The new drink and dial...

Facebook after a few. Suddenly is seems rude not to look up that old ex of yours and see exactly what he is up to, or rather - who he is up to. Flip through friends of friends and wind up oohing and ahhing over a complete stranger's holiday snaps that are mainly of a rosy couple drinking merrily and becoming all the more rosy. Yet, after a bottle of vino they are positively fascinating!

Oh - did you know that so and so knew so and so that you used to work with/date/be mates with/went to school with/once met at a party... possibly? Does anyone have any famous mates on there (who always hide their mates and homepage - boo! Spoilsports).

So I asked to be mates with my ex (lost my virginity to boy) - LMVT as he shall be known - which really galled me to begin with - it feels so damn sad ASKING can you be mates. Almost as horrific as waiting in line to be picked for sports teams at school. The fucker only rejected me!!! I thought he was just taking his sweet arsed time but a workmate helpfully explained how it all works - and no, he wasn't too busy to look at his facebook page, he just blatantly rejected me. Last time me and LMVT spoke - about 9 years ago - we were still mates as far as I remember... maybe now 'cos he is with some skinny dwarf that used to go to school with us and had a ridiculous crush on LMVT while he was my beau, he isn't allowed to be my innocent facebook friend. Good luck to them - I wish this boney pre-pubescent girl would realise - he doesn't do it for me anymore! I just wondered how he was - y'know, curiosity. I am not hoping dig my bitten claws into his skinny frame (they must almost break bones when they do the dirty together) - it was just sheer unadulterated nosiness.

Cut to last night after a fine bottle of wine - I ended up asking LMVT's old best school friend to be my mate. Yes I have no shame... I had a crush on him for 4 years - he didn't wash his hair, wore converse before they were trendy, was brilliant at art and his Dad lived in London - well St Albans - all of which seemed wildly glamorous to a hick from Belfast like me. I awoke today groaning inwardly but cheered up considerably when I found he has accepted me (why does that give me such a small thrill? I need to get out more, I know, I know) and even sent me a mildly amused cheery greeting. Phew - embarrassment curtailed. Have a learned my lesson? Maybe next time I won't be so lucky. So from now on... a few drinks in - my laptop stays shut and my dignity intact.

Cheers!

Corner turned/ fab friends

So I threw in my towel and husband picked it up and said 'I get it'. Finally!!!!He came home in the dead of night and curled in next to me and kissed my sleepy cheek and said 'nothing is more important than us, our family.' I kinda mumbled something and went back to sleep. I think a corner has been turned. Husband has woken out of a slumber and realised we can't go on like this - he is hoping for weekends off and two nights a week. We need to see each other to actually be in a relationship, nay, a marriage. If I start bitching about not having any time to myself and how I used to hog the remote quite happily - slap me.

So today I woke with a spring in my step. Rome wasn't built in a day - but something will change and we can start being an us. The irony is not that I wanted to leave my husband - I wanted time WITH him. The lack of it was driving a huge wedge between us filled with resentment and rows and frustration. A heady cocktail that was watering down anything good between us. It aint easy - but I think things will get better. I can't wait to eat dinner with him, food shop with him, all the glorious mundane details of life that I have had to forgo. I have missed him. He is my best friend (in a non girlie way obviously) and I have craved some quality Thai (hellloooo Busaba) and a movie with him. Hanging out, shooting the breeze, reading the papers - has all vanished in our responsible roles both at work and as parents. And hurray for our (dirty? can you still have one of those 7 years into a relationship?) weekend away in 3 weeks - viva Espania!

