I
shouldn’t have ignored my instincts; newly acquired face fluff of the designer
kind is usually an indication of a woman in the picture. (She’s misguided on
the face fluff issue as well as being in the way.)
I
am not sure that the prospect of an occasional oasis with a new man is worth
the agony of waiting for a reply. I feel sorry for the young ones who are doing
this kind of thing regularly but the game isn’t any easier after more than
twenty years on the bench. Bench not shelf, years spent making up my mind it
was the wrong man and that I’ve blundered into the wrong life.
Meanwhile
at the socialist republic of Mestweston Avenue my comrade seeker after a life
continues to stack her house with lodgers up to the rafters. (Not literally,
it’s an extended bungalow in deepest Dene and my friend roosts in the loft.) Out in the garden the climate warrior has
brought her rabble army back to the garden shed (with all mod cons) to
recuperate after their punishing defeat on the Isle of Wight and to gather
their strength for whatever their cause demands of them at the Copenhagen Summit. They have pitched an old
army tent, roomy enough for the whole battalion, on the back lawn to dry and
are using it as a break out room as they try to pluck victory from the blades
of a wind turbine. They will probably settle for the publicity. Swoo would settle
for the rent in advance. These lodgers stand between her, a sack of bills and a
mad man for an ex-husband. And I mean mad man, all lower case, nothing to do
with the glam TV show, unlike the men in Mad Men, the ex was vile but not at
all smooth.
So
that’s two women and two men trying to get things sorted after twenty years,
many of them horribilis. Any tips I can offer you from our experience to
prevent you from making the same errors, I hear you ask? Swoo and I compared notes:
- Our mother’s warned us: one suggested the driver
take evasive action on the way to the wedding
- We both had flings with
other people just before taking the plunge with the wrong man
- Follow your instincts