New beginnings

Hi diary

Long time no see.

Been in new flat for two weeks. Life is calmer and more peaceful, if a little sad. I'm looking forward to the day when I'm over things. It's all recent and raw.

Will write soon. Adios.

Moving on

Hi diary

Quick update.

Have taken a one bed flat where Rosie and I will live from August onwards. It's opposite a good school that's why I took it. Not ideal but there you go.

The Prince has been in Germany hunting one of the last remaining Nazis for his job. What an exciting life he has. He's gone with a pretty young girl from his newsroom. "Not such good timing" I told him, but there you go.

Lots to sort out in a tumbling market. The For Sale sign went up yesterday rubberstamping all this shit. Then Hana the cleaner (or "servant" as the Prince calls her) started crying when I told her we were breaking up and then I did too and she gave me a hug. It is all such a shame but there you go.

I haven't told Rosie yet. Just don't know how to. A lady just came to view the house. She was the kind of woman I could imagine in a tiny modern Barratts type house - a mousey type. She didn't say ANYTHING while looking around, not a thing, and asked no questions. I can only assume she hated my beautiful gorgeous home.

I wanted to get a kitten as a sop for Rosie but my new landlord said No. Fucking arsehole. I'll have to make do with a goldfish - hardly the same thing. It would really have helped smooth the process knowing we could get a tiny kit. But there you go.

So this last week has been great with him away. I've been doing the whole mourning thing. Getting upset and sad and then happy again. Rosie's been happy. I've been happy. The house has been tidy and life's been peaceful - really, really peaceful.

Life's a bit scary too but that's only because of something new.

Bluebell woods

The silent break up continues.

Rosie and I bundled down to the Sussex countryside for a weekend of bluebell woods, sea and best friends.

Nat the Prince had two whole days to himself. Before we left I said: "Hope you'll do some thinking about what you want."

Got back last night and hey.... nada.

So the estate agent came and valued the house. He knows that. I guess he's waiting for the For Sale sign to appear. I haven't instructed that yet as I'm waiting and a hoping' he'll step in and save this.

Not sure why I'm still harbouring any hopes of anything - but hope is what keeps everything going and places like Dignitas out of pocket.

We're not living through a war here. We are healthy and have good jobs. What IS the thing blocking him?

Sad

Ok, it's now exactly seven days since I last spoke to my e-friend. And the update is.... he is still not speaking about it.

Last night when he went to sleep in the spare room again I followed him in and we talked for about 10 minutes until he said:

"I'm so tired, it's really not a good time to talk. Let's talk tomorrow evening - but early."

And it's tomorrow evening right now and he's just he walked in from work and said:

"My GOD. I've never been as exhausted - mentally and physically - as I am RIGHT NOW."

If that is not a way of saying:

"Fuck off Indigo, I don't want to talk to you tonight (or ever)" then i don't know what is.

How can one continue to struggle to feel right with someone who does this? It is not normal. I feel bad that he will suffer. He really will. He'll lose his daughter and won't get much fiscal reward from the house.

I calculated today that he'll certainly not have enough to buy anywhere especially if he wants to live in his precious Chelsea.

I don't have the heart to tell him this. But why the heck should I protect him when he doesn't give two shits about me. If he did, he would confront this monstrous slime that's taken a hold of us.

I just give up bloggo. It's so depressing keeping on hoping and hoping.

And I do try all the "look on bright side of life" type stuff. Sometimes you just have to go:

"you know what - i've battled to do this for such a long time and this will never change."

M25 testosterone

This has been the second week of my first taster of what's to come of Rosie at big school. As the Easter holidays end I'm left with red rimmed, flickery eyes.

The motorway has driven me quite crazy. Yesterday a nasty, mean, pokey, little man in a small white van got cross and started beeping. He hadn't been in the lane when I'd looked a moment before so I can only assume he'd been in my blind spot.

But he went mad and tried to cut me up. And I had Rosie in front with me and I just raged with fury. How dare he put my baby's life at peril because of his stupid little twat ego. So I drove alongside him and screamed out of my window at him, pointing at Rosie.

