A SCARY CASE OF DIVORCE

I was delighted to be asked by BBC Breakfast to comment on the emotive subject of Kathleen Wyatt’s claim against her ex-husband, the ex-hippy, vegan, green energy tycoon (and multi-millionaire) Dale Vince this morning.  And what a hot topic it seems to be.

Before I even start writing this piece, I would like to point out that I do not know any of the individuals concerned in the recent divorce rulings I am about to discuss.  I do not believe that any of us will ever know the complete details, so my views are based on the various (and numerous) media reports that have been broadcast and published in the last couple of days. 

The Kathleen Wyatt case comes at an interesting time, given the recent ruling against Tracey Wright, (former wife of the Newmarket equine vet), where Lord Justice Pritchford said that Mrs Wright should “just get on with it” and find a job like “vast numbers of other women with children”.

It would seem to me, and quite a number of people I have spoken to today, that these two cases seem to be quite at odds with each other.  And not surprisingly some are finding it worrying and confusing.

In the case of Kathleen Wyatt, it would appear that she has brought up Dale Vince’s son without any financial support from him.  Ultimately, Mr Vince is the father of the child, and in moral terms at least, he really should take financial responsibility – just like everyone else does.  And in fairness to Kathleen Wyatt, it would seem that she is not asking for a percentage of his wealth, but ‘back payments’ of maintenance.  Maybe she’s asking for too much.  The court seems to indicate that she is aiming too high. But she has to start somewhere.   

I hear gasps of shock and horror from the men in the crowd!!  The Vox Pops are full of outrage and protests that after such a long time, given that his wealth was accrued post divorce, she should get nothing.  Why not?   IF his total lack of financial responsibility for years and years is the cause of her having to claim benefits, maybe us taxpayers should have a refund too?  Hmmm…. 

Sadly, this leads me straight back to the case of Tracey Wright – and for those of you who missed that story, in brief, Mrs Wright has had a judge reverse a previous order for maintenance.  Her problem is quite simple and I see and hear this time and time again.  In order for Mrs Wright to work, she has to pay someone to look after her child.  She does not have a highly paid job to return to, so in practical terms, she is unable to earn more money that she would have to pay out in childcare.

Many women are in the same situation as her.  After having more than one child, the economics of paying for two children to have childcare is often unviable – unless there is a sharing of duties between the parents, and possibly a support network of grandparents.  In addition, the parents may have mutually decided that they want one parent to stay at home to raise their children.  Sadly, this mutual agreement seems to be very frequently and conveniently forgotten by some men during a divorce.

And with all this frenzied debate about money, who is entitled to what, whether ex-wives are just after a ‘meal ticket for life’ (which I think suggests laziness!) and told to ‘get on with it’ and get a job – not ONCE has the welfare of children been discussed.  In Mrs Wright’s case, the judge suggested that women with children over the age of seven should get part time work.  I am curious.  What magically happens to a child when they turn seven?

As a divorcee, I will carry eternal guilt.  Every time one of my children does something they shouldn’t, I question whether it is a result of their parents divorce.  It is therefore crucial to me that their lives are kept as stable as I can possibly afford for them to be.  Like many women I speak to, I would and do forfeit a considerable amount to ensure that their lives are kept as close as possible to the ones they had before my divorce.  Obviously there have to be changes.  But what I will never fathom is why one judge can so badly undervalue motherhood, whilst the Supreme Court is pilloried for suggesting that motherhood has value – because that was the point of the ruling.

Everyone has a standpoint on these matters.  It is normally the standpoint that best suits them (and I am sure I’m as guilty as the next person on that) and arguing will never resolve it.  The only solution is to stop these situations from developing in the first place.  Personally, I believe that the welfare of children should be put first; no one should be granted a Decree Absolute unless they have a financial agreement in place; and once in place, the agreement should not easily be overturned.

No matter what your standpoint is, I hope that you will agree that post divorce, everyone should be allowed peace to get on with their lives. 

A day to remember for the rest of my life!

Well, it's been way too long since I last posted on my blog.  And I have really appreciated those messages from people asking me to write again, wanting to know what I've been up to.  

Needless to say, I've been busy!

My last post was just before the London Marathon.  And I have never got round to posting about it.  So now I will!!

I was so focused on getting a good time and nervous about the environment, running in such a huge crowd of people and the fear of just having a total melt down.  But as is often the case, on the day I dug deep, focused on what I had to do and just got on with it. 

It was a really brilliant day and phenomenal experience.  After a panic about how I was going to get to the start, I was offered a lift to the mainline station, for which I was enormously grateful.  On the train there, lots of nervous people were striking up conversations with strangers.  Strangers united by what we had ahead of us… I don’t think there was anyone on the train who wasn’t taking part.  A group of four Japanese women, who had clearly come to London just to take part, were chatting and laughing nervously. 

I sat opposite an amazing man, who told me that he was running for a homeless charity.  He himself had been homeless and had a breakdown five years before.  The charity had got him back on his feet and into work, so he now raises money for them.  I felt quite humbled.

