http://separateways.blog.co.uk/en-EUhttp://backend.userland.com/rss092http://separateways.blog.co.uk/http://data5.blog.de/design/preview/bf/7948585cad3ce49e9cc3a684df522b_160x200.jpg <p>I suppose it was always going to come to this. The doctor, turning over pages in his file. Test results good, except one... ultrasound.</p> <p>My son has started to develop liver damage. It happens to people with cystic fibrosis, he tells us. Nothing unusual. We're going to see a specialist. Don't change anything in the meantime, just carry on. Here's a prescription for some new drugs.</p> <p>It hit me like a soft blow. All this time saying how well he's doing, but there's been no miracle - just a delay before the inevitable. Stuff starts going wrong inside - first pancreas and lungs, then polyps, now liver. Next kidneys, bones, clubbed fingers, god knows what and god knows when. Life expectancy 38 years. You don't just drop down dead, you slowly deteriorate.</p> <p>I didn't let him see how low I felt. We carried on with the clinic and came home. Made a joke of how he'll not be allowed to binge drink.</p> <p>He rang his mum to ask about going to the cinema tonight, told her the news. I filled her in on some of the detail.</p> <p>"Was Mum upset about the liver thing?" he asked, later.<br> "No," I replied. "It's just another thing to deal with." </p> <p>God, I'm tired. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/11/14/just-another-thing-7369985/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/11/14/just-another-thing-7369985/Sat, 14 Nov 2009 01:25:00 +0100 <p>Like a tectonic shift, the moment when the landscape changes underneath you. But this time it's the moment when you go from sussing out if she fancies you to realising it's not going to happen, and carry on being nice for niceness sake. Usually resolves around the word "boyfriend" coming up in conversation. This time, for a change, it was the word "girlfriend". Hers. Ah well, back to the drawing board. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/11/12/platonic-shift-7356718/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/11/12/platonic-shift-7356718/Thu, 12 Nov 2009 09:36:59 +0100 <p>One last word to say about envy and irony. </p> <p>I spent a Friday teatime at my ex-wife's house last week. She made supper for me, our son and her current boyfriend. Despite the fact she'd temporarily dumped him while trying to get back with her jealous idiot ex-boyfriend, he's taken her back in good heart. </p> <p>"I've been wanting to meet you for ages," he says, walking across the hall with his hand outstretched. "I haven't seen you since your birthday."<br> Ah, I was quite pissed - so I don't remember. This is going to be a new conversation as far as I'm concerned.</p> <p>Turned out to be a very pleasant couple of hours. The grown ups talked, my son and his mate hung out with us. Ex wife's boyfriend couldn't be a nicer bloke. And they seem genuinely fond of each other.</p> <p>Which is all well and good. Better she's happy than not. </p> <p>Even so.......</p> <p>Even so, bollocks! It's so bloody unfair. The irony of envying HER! I carry her through fifteen years of depression, rejection and illness and now she's happy - HAPPY! - while I feel so tired and beaten down by all those years of making-do and soldiering-on and putting on a brave face that the rest of the world sometimes seems to carry on its business on the other side of triple-glazing - I register it, but through a glass, quietly.</p> <p>I know what I need to do. Keep myself fit, stay on top of domestic chores, don't stay up too late, don't drink too much, get into the flow of my work - and most importantly, seek out my friends. They're the ones who bang on the glass and shout Oi! when I need bringing round. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/10/18/through-a-glass-quietly-7197146/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/10/18/through-a-glass-quietly-7197146/Sun, 18 Oct 2009 23:11:16 +0200 <p>Coincidences - ain't life just full of 'em?</p> <p>My best friend at Manchester Poly made me deeply envious twenty years ago when she got a well-earned place as a trainee journalist for a big news organisation. So envious that it made me get my finger out of my arse, buy an Amstrad word-processor and start banging out book reviews and features for a local magazine. My career started there.</p> <p>Fast forward to 2009.<br> I meet up with same friend after 17 years. We get on like it's yesterday. She invites me down to her place in a little village down south. She's got a lovely husband, three lovely kids, still enjoys her job, lives in a sixteenth century farm house. With a fucking turret, for god's sake! </p> <p>I'm envious again, but this time there's no coming back. I'm not ever going to ease comfortably into middle age with the mother of my son, leaning on each other while we watch him reach adulthood. I'm not going to enter my child-free mid-forties with someone I've known and loved through my twenties and thirties. And I'm certainly never going to live in a house with a turret, not unless I marry a rich widow.</p> <p>We hate it when our friends become successful, so says Morrissey. I don't hate it, but I do feel an irrational, tired, resigned envy - let's call it Turret's Syndrome. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/10/18/turret-s-syndrome-7190967/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/10/18/turret-s-syndrome-7190967/Sun, 18 Oct 2009 01:49:50 +0200 <p>I am in a turmoil of exes. </p> <p>Went out to meet last ex-girlfriend for a drink on Thursday (this is the one I dated for three months over the Summer before deciding there wasn't enough spark). A few beers in, there was still no spark, but it was nice to see her. We can be friends, she says. Another beer in and I was telling her about my ex-lover (the one I went out for lunch with recently, the one who makes me sad but who I can't seem to get out of my head).</p> <p>Her advice - toughen up, move on, even if that means you have to think less of her to do it. If she was that great she wouldn't have walked away from someone like you. </p> <p>Swaying home drunk on the bus, I was halfway through a text to 21 year old student girlfriend (the one I slept with last month but have hardly seen anything of since) when I hit send accidentally. It was a not-very-well-written "what's going on? I'd rather you dumped me than strung me along" sort of text. I'm not sure I was going to send it. It must have seemed quite abrupt. She was a bit miffed. She dumped me. </p> <p>Three exes in one night - see what I mean about a turmoil of exes. Maybe that's a new collective noun..... </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/10/18/triple-ex-7190929/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/10/18/triple-ex-7190929/Sun, 18 Oct 2009 01:32:14 +0200 <p>I never said whether that lunch date came off, the one my ex-lover asked for after twelve months of barely saying a word to me.