It’s a daily challenge. Showering yourself with enough love to negate the deficit created by your singledom. Who are all those people who write in to Steve Wright’s Sunday Love songs to declare their constantly growing affection? Has anyone REALLY got a partner who paints banners to hang from footbridges or sends flowers to work? I feel lucky if I get a bloody text containing more than 14 vowels.
I have decided throughout the week to be strong. To draw a line. To not allow myself to be the pet cat that got thrown out but is still available to slink around the ankles when circumstances allow. But, bloody hell, it’s hard being hard. I’ve had to distract myself in a manner of ways.
Firstly, I thought I’d get fit. A few years ago I was finely honed rope of running gristle. I have a photograph where my head looks like a lollipop on the smallest body I’ve had since I was 11. My dad didn’t like it; my friends told me I needed to be careful. I took their advice. That was 2 stone ago. I dropped the running soon after Shocktober ’12 and the day that life imploded. There was nothing to run away from after all, all the shit had arrived. And, Lord knows, I have needed the red wine to get through. But now, I can spend my ‘free time’ (the hour or so I can squeeze out of the day if I speed read Billionaire Boy to one child and set the alarm for 6:30am so I can make the sandwiches in the dark morning kitchen) I can spend this time getting my bikini body back. As that’s obviously a massive priority in my champagne jet-set lifestyle. Those camping trips to Suffolk are just not the same without a chiselled egg-box of a midriff rippling away under the cagoule.
I chose a YouTube video called ’30 Minute Cardio Hell Hole’ or something like that and remembered where my lycra was. I didn’t bother with the sports bra, I gave that to my ex partner’s teenager when I realised that my once ‘Black and White French Art House Film’ minimal spiky runners’ breasts had slowly proved themselves into magnificent basins of dough.
Shall we just say that what then followed, tested both the foundations of this house, my relationship with the couple next door and my pelvic floor. It’s a marvellous thing to have a downstairs toilet. You can bounce off for an assessment service stop during all the 14 second power rests. Power rests. WTF?? Can I point out that jogging like a boxer is not ‘resting’ in my book.
Anyway. I felt great afterwards. Until the next day when I couldn’t even get my own shoes on.
Secondly, in my habit changing week, I read that red wine is very calorific. It is the same as eating a huge greasy fried donut every night. How can that be? it’s a see-through liquid. So unfair. But I’ve heard that Gin and Slimline Tonic is less lard-loading so obviously, I’ve invested heavily in this new way of losing weight. Thank you Aldi. I also bought a bountiful crop of sanitary products.
Oh My Bejesus. What is happening to my undercarriage? (look away now all men and all women under 43) Why the heck does it seem hell bent on creating a scene reminiscent of an 1980’s American Horror Film each month? I’m not changing my mind. I’m not having any more children. It does not need to put on a display worthy of Vegas to remind me of the fleeting fecund possibilities. It’s just a massive hassle. Super Plus? HAHAHAHHAHA. I laugh at your Super Plus. Make a new category. Call it ‘Taggart, There’s Been A Murder’ because that one line (in a Scottish accent – click here for the original) is all I keep saying as I try to deal with this crazy swan-song fountain that my muddled old body is so desperately proffering.
SO, the Gin is helping. It’s been a challenging week. I’m a bit up and down and up and DOWN and UPPPPPP. And I’ve told him to stop contacting me.
And I keep hoping he’s going to contact me.