Today I hung out with my old school friends. I never see them as much as I wish I could. They make me laugh in an easy way that is borne out of friendships spanning decades. We have added spouses and partners to the group who must have felt like a tonne of bricks hit them when the force of us on mass descended upon them for the first time - but now we have all been round the block together (several times) and I don't see who I made daisy chains with at the tender age of 6 - I just see us all as one big ever expanding gang. We snatched conversations between feeding, wiping and carrying our sproglets - my sproglet decided he could fly and did a dare-devil jump from a 5 foot something climbing frame - bashing his barnet on the way down. He has his own little egg protruding from his forehead - a badge of bravery or stupidity - not sure which. Anyway, the (not the warmest of) days flew by - and I felt like I hadn't really caught up with them all. We save the deeper stuff for smaller one to ones - group chat involves piss taking and the odd quip about life. Then again I could have all the time in the world with them and it wouldn't be enough. One of them once said 'We made each other who we are today.' A bit trite but also true. They know me. I don't have to pretend it is all rosy in my garden. They offer beds to stay in, shoulders to cry on, wine to drink. Unconditional friendship. Support without question. They are probably one of the things that I am most proud of in my life. That no matter what happens - with houses, work and all that jazz - I still have a circle that love me for me. Or at least they do a damn fine job of pretending - feckers!

Gawd bless 'em all. Good night x

Its not about the fork.

When do you throw the towel in? When do you say 'enough'? When do you cut the cord and think - I am unhappy more than I am happy - it is time to move on. You see that husband has turned his fork the wrong way round. It gleams and winks at you on the empty plate and you look at it - you can't take your fucking eyes off it and you ask him to turn it the right way - he has finished eating, table manners dictates this. You want to tear him apart. You feel rage pulsate in your head and start to crawl down your arms towards your fingers and down to your toes. You feel prickly heat behind your ears.It isn't really about his social eating skills - it isn't anything to do with the sad little fork next to the grubby knife. It is all your months of frustration and hurt, all that anger that has drip drip dripped and collected to form an almighty dam that is just about to burst.

Marriage is work. I know that. But this hard? When the tears fall more days than they don't. When you start noticing how other couples behave and you think - we don't do that? When you speak to each other like you are dirt on the ground and it has become so normal to be this way that you don't raise an eyebrow. When you go to a lonely bed every night of the week. When you miss someone desiring you. When you love a child but have forgotten to love each other. When his career means more than time together. When you feel like you are holding it all together with the skin of your teeth and at any moment you could just drop that basket and bceome a basket-case. When you resent everything they do and even more everything they don't. When you eye wanders. When the loneliness eats at you at night and your stomach churns. When you remember the person you once were and you miss her. When you have gone round so many times in the same circles that you feel like a fish in a bowl. When you stop laughing.

Is that when you throw in the towel?

Other fucking Mothers

God I hate other Mothers!! Sorry, I should rephrase that. I hate other mothers in my area. Other Mothers scare me with their organic pies and fresh pressed linin trousers and their boden dressed offspring. But some can be friendly at least. The day before I left West Hampstead (sob - still missing it) I was in Starbucks working and I met a group of 3 brilliant women. All Mothers - one also a nanny - and they were such a laugh. The type who didn't do bath night every night, liked a bottle of vino or two and hated happy clappy keeping-up-with-the Jones's mother and baby classes. I wished with all my heart I had met them during my 16 months of part time freelance work and full time Mother stress.

So I move to a fairly affluent area - us like the pikeys who have invaded their sweet smelling town - plonk sproglet at a new nursery and sit back and wait to meet some yummy down-to-earth mummies... But all I meet are uptight cold bitches who look down on me and my chipped toenails (no manicure - how can she step out of the house??) my son's un-ironed tops and my tiny green car (bought from my lovely Auntie). I met one today - tried a bit of the old chat 'Hello... our boys started on the same day,' kinda small talk. What did this scrawny bird like witch do? Practically blanked me - looked mighty uncomfortable - squeezed out a few words as if she was trying not to breathe me in - before dashing to the rarified air and safety of her BMW and flew out of there.

My blood boiled. I don't CARE about fancy cars and banker wanker husbands and buying only from Waitrose and being stepford all the fucking time! I am a real woman, a Mother who gets it wrong and likes a Pimms and LOVES working (straight to hell for that one I am sure)and doesn't iron and never will!!!!

I was so desperate to move. I am so happy with the house. But will I stay here? If today's experience is to become the norm - then NO! I was avoided more than a leper. Stuck up snobs are up there in my most loathed group. You have money - so that makes you better? Yes, I like nice handbags, because they smell of leather and wear well. Yes, I like great cocktails and wish I could afford Manolo Blahnik shoes - but I don't need status symbols to declare my worth to the world.