</p> <p>Well it did, and it was a lovely hour in her company. </p> <p>We talked about work stuff, gossip, future plans, slagged off bosses, ribbed each other's foibles and failings. We laughed a lot, smiled about times we'd spent together. Her eyes sparkled, looking tenderly at me. She touched my hand, ruffled my hair. I talked about my last girlfriend, made fun of my inability to hold down the relationship. It was like the last twelve months never happened.</p> <p>I didn't ask: why did you want to meet me now?<br> I didn't ask: do you know how much it hurt when you stayed so distant for the last year?<br> I didn't ask: are you dating?<br> I didn't ask: are they still trying to find you someone to marry?</p> <p>We walked back to the office still laughing and gossiping, leaning sometimes on each other's arm. A few texts since. Nothing said that shouldn't have been said, no limbs gone out on... yet.</p> <p>I met up with a recently-made friend today - a mate's girlfriend who's only known me a year or so. We walked through windy streets, sat in the park and drank coffee while I ran through the five... christ, nearly six... year history of me and my ex-lover. </p> <p>"So what do you want?" she asks me. "You can't go through all this and just want another affair?"</p> <p>No. About a year ago, last time we were close, my ex lover said <em>"we could never have another affair, it would mean too much to both of us."</em></p> <p>I doubt her situation's changed. I'd be no more welcome in her family now than six years ago.</p> <p>So what do I want? </p> <p>Well I know what I don't want. I don't want to be left hanging, texts unanswered. I would give her my love and affection but couldn't stand if it weren't returned.</p> <p>I want to ask those questions I didn't ask over lunch. Why did you re-establish contact now? Are you seeing anyone? What do you want from me?</p> <p>One worry - how selfish is she? Behind that smiling, sweet, easygoing conversation, hand laid on mine, does she just want a friendship because she's tired and needs cheering up, even though she knows I would have so much more? </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/10/04/so-what-do-i-want-7093648/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/10/04/so-what-do-i-want-7093648/Sun, 04 Oct 2009 00:18:28 +0200 <p>Quick note cos it's late and I'm tired. </p> <p>Ex wife came round this evening, shut the kitchen door and announced that she'd seen the error of her ways. Clocks stopped, birds fell from trees, jaws dropped across a two mile radius......</p> <p>I kept a straight face and accepted it for what it was - good news at last.</p> <p>She'd spent some time with her idiot ex boyfriend and decided that - at heart - he was still the same nasty piece of work that fucked her up last time. If not worse. Apparently he had a rant to her about me, along with his recently dumped girlfriend and some of our mates who he never liked. Bizarre, I only met him once and was quite nice, in the circumstances. </p> <p>She's going to try and patch things up with the last bloke she was seeing, who according to everyone who knows him, is a decent chap.</p> <p>That's a relief, a big dull weight off my mind.</p> <p>On with the rest of life. </p> <p>My son's ill, coughed so much today his chest hurts. Hope it's just a cold, nothing worse. He's in that "underlying health problems" category that worries doctors when it comes to swine flu. So fingers crossed that the good news thing stretches out a bit longer. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/09/27/good-news-at-last-7051962/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/09/27/good-news-at-last-7051962/Sun, 27 Sep 2009 23:41:11 +0200 <p>It's like the conversation never happened. We were out this morning, walking the dog with our son, just talking about stuff. She'd come round, we walk, we talk, she heads off and I get on with the rest of my Sunday. We don't talk about her new former-ex, maybe-back-on-again idiot boyfriend. Mostly because our son is in earshot the whole way, partly because I can't be arsed.</p> <p>She sent me a text on Friday. She's met him again, thinks she can keep it in perspective, maybe get him out of her system, promises again to keep him away from our son. I spend half an hour on the platform of Bristol Temple Meads, ignoring my colleagues, trying to write a reply that doesn't use words like "you", "selfish", "stupid" or "bitch". Give up and get a cup of tea. Finally write one asking her to listen to the advice of her friends, seeing as they were the ones who had to pick up the pieces last time.</p> <p>So, it's a waiting game. I've asked people near her to keep an eye on her for me. Maybe she'll handle it, maybe she won't. I still feel angry, but there's a dull, resigned edge to it now. Bring it on, let's get it dealt with. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/09/21/you-selfish-stupid-and-bitch-rearrange-these-words-to-make-a-well-known-sentence-7006665/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/09/21/you-selfish-stupid-and-bitch-rearrange-these-words-to-make-a-well-known-sentence-7006665/Mon, 21 Sep 2009 00:03:57 +0200 <p>To add to the dramatic 24 hours detailed in the last post, my ex-wife dropped a proper bombshell tonight, as she left with our son's stuff for her half of the week with him.</p> <p>"I thought I'd better tell you before you hear it from somewhere else, but I've decided to start seeing XXX again."<br> "You've got to be fucking joking! You're mad."<br> "I don't want to talk about it."</p> <p>So yes, it seems she's started again with the bloke - the depressive, jealous, angry idiot - she left me for three years ago. What a bloody stupid, selfish bitch. Has she forgotten?</p> <p>Has she forgotten that for two years I wasn't allowed to set foot inside the house they shared because he was so jealous and insecure?</p> <p>Has she forgotten the bag she used to keep packed ready for staying over at friends every time they argued so much she couldn't stand it any more?</p> <p>Has she forgotten howling in the night with pain and grief?</p> <p>Has she forgotten how he once called her best friend "a hatchet faced bitch" for taking her side in an argument?</p> <p>Has she forgotten how our son's friends used to make up excuses to get away from their house, because the atmosphere was so bad they couldn't stand being there any more?</p> <p>Has she forgotten this is the relationship that drove her to take an overdose?</p> <p>Clearly she has. Or at least put a rosy enough glow over the events to think it is worth having another try. She tried to make out that when our son was there, everything was ok, that their arguments were no worse than any other kids see their parents having. Yeah, right. And more to the point, he isn't my son's parent - he has no stake, no ties and what's more, I don't bloody trust him.