in a year. That he talks to his mother and sister about our problems (I didn't even think he had noticed) and that he felt 26 was too young to have a baby. He actually talked to her and it felt refreshing.
I'm hoping this will be the boost our relationship needs. I'm not even thinking Baby anymore. I just want us to get along and be happy. The thought of going it alone fills me with bleakdom. Rosie dotes on her dad. How the heck would either of those two cope without eachother. I don't want to break up the family so the money is going to be pounds (hundreds, nay thousands, of them) well spent.
The egg freezing will also grab a sizeable chunk, but again - that too is hugely important for our future happiness.
Just realised how quite a bit of this diary veers on the negative. Now I'm going to start being positive.
So the Prince and I went to a marriage counsellor to find out what the heck's going on. He didn't/still doesn't want to go but is making the effort "to make me happy". And that's appreciated. I found out more in 45 minutes than I have in a year. That he talks to his mother and sister about our problems (I didn't even think he had noticed) and that he felt 26 was too young to have a baby. He actually talked to her and it felt refreshing.
I'm hoping this will be the boost our relationship needs. I'm not even thinking Baby anymore. I just want us to get along and be happy. The thought of going it alone fills me with bleakdom. Rosie dotes on her dad. How the heck would either of those two cope without eachother. I don't want to break up the family so the money is going to be pounds (hundreds, nay thousands, of them) well spent.
The egg freezing will also grab a sizeable chunk, but again - that too is hugely important for our future happiness.
Just realised how quite a bit of this diary veers on the negative. Now I'm going to start being positive.
Sunday, 8 July 2007
Stuff
Fine again now, seven days on. Maybe it's because I've been so busy I've had no time to brood and get broody.
Life is still happening. Rosie is talking about her "brudder, called George" all the time now. She asked me to be her sister the other day and yesterday she went to Brighton with her friend Finn and apparently spent the whole journey asking if Finn would be her sister.
Managed to get an audience with the Prince the other evening and asked for a straight answer, so I can work out just what the hell to do.
"You say you don't 'feel right' about a second baby - do you think this is likely to change in the next year, bearing in mind it hasn't in two years?"
He said, "might do". At least it wasn't a No and I have to look at this positively or I'll lose all hope of him ever coming round.
I've booked an appointment to freeze my eggs at the end of July - it is going to cost a lot - but I'm desperate, I'll take a loan out if I have to.
Life is still happening. Rosie is talking about her "brudder, called George" all the time now. She asked me to be her sister the other day and yesterday she went to Brighton with her friend Finn and apparently spent the whole journey asking if Finn would be her sister.
Managed to get an audience with the Prince the other evening and asked for a straight answer, so I can work out just what the hell to do.
"You say you don't 'feel right' about a second baby - do you think this is likely to change in the next year, bearing in mind it hasn't in two years?"
He said, "might do". At least it wasn't a No and I have to look at this positively or I'll lose all hope of him ever coming round.
I've booked an appointment to freeze my eggs at the end of July - it is going to cost a lot - but I'm desperate, I'll take a loan out if I have to.
Tuesday, 3 July 2007
Shallow and grave
Hello compromised e-friend - Indigo here... again with a rather depressing entry.
Am terrifically busy this week.
Last week the Prince's sister and her family came from Spain and he sprang to life. He laughed out loud, had oodles of energy, adored the tiny children, picked them up, kissed their soft faces, threw them in the air and told me he could even feel broody. The man I fell in love with made a comeback... but it was over so soon.
Now she's gone and his va va voom has disappeared again, along with the thimble full of libido I glimpsed and stupidly thought might be the start of something good again.
I foresee another year passing with no mention of a new baby, a life companion for Rosie. Was it all a show? It's as if he's in an awake coma; he hears my messages but rarely responds. Sometimes he might blink or a finger will twitch and I know he's registered what I've said - only I don't get to hear what he's thinking.
If I didn't force it we'd never talk. We'd be two robot flatmates who never have sex unless my batteries malfunction and I repeat over and over "I need sex, I need sex" (like last night). It's a bit humiliating when your boyfriend only wants to read... and a book he's been reading all day at that. The more I write it out the more it sounds like what my work colleague said to me the other day in Bournemouth.
"He wants out but can't bring himself to tell you."
I wish I was a robot because then I wouldn't have this awful depressed feeling deep inside. A feeling I'm flogging a dead horse trying to inject some pizzazz into this. It all feels so terribly empty, shallow, grave.
Next week we go to Spain and he'll be happy again. Maybe it's me and London he's unhappy with. But why doesn't he just say? Why does he want to just fritter away these precious years - the most precious of our life?
One day he'll wake up with nothing except a job? And what good's that if you don't have love in your life? How can I teach him to nurture what's right infront of his eyes. If only I could see into the future. Then I'd know what to do.
Am terrifically busy this week.
Last week the Prince's sister and her family came from Spain and he sprang to life. He laughed out loud, had oodles of energy, adored the tiny children, picked them up, kissed their soft faces, threw them in the air and told me he could even feel broody. The man I fell in love with made a comeback... but it was over so soon.
Now she's gone and his va va voom has disappeared again, along with the thimble full of libido I glimpsed and stupidly thought might be the start of something good again.
I foresee another year passing with no mention of a new baby, a life companion for Rosie. Was it all a show? It's as if he's in an awake coma; he hears my messages but rarely responds. Sometimes he might blink or a finger will twitch and I know he's registered what I've said - only I don't get to hear what he's thinking.
If I didn't force it we'd never talk. We'd be two robot flatmates who never have sex unless my batteries malfunction and I repeat over and over "I need sex, I need sex" (like last night). It's a bit humiliating when your boyfriend only wants to read... and a book he's been reading all day at that. The more I write it out the more it sounds like what my work colleague said to me the other day in Bournemouth.
"He wants out but can't bring himself to tell you."
I wish I was a robot because then I wouldn't have this awful depressed feeling deep inside. A feeling I'm flogging a dead horse trying to inject some pizzazz into this. It all feels so terribly empty, shallow, grave.
Next week we go to Spain and he'll be happy again. Maybe it's me and London he's unhappy with. But why doesn't he just say? Why does he want to just fritter away these precious years - the most precious of our life?
One day he'll wake up with nothing except a job? And what good's that if you don't have love in your life? How can I teach him to nurture what's right infront of his eyes. If only I could see into the future. Then I'd know what to do.
Tuesday, 26 June 2007
Simple Minds
He admitted he's still in touch with Bunny by email. She now wants to "send some old photos". She's been in touch asking him for lunch again. He says they went for lunch once and that was last year. He is being shifty and not looking me in the eye. I do not trust her. I thought I trusted him but now find out he's lying.
He isn't being very nice either. Muttered "you have a simple mind" under his breath because I haven't yet had time to go through my new phone. He's after my old phone so he can play golf. I spent all day Friday with my Grandmother who fell and went to hospital and had a pacemaker fitted. I didn't even have any lunch and didn't get home to London until 8pm. Rosie was being cared for by friends because he will never ever EVER dream of asking work for time off to collect his daughter.
Busy all day Saturday and on Sunday I managed to transfer the contact data out of old phone and remove the photos but not read the instructions. I do not like using a handset I am unfamiliar with especially when I am on a job, like later when I go to Harrogate.
And this morning I've been running about tidying and cleaning for the arrival of his sister and her family and he mutters the "simple mind" thing. And you know what. It's so horrid and sinister and for me that comment just illustrates his supersillious nature so appropriately. I've decided to quit the cleaning and leave the house in a tip for intellectuals to magic into place through the sheer magnitude of their superior minds.