It seemed the whole M25 was full of testosterone. Fast cars and aggression everywhere. Lots of cutting me up on the inside. Just general arseholeness. And No, I wasn't pootling in the middle lane.

So yesterday the Prince woke up, put on his suit and tie, ate soggy cereal and went to work as usual. He wasn't concerned with how I was planning on doing any of my own work given there were two days left to the week and no school.

I plonked my girl back in the car and drove her back to my mum's. She's started saying she doesn't want to go there anymore - just wants to stay home with me. She kicked up a big stink last night. Hysterically screaming. So that made me cry on the pitch black M25 with its cats' eyes as the only guide.

I walked in and Nat was cooking. I went straight downstairs and said:

"Okay here's the thing," I said. "This week I have been really low. In Birmingham on Wednesday I arrived half an hour early for my meeting and went to the shops. I did some retail therapy. All evening at home I was excited about my new clothes. It made me happy. Fickle yes, shallow sure, but that is how our life together is now. But I left the bag on the Virgin train and it hasn't been handed in."

Nat said: "what a disaster"

I said: "No, Nat, what IS a disaster is that I will be 40 in a few weeks and can't shake off this longing for a baby. It's just getting stronger and stronger.

"I love you and want you," I continued. "I love this house, my life, my job, my friends, this area - everything. I don't want to lose that. But I am carrying around this deep sadness that IS NOT GOING AWAY. It is a longing, a craving and it's getting worse. If I don't take action NOW I fear I will hate you one day and look back on these wasted years with regret."

I told him there was a chance - I was holding it out for him. We could be a family. He says he wants more kids. So either we do this as a team or we up sticks and say adieu.

I think it is better for if Rosie grows up with me not being bitter and twisted old hag and I have to face reality etc etc.

I concluded: "If you really want another baby like you say it's time you put your money where your mouth is".

And guess what? He fell silent.

I went to bed and that was that. Only it's not. I have found a sweet little flat I could live in. I'm thinking maybe move in Rosie's summer holiday break. That would be an opportune time to split up and settle her elsewhere.

He said not a word about it. I don't expect he will.

This morning he did hug me and off he pootled on his scooter to work. He rang at midday and said he was going to a work dinner that he had "forgotton" to mention. I thought that was a bit off, given the contents of what burst forth last night.

After a wholly unproductive day of awful work emails and phone calls, I'm back behind the driving wheel and on the M25 again.

Collect my girl and on way home forgot to put lights on. A car overtook me on the A2, moved in front of me and put its hazards on. I thought at first "what a friendly person saying thank you for hanging back". But then the hazards went on again and I realised my lights weren't on. I turned them on and flashed a thank you. Then off the little car sped into the distance.

It was such a lovely gesture I burst out crying. I'll never know that person but whoever it was made my evening - just by being a bit human.

M25 musings

I have to go.

The M25 is useful for thinking. If he did the driving maybe this clarity wouldn't have come.

On the surface things are okay. But scratch that and we're in deep trouble. I'm 40 (soon). It sounds so old and I should be able to act like a grown up by now.

If I allow this false mentality to roll on for another six years, my chance for more babies will truly be kaput. I fear I'll be so full of resentment I'll have to leave. So why wait?

Well, there's the obvious. Rosie.

But along with the benefits of seeing her daddy every day and having a part-time mother she is also seeing parents who are never affectionate and a frequently tense mummy. I don't want her to grow up like that. But I can't be loving to him while he refuses to acknowledge this. So we live our lives like this - it's not even on a tightrope anymore, it's just on the edge of a big darkness.

It really will be the hardest thing but I can not enter old age with a man who only lives in a surface reality and can't talk about anything that makes him remotely awkward.

The time is coming. I have to do this. I will use a kitten as a sop to Rosie. Best for her that she doesn't grow up with a mother full of bitterness.

I have to remain focused, detached and not cry.

Working mum

The problem with having a kid at "big school" is they're hardly ever there! She only started in January and it seems I contend with a week off every other week.