</p> <p>Well I haven't forgotten. I told her tonight that I won't stand for my son being in the same house as him. If she gets back together with the stupid twat, I'll take custody. </p> <p>This is so shit. I had just about got used to enjoying her company again. Now I've got to start watching her like a hawk, waiting for her to go off the rails again. Bollocks. How bloody selfish of her. And on an entirely selfish note, why now!>? How am I supposed to enjoy a night off, a night with a girlfriend, when I know I could get a call from the tearful stupid bitch at any time, asking me to come round and get our son because she's had another fucking argument with Dickface? </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/09/17/the-return-of-dickface-6980325/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/09/17/the-return-of-dickface-6980325/Thu, 17 Sep 2009 01:04:56 +0200 <p>It happened this morning. She went into the vet's room, limping, head down but still managing a wag. And me and my son said goodbye and stayed outside while she was put to sleep. Turns out she probably had bone tumors so there was nothing else to do. So long Cookie. Bless her, the first dog I've ever had from a puppy, the dog my son grew up with.<br> <a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/cookie/3888932" title="Cookie"><img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/932/3888932_95b3a17414_s.jpeg" alt="Cookie"></a></p> <p>We're all sad, even though it's for the best. My son came home and went to bed - totally knackered. I sat nodding off in the sunshine, reflecting on a strange 24 hours. </p> <p>24 hours ago, sitting at home drinking wine with a 21 year old, kissing on the sofa. "Come on, before I change my mind," she says, taking me upstairs. I've heard more romantic come-ons, but hey, it's not the time where conversation counts for much. And the conversation earlier that night, well, I guess it's not a long term relationship in the making. </p> <p>15 hours ago, waking up in bed beside her, soft and smiling. Breakfast, coffee, weekend papers (her - Guardian, me - Telegraph). It's been a daft fantasy of mine that I'd someday have a girlfriend who wanted to read the weekend papers in a big bed with me over coffee, a girlfriend who'd fight me for the news-section, not just turn to handbag reviews. And it'd never happened til today.</p> <p>13 hours ago, lying on the bed kissing, the phone rings, my ex-wife in tears, she's taking the dog to the vets.</p> <p>10 hours ago, back at my ex's house, drinking tea and talking about all the funny things Cookie did when she was a puppy - nicking some woman's flip-flop and fucking off up the beach with it, getting medieval on some poor puppy's ass.</p> <p>9 hours ago, sending a text to the 21 year old <em>"I'd like to see you again but I don't know when we'll next get to. Ah well, it gives us a chance to think what we make of this thing of ours...."</em></p> <p>8 hours ago, getting a text, not recognising the number:<em><br> "Hey I was just thinking that we haven't really spoken as friends for ages and its my fault I guess. So do you want to have lunch next week sometime? It would just be nice to catch up maybe?"</em></p> <p>I took me a minute to work it out. I didn't recognise the sender because I had deleted her number from my phone months ago. It's from my ex-lover - the woman I thought I'd lost forever- it's a long, private story. But it's her... contacting me.</p> <p>We should meet on Wednesday. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/09/13/so-long-cookie-and-other-stories-from-a-strange-24-hours-6951139/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/09/13/so-long-cookie-and-other-stories-from-a-strange-24-hours-6951139/Sun, 13 Sep 2009 00:09:59 +0200 <p>Quick update:<br> I saw the woman from the work placement again the day after I wrote that last entry - something that had been arranged in advance. Considering I'd asked her out the night before, she seemed very unfazed. I kept it amicable but short and to the point, then headed home for the day. </p> <p>Text from her, minutes later <em>"Thought I might get at least one more drink...."</em></p> <p>So we stay in touch - intermitently - by text. Chatty but not flirty.</p> <p>Text from her, Late Saturday night: <em>she's wearing a green dress and red shoes.<br> </em><br> Text from her Sunday morning: <em>apologies, she was drunk when she sent it. </em>I take the piss, saying she must have looked like a munchkin.</p> <p>Text from her Monday morning: <em>"I was in Blackpool... if the offer of a date is still on the cards, I'd be happy to accompany you somewhere less like purgatory. X"</em></p> <p>My first draft starts with <em>"Wow.. yes!"</em> then I scale back.</p> <p>Boyfriend shmoyfriend! </p> <p>I wonder has she dumped him or just put him on the backburner while testing out her options? </p> <p>I wonder... what's it like going on a date with a 21 year old? </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/08/24/boyfriend-schmoyfriend-6812781/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/08/24/boyfriend-schmoyfriend-6812781/Mon, 24 Aug 2009 23:59:02 +0200 <p>I started the day with two ideas in my head about women I fancy. Two separate conversations ran like this</p> <p>Chatting with one colleague, working up to asking her out for a drink:<br> "Have you ever been to Amsterdam?"<br> "No, well not for ages, 20 years ago."<br> "It's great. I ended up going round the Red Light district. I'm not into that kind of thing, but it was fascinating. I kept saying to my boyfriend, 'look, she's looking at you' as we went past the windows."<br> Hmm, yeah, ok. Whatever.</p> <p>And then tonight, after a couple of drinks with a woman who'd been working with me on a placement:<br> "So you and Joanne, nothing going on there?"<br> "No, we go way back, but nothing going on. You know, it would've been inappropriate, asking you out on a date while you were on a placement."<br> "Are you asking me out on a date?" Smiling.<br> "Yes, would you like to go on a date?"<br> "Oh.... ha, ha. If you'd asked two weeks ago...."<br> Hmm, yeah, ok. Bugger.</p> <p>B is for Boyfriend. B is for Bugger.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/08/19/b-is-for-boyfriend-6755496/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/08/19/b-is-for-boyfriend-6755496/Wed, 19 Aug 2009 00:25:56 +0200 <p>I spent Sunday afternoon in the Tate gallery in Liverpool. Took these pictures in their Colour exhibition:</p> <p><a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/picture_2/3775493" title="Picture 2"><img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/493/3775493_e07ec38fec_s.png" alt="Picture 2"></a></p> <p>I think my new ex girlfriend enjoyed the exhibition too.