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.