Last week I welcomed a new job into the comfortable fold of my "home office" only to be reminded later that evening of the two week Easter break teetering round the corner.

This week has been the most stressful week I've encountered since becoming a working mum. (Apart from feeding her breakfast on the 7:23 to Waterloo every day when she was a baby).

This week there's been a lot of carting between SE London and SW London to my mum's (best woman in the world btw). The two milimetre gap between the two places on a map is deceptive - it takes FOREVER.

But on Tuesday it was my turn. I looked after Rosie and her friend.

"Okay, now we'll go to the park to collect sticks in about ten minutes," I said. "But first I just have to go upstairs to make this work call ok. Can you be quiet for ten minutes?" (Little head nods.)

Upstairs in bedroom - Dora to the left, Barbie to the right and Scooby sitting on my bedside table. I make a series of "serious" phone calls in my "serious" voice.

Then footsteps and in comes my baby talking in her little high pitched voice. I leap over her pink plastic castle and rush out of the room talking loudly into my handset to drown out her lovely little voice. I cough a lot and clear my throat, tell my boss "excuse me a minute" while pressing the phone hard into my leg to block the sound and saying "go downstairs" in a whisper shout.

Time's been the enemy. But then that's what this diary's all about. Time, and the lack of it.

Child soldiers and botox

Kids' party a success. Baby dodgems, merry-go-round and massive soft play area with gigantic slide meant all the little cherubs were bright pink and sweaty for three solid hours.

At first Nat sulked.

"It's a bit dirty," he said, pointing his nose in the air and eyeing an uncleared table of food. Ignored him and played host.

When Dougal appeared he perked up. Dougal took his baby son into the baby area where the coloured balls fill the floor space. I heard Nat saying, "Dougal, come on the big slide with me" and realised he has the mental age of five. No wonder he can't discuss serious issues like a woman's spiralling fertility.

Later I saw Dougal and Nat running round to the bottom of the ladder thing which would take them back up again. Their faces were pouring with sweat and their beady eyes darted this way and that to make sure they'd be first in line.

Rosie enjoyed it hugely. But the most bizarre thing happened. On the table to my left I saw my old boss - Ms Scary Botox herself - who was there with her three year old son and a sticky out tummy.

Of course she's not Scary Botox anymore - she's now part-time earth mother extraordinaire.
When she saw me she smiled and her face looked warm and human. I remembered the days when she gave me my career break and how when she laughed (which wasn't often) her skin didn't move.

She'd been a dark, dominating force, a woman who could make or break careers who terrified everyone. And there she was, in full pregnancy splendour - fat bum, baggy eyes, yogurt smeared clothes and a visibly happy face.

Anyway, got jealous of her bump but was too busy to get sad.

Also, am reading the most harrowing book called A Long Way Gone for book club and say to myself how lucky and privileged I am to have the life I have. Keep almost bursting into tears on the tube. It's a true story about a child soldier in Sierra Leone.

Am thinking of referring Rosie to it every time she groans about petty stuff like having her hair washed or not watching TV.

Tonight she told me that when she'd lit a candle at Canterbury Cathedral (the January jaunt the day after I told Nat I wanted to split up) - that she'd wished she wouldn't die. She asked if it would come true. I replied,

"You won't die for a very, very long time."
Rosie: "Never?"
Me: "Well, not for a long, long time."
Rosie: "Will you die?"
Me: "Yes, one day."
Rosie: "What did you wish?"
Me: "I wished for another baby so you can have a brother or sister."
Rosie: "Well I don't want you to wish for that - i want you to wish not to die."
Me: "Okay."
Rosie: "And then you won't die?"
Me: "Well, maybe - when I'm very old."
Rosie: "No, I don't want you to die even then okay?"
Me: "Okay."

Papou's spirit

Rosie's five today. Baked a cake in between reading about social housing in Russia. Nat came home and said:

"That will never go around 30 kids."

Got in a bad mood at his negative comment. Later he played his recorded report on Sarkozy and the beautiful bimbo and then asked my opinion. Grunted I'd let him know another day. Have started an ego watching campaign, as his career takes off.