</p> <p>I did the decent thing last weekend and brought the relationship to an end. She'd been expecting it and agreed it was the best thing to do. And we talked about staying friends, this trip to Liverpool was something we'd talked about doing for a while - so here we were, bathed in neon light with the gallery attendant telling me off for taking photos on my phone.</p> <p>We did the tourist thing, drank coffee and ate cake, sat snuggled up warm on the deck of the Mersey Ferry, got on well. Headed into the city to find somewhere to eat. </p> <p>"I can understand why you should feel after all these let downs," she said over a gourmet burger, "that you can't trust anyone again."<br> Bloody hell, how off the mark can you get?<br> "It's not other people I don't trust. I'm ready to trust, I trust all my close friends. It's me I don't trust."<br> "You don't think you'd stay faithful?"<br> "No...."</p> <p>Driving home she told me - because I ought to know - that I had hurt her, despite doing what was the right thing. That shut me up.</p> <p>So here I am again - single. I wonder if I'm destined to follow this same loop: single... dating and excited.... dating and bored.... single and desperate. Thinking I can do better than the woman I'm with, thinking any excitement's better than being single. Standards rising and falling like tides.</p> <p>Trust... trust me to fuck it up.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/08/11/trust-me-6695718/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/08/11/trust-me-6695718/Tue, 11 Aug 2009 00:42:04 +0200 <p>Dogs age seven years to our one. That accelerates as they get old, more like eight or nine years to our one towards the end. </p> <p>This photo stays up on my son's bedroom wall, no matter what else changes in his room, from Lego to Airfix to Playstation...</p> <p><a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/dog/3775462" title="dog"><img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/462/3775462_eec8b1f40f_s.jpeg" alt="dog"></a></p> <p>A ten week old Labrador cross puppy sits up on a toddler's chair. So small she only just comes up to a three year old's proud hand. He is beaming - his own puppy, sharp-toothed and disobedient. Even in the washout of the flashlight you can see the biggest smile.</p> <p>Now he's fourteen, she's eleven - 85 in accelerating dog years. She's stiffening up, showing her bones, slowing down.</p> <p>I found a quote today that "old men miss many dogs." True, but how much is my son going to miss his first dog when her time comes? </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/08/11/dog-years-6695674/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/08/11/dog-years-6695674/Tue, 11 Aug 2009 00:22:03 +0200 <p>When you arrive on a beach, you can't tell if the tide is coming in or going out. You look around for familiar landmarks or just handy rocks to take a measure from, sit there and wait. Eventually the direction emerges through the to-and-fro of the waves. And that's how the last ten days has felt - a chance to sit and wait to see which way the drift is going. I've thought about my relationship with my girlfriend in the plentiful quiet moments every day presented. And I see that the tide is going out, the feelings I had for her are ebbing away. </p> <p>So now just to tell her.</p> <p>It's not you, it's me. Partly true. She's lovely and kind. But I didn't miss her one bit on that holiday. I had my son, my mates and their kids, my dog, fresh air and sunshine. I just didn't remotely need her with me. I know that's a holiday, not normal life - but I'm the same with work. I love my job, get on with everyone there - when I'm immersed in that world, I don't miss her. So, I'm content to be on my own with my son, mates and work - it doesn't leave much around the edges for her. </p> <p>It's not you, it's me. Partly untrue. There is something missing in my life, but it's not her. She's lovely and kind, but I still think I can do better. And that has stopped me trying. I need to feel I'm playing out of my league. To stretch a football metaphor, she and I feel like a couple of mid-table finishers, nothing left to play for. I need to be a giant-killer, on a cup-run, battling for a play-off place.</p> <p>I don't think I'll use that metaphor when I see her tomorrow. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/08/01/ebbing-away-6630768/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/08/01/ebbing-away-6630768/Sat, 01 Aug 2009 14:45:15 +0200 <p>Keeping ourselves amused... that's how we ended the last blog almost a month ago. Not feeling very amused now. Flat instead.</p> <p>I've had a tough month at work. Understatement - I thought I was going to cry at one point, thought I was going to fuck up badly at several others. Hardly saw my son or my friends in three weeks, hardly saw my girlfriend.</p> <p>Monday and Tuesday last week I had to work later than I normally would accept on nights when I've got my son at home. Got back eight o'clock on Monday, nine o'clock on Tuesday. He seemed quiet, quieter as the night went on. When I put him into bed - a routine we still do even though he's 14 - he couldn't manage to hold it in anymore and began to cry. He's tired of the constant attention to his health, he thinks about his own life expectancy, he's worried about all the shit about swine flu on the news, he can't talk about it to any of his friends. "I feel empty," he said, "hollow." For a moment I thought to myself how much he sounded like his mother when she talked about depression.</p> <p>I told him what I normally tell myself - that he's done so well to stay as fit and well as he has done up to now, that with more of the same and advances in medicine he can be like this for longer. I told him he can talk to me at any time. But it's hard to reassure a boy who's old enough to understand what's happening but not old enough to have the kind of deep friendships he needs to help him cope. </p> <p>We talked round it some more. I promised him a day off school. We tried out the usual bedtime jokes and eventually he went to sleep. The next day, he went to his mother's. And the day after that - Thursday - she texted to say he'd been very upset again last thing at night. </p> <p>I felt for the first time in ages a powerful sense of wrong - that his mum and me should be together looking after him. Not because I think she'd be any easier to live with, any easier to make happy, than she was in the last 15 years, but because then I would be there for him all the time - not just my half of the week.</p> <p>And then a couple of hours later - still working at eleven pm - I ran into my ex-lover, out for a drink after work. I could barely talk to her, couldn't face the small-talk that is all that passes between us these days. I made my excuses and headed into the office. And I stomped back asking the night air - where are you when I need you? Why aren't you here for me?