If he'd prefer to be with Bunny his soulmate who he leads on and on and on... time and again... then fine. Stop wasting time and go for it. If not, be clear and start being a nice guy. Tell her you DON'T want to go for lunch with her.... that you ARE ignoring her.... and that she absolutely IS a weirdo stalker, honing in on someone else's man.
We are in a sexless marriage. How did it get to this point? He won't let me even discuss it. He recoils if I mention vasectomy, says he's not a "coil man" (what the fuck does that mean?) and says I have to be the one to research the male pill. Does he give a donkeys about the relationship? Was my male colleague right when he said it sounds like Nat wants out? I am beginning to think he was because absolutely ALL the signs are pointing that way.
When it hits me, I realise something has to happen. We can't go on like this. If we can't go to therapy or sort it out between us, then we should move on with our lives so we can find happiness. Sticking our heads in the sand is killing me. I've accepted there'll be no more kids for me and no sister or brother for Rosie and that kills me too but I can't continue with no love in my life, no affection and no trust. Only that can level this anger and the further away it moves, the more uncontrollable this becomes.
Finding it hard to deal with it... with him. He is not an easy man and this is making me really upset. Think I will have a fucking good cry when I go up north, adding to the floods already there.
He isn't being very nice either. Muttered "you have a simple mind" under his breath because I haven't yet had time to go through my new phone. He's after my old phone so he can play golf. I spent all day Friday with my Grandmother who fell and went to hospital and had a pacemaker fitted. I didn't even have any lunch and didn't get home to London until 8pm. Rosie was being cared for by friends because he will never ever EVER dream of asking work for time off to collect his daughter.
Busy all day Saturday and on Sunday I managed to transfer the contact data out of old phone and remove the photos but not read the instructions. I do not like using a handset I am unfamiliar with especially when I am on a job, like later when I go to Harrogate.
And this morning I've been running about tidying and cleaning for the arrival of his sister and her family and he mutters the "simple mind" thing. And you know what. It's so horrid and sinister and for me that comment just illustrates his supersillious nature so appropriately. I've decided to quit the cleaning and leave the house in a tip for intellectuals to magic into place through the sheer magnitude of their superior minds.
If he'd prefer to be with Bunny his soulmate who he leads on and on and on... time and again... then fine. Stop wasting time and go for it. If not, be clear and start being a nice guy. Tell her you DON'T want to go for lunch with her.... that you ARE ignoring her.... and that she absolutely IS a weirdo stalker, honing in on someone else's man.
We are in a sexless marriage. How did it get to this point? He won't let me even discuss it. He recoils if I mention vasectomy, says he's not a "coil man" (what the fuck does that mean?) and says I have to be the one to research the male pill. Does he give a donkeys about the relationship? Was my male colleague right when he said it sounds like Nat wants out? I am beginning to think he was because absolutely ALL the signs are pointing that way.
When it hits me, I realise something has to happen. We can't go on like this. If we can't go to therapy or sort it out between us, then we should move on with our lives so we can find happiness. Sticking our heads in the sand is killing me. I've accepted there'll be no more kids for me and no sister or brother for Rosie and that kills me too but I can't continue with no love in my life, no affection and no trust. Only that can level this anger and the further away it moves, the more uncontrollable this becomes.
Finding it hard to deal with it... with him. He is not an easy man and this is making me really upset. Think I will have a fucking good cry when I go up north, adding to the floods already there.
Saturday, 16 June 2007
Muffin the Mule (Diary of a Prince series)
Woke up. Farted thunderously. Not slept these past two nights. Worried new shift pattern will tax Me Time. Can't believe I'm worrying about something that hasn't happened yet. That's normally Indigo's bag. Must check out her "How to Stop Worrying and Start Living" book in the self help library on her shelf.
She knows I read the diary. I couldn't help myself. It was like honey to bees or sugar to ants - irresistable. She was away. I had two days all by myself so ate my dinner at the desk and read the lot. Realised how obsessed she is by one thought alone... but it makes no difference to me.
Like Muffin the Mule I am refusing to budge, to change my mind, to consider her and our future happiness. Why should I compromise? I am happy to stand back (or lie back on my sunlounger) and observe the life that passes by. The years roll on and we are exactly the same as we were. No hassles, nothing too deep and meaningful and certainly no cats, no dogs, no tortoises, turtles or pet goats.
Most importantly of all no babies. Rosie will get used to being the odd one out wherever she goes. If she doesn't experience that intense closeness you share with a sibling she won't miss out will she? And so what if she ends up alone in adulthood? I'm sure she'll make friends, won't she?
Indigo has said she's going to try not to mention it anymore. I hope that compromise won't come back to haunt her.
Anyway, dear diary, must go. Films to watch and books to read. Adios.
She knows I read the diary. I couldn't help myself. It was like honey to bees or sugar to ants - irresistable. She was away. I had two days all by myself so ate my dinner at the desk and read the lot. Realised how obsessed she is by one thought alone... but it makes no difference to me.
Like Muffin the Mule I am refusing to budge, to change my mind, to consider her and our future happiness. Why should I compromise? I am happy to stand back (or lie back on my sunlounger) and observe the life that passes by. The years roll on and we are exactly the same as we were. No hassles, nothing too deep and meaningful and certainly no cats, no dogs, no tortoises, turtles or pet goats.
Most importantly of all no babies. Rosie will get used to being the odd one out wherever she goes. If she doesn't experience that intense closeness you share with a sibling she won't miss out will she? And so what if she ends up alone in adulthood? I'm sure she'll make friends, won't she?
Indigo has said she's going to try not to mention it anymore. I hope that compromise won't come back to haunt her.
Anyway, dear diary, must go. Films to watch and books to read. Adios.
Thursday, 14 June 2007
Rumbled!
He read it ALL while I was away for two days. I hadn't anticipated his doggedness to find Dashboard.
It all fell into his lap quite literally, from my poor neglected laptop, shoved under the sofa since my neck problems.
He only complained about two factual inaccuracies. One, that I'd written that he showed me the finger when I bellowed at him from the backdoor. That was a misunderstanding. He thought I'd showed HIM the finger, thus why he did it back (original thinker that he is). Second, that I'd failed to mention he had made a salad for the main course and had only put microwaved paella. So I stand corrected and have amended said inaccuracies.
He gloated a bit, "You said 'you'll never ever find it' and I did, and so easily at that."
Then made the following comment about the baby thing, "It obviously dominates your every waking thought. You are obsessed by it."
So what to do?
Think I will have to start a new one to keep away from his prying eyes.
Might still continue with Diary of a Prince as it's now quite an enjoyable pastime.
It all fell into his lap quite literally, from my poor neglected laptop, shoved under the sofa since my neck problems.
He only complained about two factual inaccuracies. One, that I'd written that he showed me the finger when I bellowed at him from the backdoor. That was a misunderstanding. He thought I'd showed HIM the finger, thus why he did it back (original thinker that he is). Second, that I'd failed to mention he had made a salad for the main course and had only put microwaved paella. So I stand corrected and have amended said inaccuracies.
He gloated a bit, "You said 'you'll never ever find it' and I did, and so easily at that."
Then made the following comment about the baby thing, "It obviously dominates your every waking thought. You are obsessed by it."
So what to do?
Think I will have to start a new one to keep away from his prying eyes.
Might still continue with Diary of a Prince as it's now quite an enjoyable pastime.
Monday, 11 June 2007
Lord Schmuck (Diary of a Prince series)
Oh it's been a marvellous day. The cleaner didn't come so we weren't forced out. I'd already tidied away all my clothes of course. I always do that about an hour before she comes as I'm embarrassed of the tip we live in six days a week.