This morning I cut the cake into 30 pieces for her class and quipped: "Now eat your words cos' you ain't getting no cake."

It's the birthday season and the usual party politics stuff is going on. Numbers for Saturday's event stand at 17. Big dent in bank account = clean tidy house.

Stood in the middle of the classroom handing out invites as if doing a drugs deal. Surrepticiously, sneaking into pockets, whispering in ears type thing. Pathetic yes but if I'd invited all the class, my bank would be the next to fall.

Enjoying the mum thing immensely. Trips to museums, cinemas and the "ecology park" (bit of a joke that - it's a patch of scrub salvaged from an industrial wasteland where a few reeds grow).

The idea is admirable but "the signs of spring" were a bit thin. A squirrel's nest (like a bird's nest in a tree!), a velvety bud on a branch and about two daffodils.

Then Lila yells:

"Jude, Rosie - look over there (pointing at big factory chimney) - POLLUTION!" And all the kids stare in awe at the billowing black smoke and answer in a dreamy "Oh yeeeessss...."

Why are they so fascinated by dirty factories and death?

Rosie keeps on asking me about death and do I believe in heaven. It's too upsetting for her to accept that once you're dead that's it. She's almost begged me to tell her we all come back to life and live happily ever after in our house.

I've gone along with it as much as possible. Now I say:

"I believe there are spirits. So once your body is dead, your spirit floats around in the sky and sometimes watches down on loved ones who are still alive."

We were on the A2 in a traffic jam in grey cold rain. Rosie was staring at the dark clouds and she piped up:

"Mummy, I just saw Papou's spirit."

That was Nat's French grandfather who died last year. Even though I never met him, it's quite nice to think he's hovering in the sky over Bluewater keeping check on what we do.

Shame he can't spirit away his grandson's fear of extending his family. In the next gridlock I'll remind him it's his name that won't get carried on - maybe that'll do it.

Change

As the big 4-0 draws ever closer I'm getting more pensive by the minute. It sounds naff but it's true.

What's struck me most of late is how all of life is about change. How nothing stays the same. We're always so busy rushing about we forget to realise "this too will pass".

I'm trying to embrace it. We're rolling on, living it, sort of enjoying it and not arguing much anymore. But we still don't talk about it.

"There's nothing to say," he says. It fires me up, but what's the use?

So things are calm. We work well as flatmates. He is a good dad to Rosie and I'm so afraid of breaking that up. The only area I feel I am lacking is in his continued silence over the 2nd baby.

Three years it's been going on. Maybe one day I'll hit 46 and WAKE UP to the fact nothing has changed in our world, yet all around me it has. It'll be too late by then.

What to do, what to do?

Thanks for the memories

Forgot to mention that Nat's grandfather in London (who has Alzheimers) constantly repeats the following story:

"I know a man who started the group CRAFT of which I am a member. Do you know what it stands for?"
"No."
"Can't Remember A Fucking Thing."

It's such a shame when life is all about memories and you start either forgetting them or remembering things incorrectly.

When Rosie and I arrived at his doorstep last Friday in the cold rain he said:

"But Katie's not back from work yet." (That's his wife).
"We're here to see you, please can we come in." I had to be a little forceful as he wasn't budging so I said:

"Please can we come in. Look I've made this chocolate cake for you so we can have tea. It's me Indigo, Nat's wife, remember?"

Then Rosie yelled, "You're not his wife! daddy didn't marry you." Yeah, thanks for the memory.

Here's a joke about memory loss.

Two elderly couples are walking along the road - the ladies are in front. One man says to the other:
"I've something very important to tell you but I can't remember what it is .... Let me think.... Oh what's the name of that lovely flower that grows on a prickly bush, comes in different colours and smells beautiful?"
"A rose?" says his friend.
"Yes, that's right!" Then calling to his wife "Rose, what was that important thing I needed to mention?"

Back to busy

In a fortnight Rosie will be five years old.