</p> <p>So there in the space of a couple of days - my ex-wife and my ex-lover leaving me to deal with this alone. It's sad that this is what I thought rather than "I'll tell my new girlfriend and ask for her shoulder to lean on." I missed old connections, not new ones. I wanted the comfort of people who know me better than anyone else - christ, even the comfort of my ex-wife.</p> <p>And on Saturday, I decided to tell my new girlfriend all this - in a roundabout way which ended up as one of those "I'm not sure where this is going" conversations. Now I feel shit about upsetting her. </p> <p>I am tired and wrung out. I haven't helped myself by getting drunk Friday and Sunday nights, struggling over the weekend with a hangover. I need a break - and I'm hoping that a rainy week and a half in Cornwall with my son, a dog and some mates will do it for me. Fingers crossed. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/07/21/wrung-out-6557162/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/07/21/wrung-out-6557162/Tue, 21 Jul 2009 00:51:47 +0200 <p>Following on from the last post, here's another question: do men have Knob Years like dogs have Dog Years? Ageing faster or slower than the rest of the body? I have reached 40 with what I considered to be the knob of a 21 year old - eager and perky. But on Saturday I found myself sympathising with an ageing gangster in a novel (<em>Sacred Games</em>, very good) who decides that the joy of orgasm is no longer worth the effort that precedes it. Have my Knob Years suddenly caught up with me?</p> <p>Sobering thought - but then again, I was very hungover, I'm tired from working too hard and still sore from the operation which cut my perineum from ballsac to arsehole. </p> <p>Last night, I went out to a birthday party with my girlfriend and her good humour cheered me up til we got home. With her 18 year old tits and my 21 year old knob, we kept ourselves amused... falling asleep as the first birds began to sing outside. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/06/28/knob-years-6416860/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/06/28/knob-years-6416860/Sun, 28 Jun 2009 23:56:41 +0200 <p>Do some women have Tit Years like dogs have Dog Years? I mean, tits that age at a different rate - not the standard one-human-year-equals-seven-tit-years, that would be stupid. Maybe a ratio of 2:1 or thereabouts. My ex-wife had a bad ratio. In her mid thirties she had the tits of a fifty year old. Very self conscious, she wanted a boob job. I resisted, not believing it would make her any happier or feel any different about me - and knowing damn well I'd be paying for it out of money we didn't have.</p> <p>My new girlfriend has a good tit-year ratio. At 36, she has the tits of an 18 year old. At this rate, by the time she's fifty, she'll still have the tits of a 25 year old. Which is fantastic, obviously.</p> <p>Fantastic and yet not enough. What's going on? She's smart, funny and kind. She's into me. Sex is a damn sight better than it should be for someone recovering from perineal stitches. </p> <p>I guess it comes down to some combination of these:<br> - deep down, I think I can do better<br> - deep down, I haven't given up hope on my ex-lover<br> - I don't want more kids and I wonder if, deep down, she really does </p> <p>Tricky. Great tits though. Let's see where it goes.<br> (this is a slightly pissed entry - I do consider her as more than just a pair of great tits, honest) </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/06/27/tit-years-6401204/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/06/27/tit-years-6401204/Sat, 27 Jun 2009 00:32:15 +0200 <p>Her hands were warm, soft fingers pressed lightly on my skin. Delicate hands, slender light-brown forearms. This close I could smell a perfume on her - a smooth-rounded, purple-background scent. Definitely perfume. Not just medical handwash, with its spikey, chemical citrus flavours.<br> <em><br> "And now I'm going to take your temperature,"</em> she said. </p> <p>Lovely junior doctor has been running through basic medical checks with me, post-op and minus the catheter.<br> <em>"Oh, you look too young to be in here,"</em> she says.<br> "Good technique, flatter the patient."<br> We're chatting about all sorts of things - her job, mine, how her supervising surgeon's a bit of a twat. I'm making her laugh, flirty but not really flirting. </p> <p>But.... Oh god, she's going to need to look at my perineum stitches at the end of this. There's two things guaranteed to shrivel a penis to its compactest size - swimming in icy water and medical examination. I'll wriggle down my underpants to reveal something akin to a doormouse asleep on a deflating beanbag. I know it's a hospital, she is a doctor, she does this all the time. But I'd rather have something more like a manly accoutrement than a medical curiousity. I can imagine this situation making it into her doctoral thesis <em>"The Doctor and The Doormouse: Managing Ego and Self-Image in the Small Penised Male."</em></p> <p>Uh, nothing for it but to start conjuring up some imagery to get some blood flowing. Hang on, what if I get an erection? She'll think I'm some sort of Singing Detective pervert. Tricky balance - not erect but not recessed either. Here goes.<br> <em><br> "Let me put this on, check your blood pressure...."</em><br> New girlfriend... in bed... going down on me.... nope, nothing stirring.....<br> <em>"And put this on your finger, see what your blood oxygen is like."</em><br> Ex-lover..... fucking from behind.... oh jesus, nothing happening at all<br> <em>"Are you allergic to any medicines?"</em><br> Ex-lover covered in massage oil..... aargh, it's not working.<br> <em><br> "Ok," </em>she says, disconnecting the machine and turning away from me.<br> <em>"I'm just going to check..." </em><br> I hook my thumbs into my waistband and start to hoik my tracky bottoms down, oh this is going to be humiliating.<br> <em>"....your breathing,"</em> turning back to me with a stethoscope, me hastily hoiking trousers back up again.</p> <p>In the end, she didn't need to see my knackers. Which was good. Male vanity, delicate thing, y'know.</p> <p>After I'd drunk a whole jug of water and pissed plenty out, they let me go home. I now piss like a racehorse, a yellow cable. Fantastic. Stitches pretty sore, but better by the day - I feel like a new man, with a new knob.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/05/17/the-doctor-and-the-doormouse-6130694/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/05/17/the-doctor-and-the-doormouse-6130694/Sun, 17 May 2009 18:39:12 +0200 <p>Finally... sick leave as it should be: sat in the garden, sun shining, strategically-placed cushion under my operation scar, newspaper, music on, nowt to do all afternoon but sit on my arse and eat grapes - the Grapes of Sloth.</p> <p>Been a while to get here though. Went into hospital last Thursday night, operation on Friday, painful recuperation all last week, gradually fading to just bloody uncomfortable.