At lunchtime Indigo got an awful fright. She was asked about something she had forgotton to do for a job last week. She said she'd have to spend all afternoon working on it. And we all know what that means don't we? Yes, muggins here will be tasked with all the childcare. What a bore.
I made lunch of a SCRUMPTIOUS, DELECTABLE, MOUTH-WATERING SALAD and microwaved paella, then took Rosie to the library. At 3 o'clock I figured I'd done enough. You simply can't ask more of a man, it's not fair. We are not programmed to entertain young children. It requires such energy.
So I returned home and promptly fled to my Homebase haven on the lounger at the end of the garden complete with Stalingrad of course.
Later Indigo called from the backdoor "you okay there? you sure you're fine reading your book and sunbathing... again?" (she thinks I have far too much time on my hands - this week alone I'm not working until Thursday). I THOUGHT SHE SHOWED ME THE FINGER SO DID IT BACK.
She stomped outside and complained she hadn't finished her work, that she had a deadline and was struggling to meet it while having to roleplay Baby Wolf with Rosie. Honestly, if she only lived in that harsh Russian winter with no food... then she'd stop whining.
At lunchtime Indigo got an awful fright. She was asked about something she had forgotton to do for a job last week. She said she'd have to spend all afternoon working on it. And we all know what that means don't we? Yes, muggins here will be tasked with all the childcare. What a bore.
I made lunch of a SCRUMPTIOUS, DELECTABLE, MOUTH-WATERING SALAD and microwaved paella, then took Rosie to the library. At 3 o'clock I figured I'd done enough. You simply can't ask more of a man, it's not fair. We are not programmed to entertain young children. It requires such energy.
So I returned home and promptly fled to my Homebase haven on the lounger at the end of the garden complete with Stalingrad of course.
Later Indigo called from the backdoor "you okay there? you sure you're fine reading your book and sunbathing... again?" (she thinks I have far too much time on my hands - this week alone I'm not working until Thursday). I THOUGHT SHE SHOWED ME THE FINGER SO DID IT BACK.
She stomped outside and complained she hadn't finished her work, that she had a deadline and was struggling to meet it while having to roleplay Baby Wolf with Rosie. Honestly, if she only lived in that harsh Russian winter with no food... then she'd stop whining.
Sunday, 10 June 2007
Hate to wait (Diary of a Prince series)
Saw George Michael last night at Wembley. I swung two free tickets and we were in the corporate section. It was okay but the vast number of people and daylight made it a bit soul-less. Nothing like watching him at Earl’s Court six months ago, when we paid for the tickets and got lumped in some dark, damp corner. That was a fantastic night. Being in the corporate section was a bit of a downer. Everyone was far too concerned about how they might appear in front of their work colleagues. Indigo didn’t care. She was the first up when he sang Everything She Wants and complained only that he didn’t do more Wham. Showing her age.
But we both love George. If I was gay I’d definitely have sex with him. And I think she’d give permission. A couple of years ago we were driving through London and she was getting on my nerves saying I was driving like a lunatic. I was pissed off because she’d pressed my WAITING button and held it down and it had put me in a dark place as I hate to wait.
So there we were speeding down narrow London streets so we wouldn’t be late for Granny who was taking us for lunch. I screeched into a posh square and who should be crossing the road right at that moment – George Michael.
But it was like he hadn't even realised what a momentous thing had just happened. He just sauntered across as if he did it all the time. But he'd crossed infront of ME. I slammed the brakes on and buzzed down the window. "George," I yelled, to Indigo's chagrin. He looked up, waved and I shouted "love the album" and he called back "thank you". That was it. That's all there is to the story. Only after that the tarmac turned to cloud and I floated through the rest of the day. I also thanked Indigo for being late. A split second earlier and he'd have been walking to my right and I'd have been totally unaware.
Saturday, 9 June 2007
Diary etiquette (Diary of a Prince series)
Almost caught her out yesterday. Had another day off. Went on internet, scoured the news, booked tickets to Spain, checked Iain Dale’s diary. Went in garden to read book in sun. On returning to living room mid-afternoon saw sharp movement from desk area. Indigo at computer looking guilty. Ask what she is up to. Don’t get straight answer. Realise she’s writing a diary - online. A blog.
Indigo is now savvy to my ways and locks her Word documents with bizarre passwords. It’s a terrible shame. If only she’d just go back to trusting me again. Five years ago I read her computer diary and found it so cute. Sweet little lady typing out her thoughts on life about new curtains, fluffy kittens and the whether to paint her toenails red or pink. When Rosie was born the diary shifted to Penelope Leach and Gina Ford – she was so torn, poor girl. I’m sure now (if I could only catch a glance) I’d find reams about shrivelled eggs that would instantly make me switch to something else. Still, my prying nature is getting the better of me and I’m curiously curious about what she’s hiding.
So there she was and I pushed her off the seat and typed in blogger.com and whaddya know. She went beserk, shrieking like a loon, telling me to respect her privacy, covering my eyes with her hands. But I’m much bigger and stronger than her and succeeded in holding her at bay until she switched the PC off.
She’s called it “Dashboard” – maybe it’s her dashboard to happiness. A wheel to steer her life this way or that. Levers to indicate which way she's heading. Buttons to melt away icy moods; a temperature gauge to keep check on hot tempers.
She’s convinced I’ll not find it, but with netwise guys there is no disguise.
Thursday, 7 June 2007
Dashboard
Dear diary...
Indigo here with an update on the counselling situation. What old battleaxes.
"I only have 9 or 10 am slots available on Mondays or Thursdays and you must commit to the same slot every week," one said.
"Do you ever hold weekend sessions?" I asked.
"No."
"What about evenings?"
"8pm is the latest. That too is available if you want it. But you have to commit to that each week."
"Do any counsellors hold more flexible sessions or later slots or weekend sessions? I have a partner who works long hours."
"I don't know. You'll have to ask Relate."
My next attempt via email mirrored the above.
They were like ice witches. Any trace of compassion clean wiped out of them by the barrage of Me Generation yakking echoing in their ears. Disinterested and unhelpful without a clue how much courage I'd mustered to make the call.
To be that complacent about new business you must have one hell of a list of unhappy couples on your books. Or maybe their clients just like the sound of their own voices, like the woman I once saw at a Families Anonymous meeting in west London. She had been attending twice a week for ten years and I watched her entire body convulse with uncontrollable sobs as she relayed her day's office woes.
So, back to square one. I'm now thinking of revisiting Foyles self-help section to find some useful advice. I'll need a book along the lines of "How to fall pregnant when you don't have sex" or "How to convince your man he loves shitty nappies" or "How to conjure a miracle out of nowhere".
Had a fright yesterday. The Prince was off work... again. He's got such a dossy job. I was trying to write my e-diary and hit the X button when he walked in to the room. He got suspicious and started asking me was I writing a blog. I told him I had been but it was my own special e-friend and he wasn't allowed to read it. He then sat at the computer and put 'blog search' into Google and started typing out key words... like 'baby' and 'Greenwich'. Nothing came up. I said "you'll never find it - it's not even worth trying" and he typed in blogger.com
Suddenly the screen was full of all my innermost thoughts! I gasped. He's a big strong man of six foot three. And I'm a whole foot shorter and a lady. Not that that made the remotest difference. When he realised he'd hit lucky he pinned me behind the chair and I watched him scanning his eyes over the screen like the Terminator. I kept trying to put my hands over his eyes but he grabbed them too. Luckily my physical side hadn't totally escaped me and I was deft enough to reach over and hit the ON/OFF switch.