Nat and I went to Italy ski ing to try and patch things together. The air kept the yo yo up - then we went to Venice (for my 40th birthday, coming up, oh yes) and I that pesky B word burst out.

I'd tried SO hard to keep it shut inside and live for the moment, remember how privileged and lucky I am. But when the gloom comes how do you crack your way out? A thick grey fog that clouds logical thinking.

On the boat back to the airport it spilled forth. I told him I can not go on with him anymore unless I can get an idea of WHEN "there's nothing I want more than a sister or brother for Rosie" might actually be true.

He said not a word and when we got back to London I thought of a new tactic. Actually, it was Fleur who suggested it. I'm distancing myself to see if he'll notice. I have a new list.

- Get fit (contemplating Race for Life)
- Give up alcohol
- Swim more
- Eat healthier foods (Nat's on later shifts which means I don't have to do dinner all the time)
- See more friends
- Join a timebank project (visit lonely old people etc)

Surprisingly the fog lifted when we got back to busy, the place where we can push the lot back under the rug.

Today though Rosie and I went to visit Nat's elderly grandfather in Camberwell. He is such a sweet man - has Alzheimers so forgets a lot.

But he remembered loads about the war and repeated the story of being shot down, put in a prisoner of war camp and escaping several times. Today I learned he only gave up his escape attempts when Hitler said escapees would be shot.

He once wrote a book about it called "A Crowd Is Not Company". I read it years ago and it's great.

Felt honoured he could remember it to tell it to me himself. Bye bloggo. Keep you posted.

The Iron Giant

The Iron Giant is just the best movie.

Rosie watches it every day. She acts out the scenes. In her little voice she repeats verbatim scenes which have impacted on her little mind.

"I know you feel bad about the deer but it's not your fault. Things die. It's part of life. It's bad to kill. But it's not bad to die."

And...

"You're made of metal but you have feelings so you have a soul. And souls don't die."

And...

"You are who you choose to be. You are not a gun."

So here we are. February 2008. Still yo yo'ing about all over the place.

During one recent upturn we booked a ski ing trip to the Dolomites (next week). Just the two of us. Try and remember why we are together type thing.

Then a week ago in the playground one of the snooty mums (who already has two kids) pulled her coat apart and exposed a small bump to my new friend Emma (3 months pregnant).

She said:

"A little birdie tells me you are due in August?"

Walked back to the car in a funk. All day tried to push it under the rug. In evening tried to warn Nat I was feeling funny. He raised his eyebrows and silently walked away. Shame, because we'd actually had three really good weeks.

Later, in a heated argument he said: "there's nothing i want more than to have a brother or sister for Rosie".

So the carrot's still being dangled and I'm not ready to give up on him just yet.

Good books, great movies, busy jobs, socialising and no alcohol help.

Gay embryos

Met up with a friend this week who gave up her career for IVF. She's an authority on all things eggs. Scrambled, poached, boiled, stimulated and frozen.

She advised me NOT to go ahead with this. I listened intently and am so relieved i sought her out before paying up for my drugs.

She said the fact they will not closely monitor me during the two weeks of hormone drug injections will jeopardise a) my health and b) the quality of the eggs. She has blood tests every day when she goes through it. That way they can up or lower her dose so she harvests the very best quality eggs.

She said:

"Sperm freezes well, embryos freeze well. Eggs do not," and advised that should I opt for this route i use a different clinic and ask my gay friend Tom whether he may consider fertilizing the eggs so I freeze proper embryos.

Didn't like the idea at first but let's face it, if ever it gets to the point where I have to ask a man in a white coat to defrost a stack of test tube eggs, this "marriage" will be well and truly kaput.

Trying to live in the moment and appreciate what i have and not mention the B word. The words "Groundhog" and "Day" spring to mind.

This week it was the Prince's birthday and he got shed loads of Facebook postings from his girls.

Pouty cleavage girl said: "Have a gorgeous day birthday bunny, xx".

Mini skirt blonde posted: "happy birthday, we must do drinks soon, xx".

And Miss Boiler herself left a voice message, which I was given the privilege of hearing.