</p> <p>And on the second night, lying in hospital, I had a dream about oil pipelines. And woke up with an erection (eat your heart out Jung). It was painful (I've got a catheter in, remember), but reassuring - at least something's still working down there.</p> <p>Sunshine promised tomorrow. I'm going to be as brown as a nut by the time I finally get back to work. Ah well, not as though any of them have sent me a get well card, so fcukem. Hand me a grape. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/05/12/the-grapes-of-sloth-6099882/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/05/12/the-grapes-of-sloth-6099882/Tue, 12 May 2009 00:00:45 +0200 <p>I took the plunge Monday evening over tea. I'd been umm-ing and ah-ing over how and when to tell my son that I'm dating. He reacted so badly last year when I told him I was starting back on a dating website. Not surprising, when you think of the utter, selfish mess his mother got herself into (and dragged him into) with boyfriends after she left me.</p> <p>So here goes:<br> "I've started dating someone", I said. "A woman, in fact."<br> "Oh right," he says. "Was she here on Saturday night?"<br> "Er, yes. Why?"<br> "I thought so."<br> "How come?"<br> "I saw you coming downstairs with two cups this morning."</p> <p>Ahh. Two coffee mugs, two wine glasses - not normal bedroom stuff in our house. He's more observant than I realised. And less bothered than I feared.</p> <p>"She's really nice," I tell him, "for a ginger...."<br> "She's ginger? Ha ha, what... more ginger than Ronnie? More ginger than Jake?"</p> <p>We have a laugh about acceptable levels of gingerism. And it all seems ok. </p> <p>"And she likes dogs," I tell him.<br> "Everyone likes our dogs," he says, tapping the lurcher under the chin.</p> <p>Another little step in the right direction. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/04/28/coffee-cups-and-little-steps-6026047/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/04/28/coffee-cups-and-little-steps-6026047/Tue, 28 Apr 2009 22:47:24 +0200 <p>We were lying there on Sunday morning, my new girlfriend and me.....</p> <p>Oh, did I mention I'd got a girlfriend?</p> <p>Uh-huh, oh yeah (dances badly).</p> <p>Lovely woman from the date last week, took her out on Friday to watch that sweary tour-de-force In The Loop, kissing in the pub (how annoying is that when you see someone else do it) then home in separate taxis. Rang her up the same night about one in the morning to invite her round on Saturday night. </p> <p>So, Sunday morning. We're swapping snippets of life story, lying there in t-shirt and pants, a little sleep-deprived. I give her the shorthand version of the last years of my marriage and of the affair that transformed my life. </p> <p>"Do you still love her?" she asks, meaning my ex-lover, not my ex-wife.<br> Pause.<br> I'm not about to lie but I can't think how to describe it. She fills in the silence.<br> "When you've been in love you can go on loving someone. I did with the last man I was in love with. You don't have to totally forget. But it doesn't mean you can't move on."<br> I smile at her, thinking she's put it well. "And you can let it go and hold on to the good things, the good memories," I suggest. </p> <p>I read a review in one of the weekend papers, of "The Field Guide to Melancholy". It described a state of sadness we might actually choose and gain some pleasure from. It is a mood of loss and yearning but without the desperation - so unlike depression (which Susan Sontag calls "melancholy minus its charms"). Gloom, not doom, in other words. The author reckons it's a state which "slows things, allows for percolation, facilitates solitude and solace for the imagination." </p> <p>I think that's a pretty good description of my state of mind these last few months. Living with gloom, not doom. I was in love, I still feel great tenderness towards that love, the memories of what we had and the sense of loss. I have chosen to dwell on them. But it isn't love anymore - it's melancholy, actually. </p> <p>"I'm ready to move on," I said on Sunday morning, failing to find a less cliched phrase to sum all this up. "You can't keep loving somebody in a one-sided way. It falls into obsession or stalking, and I'm not going to let myself become that. I wish we were closer friends, but it's not to be."</p> <p>We carry on talking, Sunday morning stretches out, sunshine fills the room. She's smart, this one. I like her.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/04/28/melancholy-actually-6020036/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/04/28/melancholy-actually-6020036/Tue, 28 Apr 2009 00:30:43 +0200 <p>Lots happened this last few days - time with my folks, a weekend away with the boys and Scottish Sara, lots of booze, one of the best gigs I've ever seen. </p> <p>But more important right now, a brilliant, exciting, thrilling date. Four beers, a lot of chat, hands held across a bar table, kissing outside before putting her in a taxi home, and a steady string of flirting texts ever since. I keep doing little reality checks, frown, bite my lip and think "hang on, don't go getting all out of proportion, scare her off and let yourself down." But the overwhelming feeling is being on the leading edge of a big smile...</p> <p>We'd been chatting for a couple of hours, it was going well.<br> "I liked what you wrote on your profile about books," she said. I hadn't read my own profile for months, I haven't read hers since the first email I sent her weeks ago, so I stick to a noncommital noise.<br> "I've not come across anyone else who likes E Annie Proulx before," she goes on. Oh yes, that's ok, I did genuinely finish The Shipping News recently... on DVD. No, I have also read it, honest.<br> "In fact, that section of 'what I'm reading' is the first bit I look at on a new profile," she says. "What about you? What's the first thing you look at?"</p> <p>Oh shit! Face.... tits.... arse.... Face obviously in the photo, tits sometimes on show, arse you have to guess from "athletic" or "curvy" descriptions. But I'm not about to admit it.<br> "Um, well I guess I looking for....." FACE, TITS, ARSE "camping, you know, if you're into outdoors sort of stuff. You have to read right through the profile for that, umm it's not in one place...."</p> <p>Pathetic. But there's no point telling her just yet that men do read books but are usually happier looking at the pictures. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/04/20/face-tits-arse-um-camping-5979143/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/04/20/face-tits-arse-um-camping-5979143/Mon, 20 Apr 2009 23:27:06 +0200 <p>My appointment with destiny looms closer. Or to be more specific - my appointment with urology. May 1st. It's weighing on my mind more and more. I'm having to make all kinds of arrangements at work, stuff I can't do so have to hand on to others. Each time I have to give a minimal explanation of why I'll be off. I haven't told anyone at work the full story. Normally I would, if nothing else, for a bit of sympathy and humour, but....