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.
Sunday, 8 July 2007
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.
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