He came away with the word "Dashboard" imprinted on his mind, which I found fairly hysterical. That's the name blogger.com gives to my home page - rather like "admin centre" or something. But now the Prince thinks my blog is called Dashboard.
Later he gave me a lift to the post office and waited outside. When I came out I saw him deeply engrossed in something and crept up to the car to peer over his shoulder. He was online on his mobile phone searching Google for the word "dashboard". I giggled so much he said I sounded nervous. I wasn't. I really did think it was funny.
So a near miss. Got home. Cleared all histories and changed password on computer. He can read this when I've got things clear in my head but until then, this is my sanctuary from him.
Anyway, he's still reading Stalingrad and is onto the bit where they are so starving in the minus 20 Russian winter that they start eating their dead colleagues. Nat said "that should make you appreciate your life as it is now".
He's right about that but how can I keep hold of that thought and stop images of Rosie's lonely life? When he's finished the book he too will forget how lucky he is - especially when he gets his next sniffly nose and thinks he's dying.
Indigo here with an update on the counselling situation. What old battleaxes.
"I only have 9 or 10 am slots available on Mondays or Thursdays and you must commit to the same slot every week," one said.
"Do you ever hold weekend sessions?" I asked.
"No."
"What about evenings?"
"8pm is the latest. That too is available if you want it. But you have to commit to that each week."
"Do any counsellors hold more flexible sessions or later slots or weekend sessions? I have a partner who works long hours."
"I don't know. You'll have to ask Relate."
My next attempt via email mirrored the above.
They were like ice witches. Any trace of compassion clean wiped out of them by the barrage of Me Generation yakking echoing in their ears. Disinterested and unhelpful without a clue how much courage I'd mustered to make the call.
To be that complacent about new business you must have one hell of a list of unhappy couples on your books. Or maybe their clients just like the sound of their own voices, like the woman I once saw at a Families Anonymous meeting in west London. She had been attending twice a week for ten years and I watched her entire body convulse with uncontrollable sobs as she relayed her day's office woes.
So, back to square one. I'm now thinking of revisiting Foyles self-help section to find some useful advice. I'll need a book along the lines of "How to fall pregnant when you don't have sex" or "How to convince your man he loves shitty nappies" or "How to conjure a miracle out of nowhere".
Had a fright yesterday. The Prince was off work... again. He's got such a dossy job. I was trying to write my e-diary and hit the X button when he walked in to the room. He got suspicious and started asking me was I writing a blog. I told him I had been but it was my own special e-friend and he wasn't allowed to read it. He then sat at the computer and put 'blog search' into Google and started typing out key words... like 'baby' and 'Greenwich'. Nothing came up. I said "you'll never find it - it's not even worth trying" and he typed in blogger.com
Suddenly the screen was full of all my innermost thoughts! I gasped. He's a big strong man of six foot three. And I'm a whole foot shorter and a lady. Not that that made the remotest difference. When he realised he'd hit lucky he pinned me behind the chair and I watched him scanning his eyes over the screen like the Terminator. I kept trying to put my hands over his eyes but he grabbed them too. Luckily my physical side hadn't totally escaped me and I was deft enough to reach over and hit the ON/OFF switch.
He came away with the word "Dashboard" imprinted on his mind, which I found fairly hysterical. That's the name blogger.com gives to my home page - rather like "admin centre" or something. But now the Prince thinks my blog is called Dashboard.
Later he gave me a lift to the post office and waited outside. When I came out I saw him deeply engrossed in something and crept up to the car to peer over his shoulder. He was online on his mobile phone searching Google for the word "dashboard". I giggled so much he said I sounded nervous. I wasn't. I really did think it was funny.
So a near miss. Got home. Cleared all histories and changed password on computer. He can read this when I've got things clear in my head but until then, this is my sanctuary from him.
Anyway, he's still reading Stalingrad and is onto the bit where they are so starving in the minus 20 Russian winter that they start eating their dead colleagues. Nat said "that should make you appreciate your life as it is now".
He's right about that but how can I keep hold of that thought and stop images of Rosie's lonely life? When he's finished the book he too will forget how lucky he is - especially when he gets his next sniffly nose and thinks he's dying.
Wednesday, 6 June 2007
Expectant ex (Diary of a Prince series)
No she’s not pregnant. But she does expect a lot.... Still.
Her name is Bunny. Miss Boiler to you. She's an ex. Thing is, it seems my years in the wilderness of south east London have done nothing to dampen her ardour.
She knows I’m with Indigo. She knows we have Rosie. I broke up with Bunny years ago but she became easy prey for lonely nights thereafter. She always opened her door at 4am when I was high and I abused that. And still she came back for more.
We met at boarding school aged 17 and she thought we were meant for each other.
I strung her along for rainy days. Said “I love you” at the end of emails, things like that. I don’t do that anymore but she continues to hover.
It was about two years ago when she popped back onto the scene. She sent me a text.
“Hey stranger, how are you? I am filming in London next week and wondered if you’d like to meet?”
Of course I was curious but ran the thing straight by Indigo. She too was nosy and told me to meet her for lunch to find out what she’s doing. So I did. Before I left Indigo said “by the way, if she asks my age, don’t tell her I’m 37”. We met at Belgo’s in Covent Garden and after five minutes she said, "how old is Indigo again?”
“33,” I said, not realising women remember these details.
"She was that age when you met her," Bunny said. "She's older than that - how old is she really and why are you lying about it?"
I blustered and blundered and brought the conversation to an awkward end. Later, when I told Indigo she said Bunny was manipulative. “Why couldn’t you have said 35 or 36. Now it looks like you're embarrassed about our age gap.”
She didn’t like it when I told her Bunny was now a hotshot TV producer. I think she’s a bit insecure since becoming a mum. And she disliked it further when Bunny sent a text the following day saying, “Thank you for my lovely dairy free lunch. We must do it again soon.”
“Why did you buy her lunch – you could have made her go halves like we do,” Indigo said querulously.
When I told her Bunny wanted to meet Rosie she became unhinged.
“Tell her she is not welcome anywhere near my daughter and if she persists in contacting you, I will take my dusty flirt bag out of the attic and look up some old numbers. We can both play that game Mr Prince.”
Anyway, since the lunch when Bunny caught me out she has thought there’s something wrong in my relationship with Indigo (quite apart from the baby issue which is relatively recent). So every couple of months reminds me of her existence in a text or email.
She usually begins, “hi you... being useless as usual.” or “Hi stranger... so rude not replying” Indigo says she’s a bitch, honing in on another woman’s man with no sense of decency and that I should tell her to leave me/us alone.
But if I sneak a thought about it, I realise it’s a security blanket I've had since entering the cut throat world of adult relationships and I actually kinda like it hanging at the window of my past.
Tuesday, 5 June 2007
Thinkers and doers (Diary of a Prince series)
I’m an intelligent man. I don’t need to brag about it.
However, this is my diary and a place I can outpour my innermost thoughts. So... if I’m honest with myself, then yes, I am a fair old brainbox. A rich aunt paid for me to be educated at the most revered institutions and I left my schooling with a notable cache of Grade One qualifications.
By contrast, Indigo attended that venerable establishment, Whitton Comprehensive, in Twickenham. She spent five years gazing out of her classroom window at the A316 – the road to freedom.
Mine truly were salad days set amid the rolling hills of Hampshire and surrounded by creative thinkers. We were the offspring of famous artists, musicians, writers and actors. Indigo says my schooling saved me and she is quite right. It rescued me from a troubled home life and instilled in me a thirst for knowledge I rarely quench. It also etched a firm mark on my consciousness, in that I am forever aware of my superior mind.