</p> <p>It's not very sexy, is it? Cutting up through the perinaeum, cutting out a 2cm section of urethra, stitching it back together, spending two weeks on a catheter and pissing in a bag. I won't be able to walk or sit without pain for weeks, riding my bike's out for ages, god knows when I'll be back to normal.</p> <p>And then there's the risk of complications. Ten per cent of men suffer impotence after this operation. If the constricted section of pipe was any nearer my bladder, I'd risk incontinence. If it was any nearer my penis, the consultant blithely pointed out, it might involve shortening the penis. SHORTENING THE PENIS! No fucking way! If he'd told me there was a ninety percent chance of death if they didn't go ahead with penis-shortening, I'd have been thinking "yes, but that's a ten per cent chance of not-death...." Let's not even go there.</p> <p>So if I'm unlucky, I could end up impotent or incontinent - or both. You could say I won't know whether I'm coming or going.... </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/04/10/coming-or-going-5920655/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/04/10/coming-or-going-5920655/Fri, 10 Apr 2009 11:05:07 +0200 <p>I had a bad case of piles at the end of last week. Not glamorous I appreciate, so I only mention it because it made me think about physical health and moods. Basically, all day Friday I walked round feeling like someone had their thumb stuck up my ass. A large thumb, stuck there despite their efforts to pull it out. My world revolved around my bottom, a very low centre of gravity. Sitting down, grimace. Stand up, grimace. A whole day frowning, unless there was a good reason not to. The opposite of how I like to spend my day - try and smile unless there's a good reason not to. </p> <p>By the end of the day I was feeling utterly miserable. A friend at work had reminded me about the HALT acronym for avoiding depression - don't let yourself be Hungry, Angry, Lonely or Tired. I'm sure there's an arse-related interpretation of HALT.... it'll come to me. Point is, I'm no richer, poorer, more in love, more single, busier, friendlier than the same time last week, but a pain in my arse is piling on the misery. How many people you meet looking plain unhappy are just victims of some physical gripe, whose unhappiness in turn makes it harder for them to get physically better? Caught by a vicious circle - or angry ring, in my case.</p> <p>Anyway, I seem to have it sorted now. And I spent today in company, doing practical stuff in the sunshine. And I might have this Summer's camping holiday sorted. So happy again. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/04/05/piling-on-the-misery-5896341/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/04/05/piling-on-the-misery-5896341/Sun, 05 Apr 2009 22:37:42 +0200 <p>There were six of us in the pub last week, blokes in our 40s and early 50s. None of us alcoholics, nutjobs, liars, gamblers or serial adulterers (only me that's even done occasional adultery). All of us Dads - full-on committed to our kids, hands on child-rearers and full time wage earners. And out of the six of us, only one still lives with the mother of his kids. The rest, dumped, pushed out or left by our women - set asunder, as the marriage vows would put it.</p> <p>Our partners were unhappy, not bullied, degraded or abused. I know that does happen - happened to my sister, who literally ran for her life with her kids when her rapist bully husband walked free from court. But it ain't happening among my mates.</p> <p>So what's going on? One mate blames a local mafia - or coven, depending on his mood. Women who know each other really well, know the situations and see less and less reason not to copy - a domino effect of divorces rippling through our close neighbourhood. </p> <p>Maybe. Or maybe there's something else. What have these women got in common? No sense of humour, most of them. I know that sounds trite, but perhaps there's more to it. These women - all in their 40s - grew into their first relationships in the highly politicised 1980s and early 90s. A bloody serious time. Face it, there weren't many laughs in Red Wedge. And there was Cosmo telling them they could have it all - career, relationship, family, boob-job, ongoing youthfulness. And it just ain't so. Unless you're damn lucky or gifted. </p> <p>You've grown up thinking that the personal is political - not philosophical. So you need a plan of action, rather than a philosophical shrug, an acceptance of disappointment as part of life, and an attempt to smile with it. So when the disappointments seep in to their late 30s, they get moving, take action on us, set us asunder. Start looking for another relationship to make them happy.<br> (note - only one of us dumpees is going out with another woman, three of the dumpers are already living with another bloke. Although I did get an email on the blog site today offering "a love relationship" with some woman from Russia, maybe I've scored!)</p> <p>I was walking the dog this morning - past the house of the last one of my mates to still live with his family. Propped up behind the wheelie bin, a cardboard box for a DVD HD Hard Disk recorder. New stuff. I can't even think about buying new stuff without worrying about money. He's got two incomes supporting one home. I'm spreading my one income over two homes. What a bloody waste, what a bloody waste of money, time and effort.</p> <p>Grrr.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/04/01/set-asunder-5871244/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/04/01/set-asunder-5871244/Wed, 01 Apr 2009 11:20:05 +0200 <p>Met my new boss yesterday. Turns out he's as opinionated, engaging and indiscreet as the last one. He's already told me something no-one else knows yet. Doesn't he know I'm shit at discretion? Obviously not. I got into real trouble a couple of years ago for not knowing when to keep my mouth shut. Just escaped a formal disciplining, got away with my pay being cut. How long before I manage to fuck this one up? It's a car-crash waiting to happen. And at the end of a rather difficult conversation (imagine trying to feel your way through a dark room to shake hands with someone who keeps flailing their arms around randomly), I had to tell him I'll be missing a load of work due to my operation. What do they say about managers - don't bring them problems, bring them solutions. Huh, solve that one. Not a brilliant start to the next few months.