"Oh, hi Nat," she said. "I think, just THINK, it might be your birthday today... well have a great day" etc.

So that's still annoying. That these women think it's okay to flirt with a man who's in a relationship. The only thing that makes me convinced they do it, is he does it back. But going down that road is totally destructive and pointless. I have to accept that there are some men who are ridiculously flattered by female attentions and don't want to lose them. And there are women who manipulate and use their sexuality to regain some kind of power over another woman's relationship. Whatever happened to sisterhood?

Anyway, there are still irritations, plenty. He comes in to the room and switches the radio to a station he likes in the middle of my favourite radio show. Or he says:

"Ugh, I don't like daffodils" when I ask him to buy a bunch for the house.

"So what, I do and I asked you to buy a bunch."

Thankfully, at the moment, these are no longer split up issues, and we are hoping to go ski ing soon too.

That familiar place

God it's boring. It's so boring.

Since the "mention" there's been no more mention. It's been about two weeks. We got on well. Til the carpet cottoned on and realised a heap more shit had joined its underbelly.

Tomorrow three grand leaves my account and six weeks of bloated beached whale beckons. He just told me he told his friend about the egg freezing, over coffee this morning. When asked his friend's reaction, he laughed.

"Um... not much."

I'm right back at the place.

Update and upturn

He's said "I've been thinking about it and I could warm to the idea. Thing is, we don't really get on do we?"

That's all it needed - an acknowledgement that he's at least thinking about it.

It's alleviated 3 years worth of rant. Since that day, a week and a half ago, there have been no arguments, my old energy's come back, calm's washed over the house.

Still, taking it day by day and still considering the egg freezing, as an insurance policy.

Squeamishness

It took 5 hours to drive to Birmingham for the egg freezing appointment. The sky was dark grey to match my dreary mood.

Parked in a cold concrete slab of a car park and walked down a pokey damp stairwell that smelled of urine.

The clinic’s waiting room had strip lighting, a fish tank and self-serve tea and coffee on the side.

Read a gossip magazine about poor old Britney in the waiting room. There were lots of couples wandering about.

I was summoned in to meet Dr Victoria, who spoke with a thick Birmingham accent. This is how it works.

"You'll have to inject yourself for six weeks during which time you'll probably swell up like a balloon, have mood swings, hot flushes and headaches. It is a 'temporary menopause'" she said cheerily.

"If at any point you feel sick and vomit you could be suffering from over stimulated ovaries and we'll have to be careful of that.

"You'll be fully concsious during the egg recovery session when we line your uterus with anaesthetic and inject through the vaginal wall and thrust the needle into your ovaries to scrape off the follicles." (she didn’t really use that language but she might as well have)

For a woman over 35 the success rate of a baby being born from a frozen egg is a piffling 15-20%

After a scan, blood & urine test which cost a further £250, I was informed the next step would be the invoice for £3,000. After that’s paid the fertility drugs will be delivered and will have to be stored in the fridge.

The Prince rang while I drove back blubbing. He didn’t know what to say. Nor did I. Am through with saying stuff – it just doesn’t get anywhere.

Phoned lesbian friend.

“That’s close on four grand,” she said. “Forget it. Just leave him, shag someone else and you’ll get pregnant.”

It’s the equivalent of the Prince saying “this is all your problem, I have nothing to do with it” in terms of not getting it.

For her, it’s simple. Her cleaner/lover has already moved in with her two kids and they’re playing happy families. Only the poor ex-husband is weeping into the phone every night, missing his daughters and nursing his pride.

This is so boring now. When will it lift? I wish there was such a thing as a ‘mind wash’.

Mogwai goes to Canterbury

Hi bloggo.

Last night the Prince and I had a big row. It happened after you-know-what when stupidly I figured this might be the start of something new ... uncontrolled if you get the drift.

But it wasn't. He was as cautious as ever yelling "STOP" each time things got going.

As the post-coital tears soaked into my pillow, he said: "God, no wonder I never want to do it - you always get like this."