I am the thinker. She is the doer. On bank holidays Indigo will strip and paint a window frame and tell me she has kept £250 in the coffers.
I, on the other hand, loll on my Homebase sunlounger and savour words as if sampling a heavily oaked wine from an ancient cellar. Frequently, my sedentary lifestyle does not compliment hers.
Take a recent day off as an example:
“Are you not embarrassed?” she asked, after I’d spent an hour trying to locate the stopcock with the new Polish plumber.
She complained when I involved her because she was "working" at the computer and wanted me to deal with it. But these things are for domestically-minded creatures like women, not intellectuals. I therefore do not fret over such piffling matters (although I am self-taught in all things drill-related).
“Not at all,” I replied. “I am actually rather proud I know nothing about DIY.”
Great umbrance took I.
“HIS was not the kind of private school I went to!” I barked, to which she said, “oh my god, there’s a hierarchy?”
She says I’m a snob, but I’m not. I just know I’m way more intelligent than most other people. Am I to labour in self-delusion and act like an average Joe?
Monday, 4 June 2007
A place for everything (Diary of a Prince series)
A place for everything, and everything in its place.
That’s my motto. Car stereo goes in post tidy; wheel lock key stays in car door; remote controls go in round wooden box; mini pot of sudocream stays in bathroom tray.
With recycling though I’m not fussed where things go. Indigo spends ages sorting it all out and bagging up the plastics, papers and cans. She doesn’t know I dump the lot in the green bin.
It’s all pointless. Everyone knows the entire recycling industry is one big con and that global warming is a myth too. More people should read Michael Crichton’s “State of Fear” – then everyone can cool down a little.
To the doomsayers I say this:
There’s nothing we can do to change it so we might as well use as much electricity/petrol/gas as we possibly can and send as much plastic crap to landfill as we want.
“Indigo,” I say, “it’s pathetic switching off the plugs of the kettle and microwave at night. It makes no difference.” She doesn’t dare turn off the Sky box at the plug or I get really pissed off and have to re-set it.
Talking of heated atmospheres, whenever I voice my environmental opinions Indigo mounts her high horse (the only thing she gets to mount).
She says “you’re simply too lazy to bother and that’s the truth of it.” She says that about my unwillingness to father a second child and on this, she is right.
Sunday, 3 June 2007
Diary of a Prince – Part 2
0545 – opened eyes when car outside beeped its daily horn, got cross
0550 – back to sleep
0800 – woke up properly, rolled over, clicked spine, read more of Stalingrad
0830 – Indigo wakes up and says her neck hurts. She’s not so cross with me anymore. Had a deep thought about politics and how much I loathe Tony Blair. Wondered what is going on in the world. Scanned internet on phone to read the latest. Gordon Brown plans tough new terror laws. Police hunt man over New York airport bomb plot.
0900 – went downstairs. Got excited about Chelsea. No reason, just felt like it. Saw Rosie and gave her a hug. She’s been away for two days. Said “welcome home to where you belong” Then tickled her. Ate soggy cereal with chocolate Nesquik. Drank blueberry juice. Left for work.
0930 – Got to work. Sat at desk. Rang to hassle Indigo about getting a new phone upgrade. I want her phone so I can play the golf game all the time, not just in eves.
Wanted to buy Nintendo Wi for Indigos’ birthday but she wanted clothes and a trip to the theatre. (I'll never get round to buying the theatre tickets. I still owe her for two years ago when I said I’d take her to The Producers for Christmas).
She says I always break promises and reminds me I twice asked her to marry me but never bought a ring. She said she’d be happy with an Elizabeth Duke from Argos so long as she had something to show her family, who she’d told. Quickly sweep bad thought about self out of mind before I might choose to do something about it.
1415 – rang Indigo to tell her story behind Soren Lorenson, a character from Rosie’s favourite book. It’s based on Soren Monk’s little sister’s imaginary friend. Soren is a buddy from work.
2000 – leave work, bus to London Bridge, catch train
2045 – smoke one cigarette on walk home from station
2100 – get home, go for poo
2115 – join Indigo in kitchen. She is making baked potatoes and salad. Now the moon’s moved she’s making more effort at dinner time.
2120 – she drops it into conversation that she’s going to get her eggs frozen. Waits for me to respond. I don’t. Sadly she continues: “Of course, it will be completely defeating the purpose of not having a kid because we can’t afford it" (my excuse).
"We’ll end up paying much more to get them frozen.”
Wait for verbal essay to finish. Don’t say anything. This is the quickest method for getting the issue to disappear. She mutters something under breath. Ignore it.
2200 – Indigo goes to bed without saying goodnight. Hurrah, yoyo's back.
2220 – Stay up for as long as possible to be sure she’s asleep by time I get up there
2300 – salt bath, wank
Thursday, 31 May 2007
Lake Me (Diary of a Prince series)
All she wants to do at the moment is talk, talk, talk. The talk ends up as a fight. And I’m a lover not a fighter. So I don’t want to talk. I want to read and watch TV. I want to listen to the football or watch a three-and-a-half-hour Romanian movie set in one room about a man who doesn’t die. I do not wish to converse. I particularly do not wish conversing about her longing for another baby.
I do not want another baby. Maybe in about 20 years time, with a younger model. That's the great bit about being a man. I mean, look at my father, he's almost 60 and has just become a dad again for the fifth time by a woman Indigo's age. It didn't go down too well with Rosie when we pointed out the bouncing baby with the blonde hair was her aunty.
To keep Indigo quiet (and this has generally worked for two years, although is now becoming a little trickier as she reaches the end of her fertile years) I tell her “not just yet”.
She accused me of “stringing her along” the other day, which is simply not true. I tell her I barely scrape through each month in the black and that sometimes keeps her quiet. But now though, she’s remembered my Granny gave me a lump sum, a few thousand quid that I’m keeping for a rainy day. Now she tells me if I cared for her happiness I wouldn’t mind delving into that to help fund another child.
So now I've got a new one. I tell her I’m insecure about my fathering skills, that I shouted at Rosie once or twice when she was younger and wouldn’t stop crying. Indigo says “that’s perfectly normal and I will make sure I have a childminder on hand so you never have to be left holding the baby by yourself.” She has said the following:
* She will do all the extra housework as she will be at home with the baby.
* She will do all the night time shift work (she always did anyway).
* She will ensure more help and support from childcare providers (says she didn’t know people when Rosie was a baby)
* She will not expect a penny more than what I give her now.
* She has enough money saved to take a few months off work.
Not convinced. I know only too well I’ll end up having my TV viewing interrupted. One tries not to think about it as it is so terribly dreary. However, if I do chance to put my mind to it I realise:
* I love diving into Lake Nat all day
* I love reading my books
* I love reading my newspapers
* I love thinking about my career and how to progress it
* I love to be by myself
* I do not want screaming kids around me disturbing me while I read my hefty tome on ancient Greece
* I particularly do not wish to become involved in dirty nappy changes
* I love picking my nose
* I love farting
* Rosie is fine going through life without a sibling
If Indigo leaves me I’ll get my old school buddy’s mum who owns Mischon de Reya to fight my case in the courts so I get to keep Rosie. And then of course I’ll hire a nanny so I don’t have to do any childcare.
Most of the time I adeptly manage to keep this boring matter firmly under the rug. However, once a month – it’s all tied in with the moon – the issue comes out and spreads its negative dust all around the house. But I must stand firm and remember how babies have a habit of draining Lake Me. Its reserves are currently high but it’s taken four long years to get them back and I have no plans to change this now.