</p> <p>On a brighter note, it's nearly Spring. I ate my butties on the picnic table out the back of the building yesterday, sat out on the front step with a brew on Saturday morning, felt the sunshine on my face digging over the allotment. At last! Not long til the first camping trip of the season! </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/03/17/indiscretion-is-the-better-part-of-what-5773072/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/03/17/indiscretion-is-the-better-part-of-what-5773072/Tue, 17 Mar 2009 10:31:15 +0100 <p>You know how some people give up alcohol for a month - usually after the Christmas excess? Well, I'm in the middle of a month without porn, just to make sure I can do it. I'm not sure whether I'd been indulging <em>to excess</em> recently. After all, one man's excess is another man's slight mess, nothing to worry about. No, I probably used my handiest porn site three maybe four times a week. So why have I stopped and how's it going?</p> <p>I stopped because I just felt it was degrading. To me, obviously. Yes, sure, it's degrading to women generally, but this is my blog not a Guardian article. There's just something too mechanistic about the automatic see-tits-get-aroused process that leaves me feeling like a lab rat hitting a lever to get a reward. And part of my brain never switches off the bad-taste-ometer. <em>God what terrible acting. Did no-one ever tell her you can have too much silicone? There's no camera angle that makes a ball-bag look attractive. What will that tattoo look like when she's sixty? Christ, look at those curtains!</em></p> <p>And I did wonder whether it was killing my social sex-drive. I'm internet dating at the moment - or at least, I would be if I wasn't so damn busy at work for the last month. Question - am I giving my full attention to the real, human, flesh and blood women I could be meeting, dating and romancing in the real world if I'm getting off on the women of easy virtue I encounter in online porn? Possibly not.</p> <p>It's now two weeks without a single log-on. Which is not to say I've given up on masturbation. I'm just relying instead on fantasy and memory - a forest in the Pyrenees, a bright morning after Athens, a tent by a loch. I'm not relying on immediate visual stimulation. It's more creative, using left-side brain - probably good for staving off early onset alzheimers.</p> <p>I did wonder this morning whether using an lingerie advert counted.....<br> <em> hand-stitched, organic Indian cotton.... lace-lined, softest fabrics... underwired and structured around a supermodel's nellies.... this is not just porn, this Mark & Spencer's Lingerie Porn... </em><br> But no, I think that still counts as porn. What about the fantastic sex-scene in Sebastan Faulks' Birdsong (the bit before the war, not where he's shagging some toothless French crone a mile behind the trenches)? Literary stimulation... I reckon that's alright. </p> <p>Which might just go to prove I'm not just a wanker, I'm a snob too. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/02/28/porn-free-as-free-as-the-wind-blows-5665461/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/02/28/porn-free-as-free-as-the-wind-blows-5665461/Sat, 28 Feb 2009 12:27:31 +0100 <p>Oh it's happened, I've turned 40. And it's not so bad.</p> <p>In fact, it's been bloody good so far. My actual birthday was Valentines Day. The Friday before I'm floating on air, things going so damn well, the stuff I'm doing for work just clicking and getting up-thumbed (that's not a new management word, I've just made it up) from top people. Went down the pub at lunchtime and then rocked up at the best game of poker I've played in my life that evening. Had my folks and my sister round the next day and spent Saturday night dancing my arse off at my birthday party surrounded by friends. Drank cheap Polish beer all night and fell asleep on a mate's spare bed at three am.</p> <p>Even the hangover couldn't get me down. </p> <p>So no, despite irrational worries, forty seems to be alright. I'm dating sporadically, loving the company of friends and spending time with my son - even my ex wife has settled down with a new bloke and is behaving normally. I'm loving my work, they're loving me. Just got to sort out a proper girlfriend, and I'm laughing. </p> <p>Forty-love up on Centre Court. Bring it on.</p> <p>(only cloud on the horizon is imminent urology op - to pursue the tennis pun, at least it's not "new balls please") </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/02/22/forty-love-5624125/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2009/02/22/forty-love-5624125/Sun, 22 Feb 2009 01:05:01 +0100 <p>It's got to that time of year again. Need to sit down and spend a couple of hours writing to people I should have written to all year - or haven't worked enough reason to stop writing to altogether.</p> <p>But before the Christmas cards, I've got a couple of other letters to get out of the way. The first one's easy - to my urologist. Christ, I've just found out that what I thought was a relatively simple piece of corrective surgery is going to put me in hospital for 5 days and off work for six weeks! Shit, that means soreness. I'm asking him if I can delay until after Easter. That way I can still have my 40th birthday party, can still do work stuff that has to be done and can have my six weeks off when the weather's nicer. Nurse my battered bits in a sunny garden.</p> <p>The second letter's a bit trickier. Maybe it shouldn't be written at all. </p> <p>I'd been going out with a girl for about a month. Met her at a speed-dating event, we did get together, until she detected a lack of commitment on my part. Well, it just goes to show that it's not enough to have a good sex life, you need to have a good text-life as well. There just wasn't enough about her to make me want to stay in touch when we weren't together, flirt long-distance, smiling to myself while I did it. So she dumped me, anyway. </p> <p>Then this letter arrived a few days later. </p> <p>I never write letters, she writes. But I've managed to restore her faith in men, make her feel sexy and womanly again, left her feeling positive about herself. Something she couldn't leave unsaid - so there you go.</p> <p>My friend Jo laughed when I told her, started singing Marvin Gaye down the phone "and when I get that feeling, I want sexual healing...ha ha ha. You've got healing hands...." Very funny.</p> <p>But quite flattering I suppose. As being dumped goes, not a bad way to happen. How to reply? Well, I feel I ought to - I don't think that kind of letter should go unremarked or unanswered. Even though she wrote "don't reply".</p> <p>The least I should do is say thanks and wish her well. Mind you, I've just had a text purge on my phone and I've managed to lose her address. The only option is to text her.... and that seems a bit like trying to rekindle contact. </p> <p>Ah well, on to the Christmas card list instead. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2008/12/15/letters-5228494/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://separateways.blog.co.uk/2008/12/15/letters-5228494/Mon, 15 Dec 2008 23:59:30 +0100