He'd much prefer to steal a wank each night in the bathroom with the door locked and porn on his mobile phone. For the sake of fairness he denies he does this, but please.

It's easier that way. No emotional scenes. No nasty moods.

He then lost the plot and started yelling, ranting and raving about how selfish I am for wanting wanting wanting all the time.

"I'm a great father, I'm a great boyfriend," he said. "I'm happy with the way things are. You're the one with the problem. You need to sort yourself out. When are you going to see your head lady again?"

Then after ranting some more about the fact he has to get up at 6.30am on Monday morning (big deal, it was Saturday night) he stormed downstairs to flat hunt, but not before telling me he would fight for custody of Rosie and win.

“And then you’ll be a single woman all by yourself,” he snarled. “Is that what you want?”

I garnered from this that he’d prefer to live alone in a two-bed flat with Rosie than here in our lovely home with Rosie AND her sister or brother. Why is it so hard for him to want one?

For almost three years since the longing began, he has just reeled out one stock answer: “I’m 31. I don’t want one now but MAYBE one day I will.”

The more I think about this the more I just lose my mojo to continue the battle.

I’ll be FORTY in May and I am totally dreading this. I want to be embracing it, feeling confident and happy with where I’m at and who I’m with.

Reality is, I’m with someone who’s only just coming to terms with the fact he’s 31.

I truly have to leave him – but why's it so hard? I feel this is the only pathway now for my future peace of mind and possible chance of feeling happy again. Staying with him is just always going to remind me of the wasted years I spent hoping and hoping.

Anyway, I woke up with puffy eye lids and slowly moved my foot away from his leg. Got up and let him sleep on.

Then we decided to go to Canterbury as planned and had a good trip. Nothing was talked about.

We visited the cathedral and meandered down the narrow streets of higgledy-piggledy buildings with overhanging windows.

"My legs ache," complained Rosie, walking a yard behind holding her tiny Mogwai that Santa bought her.

We went to a farmers’ market cum restaurant by the railway track. The food was superb. So it’s not all bad. At least we had a good lunch.

The custody thing is weighing hard on my mind and hurting my heart. If there was ever a chance I would lose Rosie I’d just have to stay with this commitmentphobe for another 12 years.
You know what I’m craving right now? Peace of mind, contentment and a less complicated way of living. I can live without money. I have done so many times in my life. He can’t.

My head lady said: “You know what image comes to mind when you talk about your relationship? Square peg, round hole.”

She’s right. And I’ll add another. Brick wall, head bang.

Foot fetish

Happy New Year secret e-friend, yo yo here again. Chickened out of tomorrow's egg freezing appointment, but did re-schedule it for next Thursday.

It's the Birmingham bit that's the big turn off. That and the pain. Gritting teeth and muddling through will be January's watch words. February actually as it'll have to wait til the next "cycle". It'll be a weight off one's mind so life can be in the moment again.

New Year was surprisingly fun. We had friends over. A couple who don't have sex either. He's addicted to internet porn.

I know this because his wife and I share everything. She whispered in the kitchen that one of his recent escapades has corrupted a whole lot more than his head. The hard drive is now buggered and he lost all the photos of their baby.

She's also found foot fetish magazines and pornography of old ladies. Didn't know what to advise on that one.

Anyway, we played on the Wii and at midnight watched fireworks over south east London from the arched window. Then Nat and Dougal (foot fetish man) turned their attentions to the Wii golf and Laura and I promptly fell asleep on the sofa. Wild.

The next day we went to a riverside pub/restaurant for lunch. The table we initially sat at was in the grubby pub section. Nat found a rather grander setting in the restaurant, where they charged £5 extra per meal even though it was the exact same menu as on the other side of the wall.

Then Dougal - who's terribly tight fisted - started complaining, even though Nat had treated him to a great Indian take away on New Year's Eve. We then had a walk through Greenwich Park and went home.

More egg freezing talk prevailed. I told him this was the first step towards separation and cried.

He's been much nicer since then. Maybe that's my problem. The upset comes out in anger. If I could show it in water instead life may just get sweeter.