Wednesday, 30 May 2007
Diary of a Prince
0800 - Woke up. Stretched. Farted. Rolled over on side to click spine into place. Picked nose and flicked onto floor. Indigo asleep still. Got up. Went downstairs to kitchen. Got bowl out of cupboard. Poured in shreddies and skimmed milk. Sprinkled chocolate Nesquik over top. Went back upstairs and turned on the Today programme. Shaved. Put on suit. Gobbed in sink. Didn’t wash it down. Only do token tap turn when Indigo is in the bathroom or she will NAG. After dressing and ablutions go back to kitchen. Eat soggy cereal, just the way I like it.
Get jacket, wallet, ipod, my two mobiles and cigarettes for my new fag-a-day habit.
Give Rosie an enormous hug and masses of kisses and tell her I’ll miss her. Give Indigo a peck – she’s been a right pain since I said I wouldn’t have a vasectomy.
Yesterday I said to her “you’re just angry with me all the time and all because I won’t get my balls cut open.” She says “you really haven’t a clue have you?” I fail to understand the woman and what’s got into her. I live with a yoyo. She wants me to go to relationship counselling. Thank God I haven’t got a day off for weeks.
0830 - Leave for work. Continue listening to Today on phone radio on way to the station. Get on train. Stand to Cannon Street. Don’t mind. Read all the newspapers on my internet phone.
0930 - Arrive at work. Work all day for peanuts.
2000 - Leave to come home. Phone Indigo to see what’s for dinner. She says she’s out of ideas. She “works” at home, or so she says, but I still do the dinner on my days off AND tidy up after it. Indigo never does ironing, puts clothes away, hoovers or tidies up (unless we have guests over). We pay a cleaner to do it but she only comes once a week and doesn’t do the ironing. My ten-year-old niece from Spain saw me ironing my shirts on her last visit and gasped. She’d never seen a man ironing before. Tried to press point to Indigo but she bangs on about equality. How tedious. If only we lived in Spain where us men get treated with the reverence we deserve.
2100 – get home. Say hello to Indigo. She says, “how was your day?” and goes downstairs to prepare my dinner. I reply, “really boring”, fart, then go for a poo.
2120 – Indigo hands me a tray with my dinner on it. I do not like quite a few of her “dishes” including her mushroom risotto and carrot & tomato soup. She’s into ready meals at the moment. Says she’s too busy. Tonight it’s left over stir fry I made yesterday.
2130 – fart and watch the top of the recorded news - BBC, ITV, Channel 4 - Then watch the Daily Show and maybe will watch an episode of either West Wing, Peep Show, Spaced, Entourage, Derren Brown, Curb Your Enthusiasm or a documentary.
2200 – Indigo tells me her boring stories from the day. I nod and pretend to listen. Sometimes I say, “Just give me the headlines” and she gets pissed off
2200 – fart and eat chocolate spread on ryvita and an orange
2230 – pick nose and watch TV while Indigo gets ready for bed
2300 – run a salt bath (I have chafing between my thighs)
2315 – get suit ready for the next day, fart
2330 – lock door to bathroom
2340 – have a wank
0000 – go upstairs to bed - thank god Indigo has fallen asleep again under her book and won't be wanting any sex. Remove book and turn off her light. Read some of Stalingrad. Fall asleep.
Tuesday, 29 May 2007
Fed up in London
Saturday night was nuts. It couldn’t have been worse weather to have an all night party in the garden complete with loud speakers. The sky was elephant grey and threw down hard, cold rain in unrelenting sheets. The music started at seven.
The Prince noticed it first while we were watching TV. It wasn't too bad then. By 8.30 his eyelids were drooping and I was asleep on the sofa. Because of this, we both decided to go to bed – to sleep. I was in bed by 9.30pm - something I'd been meaning to do for a long time.
“I’m sure that noise will stop in an hour or so,” I said.
An hour or so later and more cars just kept on arriving. People from all over south London were just flocking to our neighbourhood.
“Ok, I’m going to sleep in Rosie’s room,” I said. It was by now around 10.30.
I packed my sleep gubbins – eyemask, earplugs, mobile phone, book, duvet for floor, duvet for cover, soft feather pillow. I set up camp right next to Rosie’s potty full of wee. After reading for a bit, I fell asleep. But almost immediately Nat came in. I thought he’d had enough and was coming to join me.
He told me there was a fire and so there was. Orange flames lashed out of the upstairs window of a house about four doors away from the party. Some Korean students live there. One of them came running out with an orange towel wrapped round her. Scores of men scarpered out of the party house, jumped into cars and sped off really fast. I took their number plates from behind my twitchy curtain.
By now the fire appeared to have engulfed the roof. Black smoke bellowed out and then the windows exploded. The music stopped. The fire brigade arrived.
As soon as it was clear no one was hurt, the bastards turned their loud speakers back on. I haven't a clue what happened to the poor Korean student in the towel.
Went back to Rosie’s room. At 2am the floor was literally vibrating... and not in a good way. This time I went outside and marched up to the lone police van still waiting outside the fire house. He was very handsome in his uniform. Begged him to do something but he said he couldn’t - wasn't within his remit. Asked him to pretend he was the drugs squad. He apologised and said he couldn't.
Nat tried calling the council. They said they’d write a letter as their team had all gone home. Back to Rosie’s room. She slept through the whole thing (she has to save her energy for her 5.30am wake up). Spent Sunday feeling like I'd been walloped by an iron pole.
The vasectomy suggestion did not go down well. He has said "No" loud and clear.
"There's no way I'm ever getting my balls sliced open. Imagine if I asked you to get your tits cut off."
So he feels emasculated. Ah, diddums.
I have reached the point where I'm truly stuck as to what to do next. How to change his mind. It ain't gonna happen. I think I'll just have to accept this but it still hits me once a month and makes me so sad. My love for Rosie is just too intense. I feel I need to spread it out a bit or she'll get smothered.
Am totally and utterly sick of thinking about it though. Sick of talking about this. Sick of trying new strategies which never work. Sick of it all. Mulling over lots in head. Don't want to break up but DO want to do something really drastic so he starts appreciating me.
Am also sick of the "I" word. Feel this blog needs a new steer. Am thinking of trying to see life from his point of view - if I manage to get inside his head, maybe it'll help in accepting my lot.
This is about to become his diary for a bit. Let's see how it goes.
Thursday, 17 May 2007
Bach or Beethoven?
Read quite a good article about women and age and how we're all obsessed by it. Only problem was the writer kept telling us what weird beauty treatments she has to stay looking young and even had a "derm". She was 46 so I've got a bit to go before that.
I'm still determined not to buy in to all the plastic crap though. I've always been a bit obsessed by age from the moment my 38-year-old mother started going out with a man of 32. That was years ago and he's now my stepfather of 54.
When I was 20 I went out with a heroin addict who was much older. I was so besotted with him I actually wanted to look as wrecked as he did. I was annoyed then that I wasn't older. Then at 25 I went to university as a mature student, everyone there constantly gasped in shock.
"Oh my god you are so old"
And that's been the catchphrase ever since, as most of my friends happen to be younger.
I know what triggered the age thought process. It was a realisation that I only ever listen to Radio 4 these days and am sitting here with Bach in the background as I work, having decided I don't like Beethoven.
If that's not a woman mentally attuning herself to turn FOUR-O in a year I don't know what is.
I'm still determined not to buy in to all the plastic crap though. I've always been a bit obsessed by age from the moment my 38-year-old mother started going out with a man of 32. That was years ago and he's now my stepfather of 54.
