Saturday 8th July 2006
I wanted to write something feisty and funny this month. But I can't. Well it may be funnier towards the end, but not the first bit. The reason? I feel really sad. I don’t want to use this column as self-indulgent therapy, but I thought that you might relate to bits of it.
I split with my boyfriend this month - after years of really trying to make it work. At first I felt a sense of relief, then terror, then 'if only' and now sadness.
Articles like: 'pack an anti-ageing lunchbox' in the Reading Chronicle, just make me feel worse and remind me of the years ticking on. Ending a relationship in your forties, is not like falling in and out of love when you are 16, although for teenagers the pain may be just as acute.
There's not as much 'messing about', or trying him/her on for size in your middle-age (terrible phrase). And for me, as a woman, saying farewell as a mid-forty-year-old, means more than just moving on and trying again. I am also saying goodbye to the possibility of having a child - a double whammy then. Like losing a lottery ticket which someone else picks up, and because it's a winning combo, they get the cash. Tough and unlucky, but nothing you can do.
The fact that 'granary even provides calcium, essential for healthy bones' (back to the lunch box article) - is not much comfort when appetite has diminished and lust for life is a little jaded. It will return, I am sure, but there it is.
Grief, like that big lump of granary bread which is supposed to be so good for me, sits like a dead weight in my guts; shifting only when I cry or am distracted by some insignificant daily task. I tell God about it. I endlessly chatter, moan and wail, as that's all I feel up to. I presume he/she listens and sometimes I feel heard. But I still feel sad, and truthfully, a bit of a failure.
My cat is a great comfort through all of this, seriously. To her I am a competent and caring provider, with a warm lap to leap into. She is totally non-judgmental, extremely vocal, and demands to be fed, even if I am deeply fed up.
Newspapers know that animals boost moods and nourish the soul. Midge the five-year-old Jack Russell is the Oxford Mail's latest signing in its quest to stir up World Cup fever. He's no doubt cock-a-hoop about wearing an England shirt and dribbling with (or should that be dribbling over) a football.
Midge’s owners run 'Trimmers', a hair salon which is a cut above when it comes décor. You'll find St. George's flags by the basins, mirrors and hairdryers - and no doubt a red and white ‘barnet’ is a big hit with die hard fans.
This is not for my cat, who is remaining a classy taupe, but she and I are nevertheless daily visitors on the Sun's 'Please improve Wayne Rooney's foot' cut-out-and-keep prayer mat. How's that for commitment?