God I miss the dirt of London.

Dawson's Creek

What should you absolutely NOT do when you have PMT, are exhausted, have inherited your child's vomming sick bug and feel like you have regressed twenty years? That's right - you shouldn't watch the last ever episode of Dawson's Creek that a work mate has lent you. Now it aired in 2003 - so I don't reckon I need a spoiler alert - but oh my god JEN DIES!!!! I nearly lost an eyeball and had to pause for ten mins while I composed myself.

See, DC was a Sunday ritual in my old flat. I had discovered it one Saturday afternoon - lurking after the sport on Channel 4. Suddenly the second series leapt onto an all new Sunday strand called T4 and it was a mega mega hit. I lived with 3 other girls and one by one they would troop (or crawl after a particularly heavy Sat night)into my bedroom (which was the lounge really) on a Sunday around 11am and take their positions: Nikki in bed beside me clutching my stuffed rabbit. Claire sprawled on my sofa and Caroline (always last in as she worked until 5am or later running a bar) would insist on sitting on the floor. Caroline cried in almost every episode - whether or not it was remotely sad. We sang along to the theme tune and all wished that Pacey would buy a wall for us to paint on. We never wanted tomboy girl-next-door Joey Potter (acting range limited to shrugs and goofy smiles)to get together with Dawson and his over large forehead and complete lack of humour. It was the wise cracking, sweet, mild mannered rebel Pacey that stole our hearts. Not in a sexy Chuck Bass rip-off-my-clothing-and-take-me-now way but in a marry-me-forever-soulmate way. We tried to date Pacey types. We failed.

The homage to John Hughes's The Breakfast Club was inspired. To me, Kevin Williamson could do no wrong - I know it all went a bit screwy with that irritating Audrey girl when they all disappeared to college - but when they where based in Capeside it was so golden, so perfect. The eternal love triangle, the best coming out scene I have ever watched and everyone hanging on to their virginity's for dear life. I craved to be 17 again. I think deep down I always will. It's like that scene in The Outsiders when Ralph Maccio (spelt wrong I am sure) is dying and he tells Pony boy that life is green, kinda golden. Sort of summed it all up for me. Full of angst and isolation and yet brimming with hope and potential. Whenever I watch the Creek now I feel old. We all know what happened - Katie Holmes married Tom Cruise and became cold and dull; Michelle Williams blossomed into a great actress and then her life became sadder than any DC storyline; James Van Der Beek vanished and Joshua Jackson seems to be arm candy at various premieres and fashion parties these days with a pretty blonde actress whose name escapes me.

I miss the show. I miss those lazy Sunday mornings. Everything felt so much more innocent back then - the story had yet to be written. Almost 10 years on and the show feels so dated. If Dawson hadn't tried to get Jen and Joey in a threesome and Pacey wasn't trying to sell Es at school prom by episode 3, I doubt E4 would have sniffed it.

Call me old fashioned, a romantic at heart. Ok, a not-so-closet Pacey obsessive. But nothing has come close to DC since. I think I may have to buy the box set of series one and take a nice long walk down memory lane again. Ok, you can call me sad too.

They say 3 things....

...are the most stressful in life: death, divorce and moving house. Thankfully i don't know about the first one. But I have recently come close to the second due to the third. Oh my god to say moving is stressful is a gross understatement - like saying women quite like handbags and men quite like touching themselves even surreptitiously as often as they can!

I have moved. I have house. I have no furniture for said house. Until Friday I had no TV or broadband - I felt like I was on freakin' Mars. Husband turned into a creature from Mars. We rowed. In between rowing we unpacked and painted and rowed some more. Over what? Him going to work on the day after we moved leaving me knee deep in boxes with a howling hungry 23 month old. Him arriving at the new house 4 hours before me - and unpacking....nothing, but building a BBQ. Him spraying droplets of paint around the lounge after he failed to put down any newspaper or dustsheets. We now have a fetching spotty modem and phone cradle. One little acorn of a row managed to grow into a great big tree. It culminated in world war 3 on Sat night when he stormed out and didn't return until the next day. I think if it hadn't been Father's Day and if I hadn't eaten a truckload of humble pie I might have been able to tell you how stressful divorcing is as well. Sproglet was unnerved by his enormous room, but has now acclimatised and loves to bring in a truck filled with small stones and deposit them in the kitchen, on the stairs and in empty shoes laid out in the hall.