When I was 20 I went out with a heroin addict who was much older. I was so besotted with him I actually wanted to look as wrecked as he did. I was annoyed then that I wasn't older. Then at 25 I went to university as a mature student, everyone there constantly gasped in shock.
"Oh my god you are so old"
And that's been the catchphrase ever since, as most of my friends happen to be younger.
I know what triggered the age thought process. It was a realisation that I only ever listen to Radio 4 these days and am sitting here with Bach in the background as I work, having decided I don't like Beethoven.
If that's not a woman mentally attuning herself to turn FOUR-O in a year I don't know what is.
Thursday, 10 May 2007
Pain in the neck
It's my birthday today. Hurrah. Except no one's celebrating because things are just too damn busy. Rosie likes it though. She opened my presents and told all her teachers and friends. So now everyone knows how old I am. Great.
I am experimenting with a new tactic re. the baby thing. I have suggested to the Prince that he has a vasectomy.
"I'm resigned to the fact you do not want more kids," I said. "So let's get our sex life back properly. It's the only option don't you agree?"
It's absolutely genius. He's starting to realise what it's like, this feeling of facing a future with no more chances of kids.
His reaction was "no way, what if we want to have another bubba in six months or something?" to which I replied if we are ever going to do it, it has to be now.
I do not want to turn 40 with a sticky out tummy and a ban on alcohol. I want that one to be a celebration - a coming out if you will - not a shrinking away from the world type scenario.
Of course, I'm not pushing it. Slowly, slowly, catchy baby.
News from last few weeks: (warning - very boring indeed)
- Got loads of work in
- Have been banned from the laptop by Europe's top osteopath. He says my upper spine needs the curve put back in it. It's causing a right pain in the neck literally and metaphorically at £50 a shot.
- Have got a lovely actress and teacher renting the flat
- Have been checking out Ramsgate's amazingly massive period properties for sale at a snip
- Have got Rosie into a lovely school by the Millennium Dome (she came with me on the parents' tour and kept kissing my hand she loved it so much)
That's it.
I am experimenting with a new tactic re. the baby thing. I have suggested to the Prince that he has a vasectomy.
"I'm resigned to the fact you do not want more kids," I said. "So let's get our sex life back properly. It's the only option don't you agree?"
It's absolutely genius. He's starting to realise what it's like, this feeling of facing a future with no more chances of kids.
His reaction was "no way, what if we want to have another bubba in six months or something?" to which I replied if we are ever going to do it, it has to be now.
I do not want to turn 40 with a sticky out tummy and a ban on alcohol. I want that one to be a celebration - a coming out if you will - not a shrinking away from the world type scenario.
Of course, I'm not pushing it. Slowly, slowly, catchy baby.
News from last few weeks: (warning - very boring indeed)
- Got loads of work in
- Have been banned from the laptop by Europe's top osteopath. He says my upper spine needs the curve put back in it. It's causing a right pain in the neck literally and metaphorically at £50 a shot.
- Have got a lovely actress and teacher renting the flat
- Have been checking out Ramsgate's amazingly massive period properties for sale at a snip
- Have got Rosie into a lovely school by the Millennium Dome (she came with me on the parents' tour and kept kissing my hand she loved it so much)
That's it.
Sunday, 22 April 2007
Stuff
I know a woman who has a website to try and get her son to eat vegetables. She's going through the A to Z of vegetables and has generated interest from all over the world. People send her recipes, she posts them onto her site and Freddie, her veggie-phobic son, has a go at eating them.
It's a great idea for a website reaching out its global arms. She'll probably land a book deal through it, like wife in the north did.
I don't mind that no one reads my blog. When I started it, I was eager for advice maybe from people who'd been through the same.
But now it's taken on new meaning. The only person I've told is my sister who spends her life climbing cliff faces where computers don't come easily. She read it once and I think has forgotten about it now.
It's a great idea for a website reaching out its global arms. She'll probably land a book deal through it, like wife in the north did.
I don't mind that no one reads my blog. When I started it, I was eager for advice maybe from people who'd been through the same.
But now it's taken on new meaning. The only person I've told is my sister who spends her life climbing cliff faces where computers don't come easily. She read it once and I think has forgotten about it now.
Thursday, 19 April 2007
Country jaunt
Life rolls on and I'm a month and a half closer to the end of my fertility since I started the stopwatch.
I think I'm starting to lose the panic and accept the inevitable. It's either that or I get eaten up with anger and fury and want to leave the Prince. I have to rejig my priorities.
Also, everyone I know with two kids is exhausted all the time. My friend Fleur, the one who tricked her bloke into having another baby, says she's always spotting people with one kid and envying them. She gets up at 5am every single day and says by 10am she's a wreck.
And last Sunday was spent in the country where Lucrezia has just moved to from Stoke Newington. She held a 4th birthday party for her little boy Louis, who is Rosie's best friend, and a barbeque for everyone else. The Prince chose not to join us because Lucrezia doesn't have Sky and he would have missed the Chelsea match. What a bore.
The location could not have been more idyllic, set in the back garden of a quaint little cottage surrounded by green fields where pigs roamed gaily. Bluebells swayed in a gentle breeze in the woods opposite and bees buzzed. The townies drank beer and talked about property prices while the locals discussed how wonderful Lucrezia was.
"Oh she's simply a marvel," one woman with bouffant blonde hair and glasses said. She was about 55 and lived next door but one. "When she found out my back was bad she brought round a beef bourguignon in a casserole dish that she'd cooked - isn't that just so sweet?"
I nodded. That was sweet. But then I thought "I bet they've never seen her lying drunk on a pavement puking in the kerb."
Loads of the Stokey mums went and all of us who had just one kid lounged in the sun while our children played beautifully. Those with toddlers glued to their hips were on their feet all day rocking, soothing, chasing, mopping up, changing nappies and preparing baby food.
So I question can I REALLY be bothered to go through that again? The answer is of course Yes, if Rosie will then have a sibling to grow old with. But I'm not sure I want to wreck my relationship over this, which is what could so easily happen. The most important thing for Rosie is to have happy parents. What's the point of having a little sister but parents who hate eachother?
If I can't beat the Prince, I'll just have to join him and become a Princess. I'm still pondering it.
I think I'm starting to lose the panic and accept the inevitable. It's either that or I get eaten up with anger and fury and want to leave the Prince. I have to rejig my priorities.
Also, everyone I know with two kids is exhausted all the time. My friend Fleur, the one who tricked her bloke into having another baby, says she's always spotting people with one kid and envying them. She gets up at 5am every single day and says by 10am she's a wreck.
And last Sunday was spent in the country where Lucrezia has just moved to from Stoke Newington. She held a 4th birthday party for her little boy Louis, who is Rosie's best friend, and a barbeque for everyone else. The Prince chose not to join us because Lucrezia doesn't have Sky and he would have missed the Chelsea match. What a bore.
The location could not have been more idyllic, set in the back garden of a quaint little cottage surrounded by green fields where pigs roamed gaily. Bluebells swayed in a gentle breeze in the woods opposite and bees buzzed. The townies drank beer and talked about property prices while the locals discussed how wonderful Lucrezia was.
"Oh she's simply a marvel," one woman with bouffant blonde hair and glasses said. She was about 55 and lived next door but one. "When she found out my back was bad she brought round a beef bourguignon in a casserole dish that she'd cooked - isn't that just so sweet?"
I nodded. That was sweet. But then I thought "I bet they've never seen her lying drunk on a pavement puking in the kerb."
Loads of the Stokey mums went and all of us who had just one kid lounged in the sun while our children played beautifully. Those with toddlers glued to their hips were on their feet all day rocking, soothing, chasing, mopping up, changing nappies and preparing baby food.
