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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. She told me I looked like George Clooney and I puffed out my chest. But years down the line she became a bore. Always grumpy. Always moaning. A bit like how Indigo is now. Surely that can’t be linked to MOI?

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.

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.”

She then accused me of sounding like her ex, who also boasted of his lack of practical skills and “imagined himself some hoity-toity highflier from academia – the crème de la crème of British schooling.”

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?

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. I know the earth is heating up but it’s not because of me.

To the doomsayers I say this: “wha-ever.”

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.

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

2330 - bed, Indigo asleep. Phew.