The house is spacious but filled with boxes. It has a garden filled with weeds. It has a dining room with no table or chairs. A lounge with no soft furnishings. But if is beginning to feel like home. I now drive to and from work and listen to the radio, humming along with happy tunes as sunlight streams through the windows. I have seen more green in a week than I did in 13 years in London. I feel more 'normal' whatever that means. Barefoot I pad around the polished floorboards and step into the underfloor heated bathroom. I wander around the hall and up and down the two flights of stairs. I wonder if we will ever fill the space. And if our marriage will survive this damn move. Fingers crossed for both eh?
x

Sex in the surburbs... not quite the same eh?

I've got my high heels on (a different shoe on each foot) parading around the flat wondering if I will ever wear either inappropriate, appropriately uncomfortable shoe again as nostalgia beats down my door. Yes, I saw SATC last night - the big screen version. I enjoyed it but well... I wasn't exactly overwhelmed. I wish that they had left it as it was - because that last episode was just perfection. Taking a sassy smart series and stretching it out into an overly long movie is a bit like watering down a good cosmopolitan with too much cranberry juice - it still tastes ok - but loses the all important kick.

It should have been called 'A bit of sex and Carrie's wardrobe' - as this was the obvious reason SJP had slung on her Manolos again. She fancied a bit of dressing up and ta da! A movie was born. The other girls have vague stories but nothing of real interest apart from Miranda's woes and one gratuitous shower scene (the kind that you pause your DVDs on) courtesy of Samantha's peeping Tom personae.

Anyway - I digress - and I don't want to give anything away to all of you have yet to be 'Carried Away,'** (makes a retching sound for the most awful tag line in film history). The reason I am really trotting around in a fluffy mule and a spiky pink Miu Miu heel is because I am packing. I remember the days not only when I was a single girl (having sex) in the city, but I had a goddamn reason to wear these beauties. Now I am married, feeling celibate and am moving to the burbs. ** (makes retching sound for other self-pitying reasons).

It is weird to pack up my life in my single gal flat - the one I bought with every penny I owned - and many pennies I have still to pay off - in a lovely villagey part of London. The place I had my first dates with husband in - when he was the boyfriend, in fact when he was just the 'quick fling' that became the boyfriend. The place he moved into. The place he proposed in. The place we left to get married and returned to from honeymoon. The place we conceived sproglet and brought him home to. The place that holds so many memories. In truth, it aint the flat that I will miss - it is the area. The brief walk to the wilds of Hampstead heath, the short jog to 3 different cinemas. My barrista friends at Starbucks...oh my, my love affair with Starbucks. The local wine bar that we grew to know so well, we invited the owners to our wedding. The weird video store guy who sometimes speaks to me, sometimes doesn't. But when he does has a scathing sense of humour - a frustrated film maker clearly. It has been my manor. One old friend once commented that they will have to drag me kicking and screaming from this place - and after 9 years in the area it is true.

I know it is time to go. I fear that I will be lonely out in the picturesque market town - missing the hustle and bustle and edge of such a cosmopolitan buzzy area - as I embrace middle class blandness. I remember my hopes and dreams when I bought my flat - although weirdly it has never felt like home. More like a stop gap. I have always wanted the garden, the green trees around, the stillness in the air - I am an Irish child at heart. I need green. I need space to breathe.

So I pack and ooh and ahh over my shoes of the past. The bargain buys, the ones bought for TV shows I presented, the one pair of Manolos I took a day off work to buy in the sale. I remember wearing them all vividly - to dance at the Xmas party, to drink (any night you care to mention), to flirt in Soho House in and to throw in a taxi when they finally tore my feet to shreds. (26 blisters once - more bloodshed than an 18 horror flick).

And you know what? I wouldn't have missed it all for the world.