So I question can I REALLY be bothered to go through that again? The answer is of course Yes, if Rosie will then have a sibling to grow old with. But I'm not sure I want to wreck my relationship over this, which is what could so easily happen. The most important thing for Rosie is to have happy parents. What's the point of having a little sister but parents who hate eachother?
If I can't beat the Prince, I'll just have to join him and become a Princess. I'm still pondering it.
Thursday, 12 April 2007
Sexy, Not
Have to write this quick as the Prince is on his way home from work. It's all freezer stuff tonight - sausages, peas and brocolli.
My sister says I have to stop mentioning the "B" Word. She says this is tarnishing our relationship. She has also said I must go to Agent Provocateur and try to seduce him. It's true. Our relationship/sex life has been dominated by this baby thing. And of course the more I mention it, the further away he moves. I need to try and get back something of what we had at the beginning when, caught up in the excitement, we threw all caution to the wind.
Obviously, I must still exercise caution to his wind, which is worse than ever. And the snoring. But that's another story.
My sister says I have to stop mentioning the "B" Word. She says this is tarnishing our relationship. She has also said I must go to Agent Provocateur and try to seduce him. It's true. Our relationship/sex life has been dominated by this baby thing. And of course the more I mention it, the further away he moves. I need to try and get back something of what we had at the beginning when, caught up in the excitement, we threw all caution to the wind.
Obviously, I must still exercise caution to his wind, which is worse than ever. And the snoring. But that's another story.
Thursday, 5 April 2007
The botox paradox
“You’ve got to love the lines,” I said to these women.
“Oh we do, we do,” they replied.
I was talking wrinkles, they meant cocaine. Which baffles me because these are people who belong to the Stoke Newington organic clique. They are lawyers, media people and music bosses who go to the gym, eat five portions of fruit and veg a day, drink green tea and buy magazines called “Men’s Health” or “Healthy Living”. They scrutinise food labelling in shops and throw down in shock any product that contains an E number or aspartame.
Yet all these grand efforts to be fit and healthy get forgotton in a dash if someone produces a tiny packet of the white stuff.
So the other night there I was at a posh gallery opening surrounded by Stokey mummies. To those who don’t know what Stokey is, it’s slang for Stoke Newington, an area of London said to be the baby capital of Europe. If you don’t own a baby in N16 then buy one quick because quite frankly you are totally out of place. The Prince and I lived there until Rosie was a year old.
Every Saturday they meet at the farmers’ market where they spend £5.00 on a bunch of stinging nettles, drink soya milk lattes and discuss Steiner schooling. And you can literally hear the gasps if a neglectful mother takes out a bottle instead of her breast to feed her baby. It’s a crowd I have little to do with now except for the odd occasion, like the gallery opening. The invite came from Lucrezia, a member of the yoga ante-natal class who’s now my best friend. It was Lucrezia who invited the Stokey mummies.
There we stood holding our glasses of wine with nothing to say. To discuss children at such an event seemed wrong. But we had nothing else in common. So after an awkward silence someone said, “Oh man I was out of my head in Barcelona. Brendan and I took two days to recover. It was wicked.” She was talking about her recent wild weekend when she and her husband “lashed it” with cocaine. That inspired someone else to share their latest drugs escapade and before I knew it they were on to botox.
What disturbed me was the way talked about it as though it was as familiar to them as making a cup of dandelion tea. These women – who think nothing of spending £25 on a bottle of organic olive oil – are content to have poisons injected into their face because they can’t face up to life. That’s how I see it and it annoys me.
“I have botox all the time, especially on my frown line,” said Sam, pointing at the area between her eyebrows.
“But you have to know HOW to botox,” she continued. “For instance, I don’t have all my crow’s feet done because otherwise my whole face would look unnatural.”
Sam loves it so much she’s just invested in a beauty franchise offering plastic surgery and botox treatments. The other girls then piped up that they too would use botox when the time comes, including real die-hard organicites – bunch of fakes. They asked Sam if they could get a discount at one of her beauty centres.
So am I the only person in the world who hates the idea of botox and plastic surgery? Virtually everyone I know thinks it’s totally normal and fine to be injecting poisons into their skin every six months. Yet by doing this they are shoring up the attitude that women must forever look young, while men with wrinkles can continue to enjoy the advantages of looking "distinguished".
One of my friends has it on her forehead, another in the lines next to her nose. The Prince wants botox in his armpits like Tony Blair because he has problem perspiration. But what is that doing to your armpits, clogging up the sweat glands like that?
I think in about 30 years time there’ll be one little old lady left in a world of plastic faces and that will be me.
“Oh we do, we do,” they replied.
I was talking wrinkles, they meant cocaine. Which baffles me because these are people who belong to the Stoke Newington organic clique. They are lawyers, media people and music bosses who go to the gym, eat five portions of fruit and veg a day, drink green tea and buy magazines called “Men’s Health” or “Healthy Living”. They scrutinise food labelling in shops and throw down in shock any product that contains an E number or aspartame.
Yet all these grand efforts to be fit and healthy get forgotton in a dash if someone produces a tiny packet of the white stuff.
So the other night there I was at a posh gallery opening surrounded by Stokey mummies. To those who don’t know what Stokey is, it’s slang for Stoke Newington, an area of London said to be the baby capital of Europe. If you don’t own a baby in N16 then buy one quick because quite frankly you are totally out of place. The Prince and I lived there until Rosie was a year old.
Every Saturday they meet at the farmers’ market where they spend £5.00 on a bunch of stinging nettles, drink soya milk lattes and discuss Steiner schooling. And you can literally hear the gasps if a neglectful mother takes out a bottle instead of her breast to feed her baby. It’s a crowd I have little to do with now except for the odd occasion, like the gallery opening. The invite came from Lucrezia, a member of the yoga ante-natal class who’s now my best friend. It was Lucrezia who invited the Stokey mummies.
There we stood holding our glasses of wine with nothing to say. To discuss children at such an event seemed wrong. But we had nothing else in common. So after an awkward silence someone said, “Oh man I was out of my head in Barcelona. Brendan and I took two days to recover. It was wicked.” She was talking about her recent wild weekend when she and her husband “lashed it” with cocaine. That inspired someone else to share their latest drugs escapade and before I knew it they were on to botox.
What disturbed me was the way talked about it as though it was as familiar to them as making a cup of dandelion tea. These women – who think nothing of spending £25 on a bottle of organic olive oil – are content to have poisons injected into their face because they can’t face up to life. That’s how I see it and it annoys me.
“I have botox all the time, especially on my frown line,” said Sam, pointing at the area between her eyebrows.
“But you have to know HOW to botox,” she continued. “For instance, I don’t have all my crow’s feet done because otherwise my whole face would look unnatural.”
Sam loves it so much she’s just invested in a beauty franchise offering plastic surgery and botox treatments. The other girls then piped up that they too would use botox when the time comes, including real die-hard organicites – bunch of fakes. They asked Sam if they could get a discount at one of her beauty centres.
So am I the only person in the world who hates the idea of botox and plastic surgery? Virtually everyone I know thinks it’s totally normal and fine to be injecting poisons into their skin every six months. Yet by doing this they are shoring up the attitude that women must forever look young, while men with wrinkles can continue to enjoy the advantages of looking "distinguished".
One of my friends has it on her forehead, another in the lines next to her nose. The Prince wants botox in his armpits like Tony Blair because he has problem perspiration. But what is that doing to your armpits, clogging up the sweat glands like that?
I think in about 30 years time there’ll be one little old lady left in a world of plastic faces and that will be me.
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