We all piled off the train and went to our different start locations.  The signs along the route, telling people not to wee in people’s gardens, made us all laugh and eased the tension.

My friends were madly texting and phoning me, wishing me good luck.  I piled past the Rhino costumes to find out where the toilets were and where I was supposed to hand my bag in.  The big screen and speaker system was keeping us posted and the tension in the air was tangible. 

Finally, after at least two visits to the toilet, it was time to hand my bag in. That meant I was handing my phone over too.  After a final call to my kids and a friend, the phone was gone and despite being in a crowd of thousands, I have never felt so alone!

I made a final visit to the female urinals (seriously, I just had to do it!!!) and have never seen anything so funny!  Portable urinals are clearly made for men.  And men are generally taller than women.  I walked in to see a row of women, standing on their tip toes, bare bottoms showing, trying to wee through a cardboard cone. 

And then I went to find my start point.  Alas, as I was running for a charity, I was almost at the back.  The only people behind me were the ones wearing the silly costumes!  I didn’t envy them one bit!

 As you may remember, the Boston Marathon was only a week before London.  The dreadful bombing was fresh in everyone’s minds and we had a minute’s silence to remember those people who died or were injured.  It was spooky.  In a crowd of over 30,000 people, you could have heard a pin drop.  And then we heard the siren go off to start the race.  It took a slow 20 minutes walk to even reach the start line. 

And then we were off.  It’s amazing how focused you can be.  I ran past the Cutty Sark, and didn’t even notice it!  (For those of you who don’t know what the Cutty Sark is, Google it – it’s amazing!!).  I remember the bit where someone in the crowd had been handing out pieces of orange to everyone.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t so nice for us at the back, who had to run over all the slippery orange skins people had dropped! 

There were cheering crowds all along the 26.2 mile route.  Bands were playing.  Pubs had big speakers with music blaring out at us.  It was brilliant.  I knew roughly where my friends were going to be cheering me along and was thrilled to actually see them! 

We were given water and isotonic sports drinks at regular intervals.  I remembered the rule about drinking to your thirst, not feeling you had to drink the whole bottle.  I was warned about the debris of empty water bottles along the route and was very careful not to trip on them. 

It was a tough run, mostly because I wasted five minutes queuing for the toilet and found it really tough trying to get past people.  But the atmosphere kept me going.  I remembered the rule about not walking.  The rule is:  if you stop running, it’s unbelievably hard to start again.  So don’t do it!

As I got to the final few miles stretch, I was hoping to see my children.  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t struggling at that point.  In my head, I was trying to work out whether I should just say “sod it” and walk the last mile.  “I could just walk.” I thought.  “It’s not like I’m going to get a prize if I run.”  I was just so tired.  But then I wondered what my kids would think if their Mum was walking.  How could I let them think I’m a loser!

As these thoughts were wizzing round my head, I suddenly heard a loud voice calling my name.  I looked back and there they were, waving and shouting at me.  I could hardly give up now, could I?!!

As I turned the corner from The Embankment into The Mall, running past Buckingham Palace I was looking at the count down signs.  1,000km to go, then 750km.  All I could think was: I don’t do metric!  Why aren’t the signs in miles!  And then, finally, to the sound of blaring music, with a massive grin on my face, I crossed the line.  I’d done it.  I wasn’t sure of my time, but I’d run a marathon. 

Never, in all of my life, have I ever felt such a sense of achievement.  I could barely speak.  I was so confused that I couldn’t find the lorry that had my numbered bag on it.  I had to be helped by a nice man who was working there.  He found my bag for me, led me to a tree to sit down.  Opened my bag for me – because I literally couldn’t coordinate my fingers to open it myself – and gave me my drink and food.  Until the sugar kicked in, I couldn’t even make a phone call. 

Then finally, a text came through.  I had run the London Marathon in 3hours 53mins.  My target was to run it in under 4 hours, with 3h 45m being my ultimate goal.

I was disappointed that I didn’t make the 3h 45m I was hoping for – but really pleased to have conquered the 4 hour target. 

That evening, my friends came round and plied me with Champagne and pizza.  Apparently, I kept asking the same questions over and over and was talking complete rubbish.  The exhaustion and alcohol had definitely got the better of me!

It was a day that I will never forget.  It gave me such an amazing sense of achievement and a massive boost to my self confidence.  

Apart from having my kids... It's the greatest thing I've ever done!

And the million dollar question.  Would I do it again?

Sure as hell I would!!!!! 

My Marathon Year!

I don't know whether it's a result of all of last year's Olympic excitement, but this year, all my local friends (who are seriously into their sport) seem to be committing to huge physical challenges.  There are 100 mile cycle races being booked, Iron Mans and half Iron Mans, and as for me... finally (and not without some trepidation!), I have a place in the London Marathon!

It would seem rather obvious to point out that running 26.2 miles is a huge physical challenge for an old bird like myself…!  But what I don’t think I really took on board, until I started the training, was what an emotional and psychological challenge it is. 

And so, this January, having recovered from Christmas and New Year, I started on my training schedule.  As it stands, I have four days a week when I run; one day when I swim; another day I go to the gym and work on my abdominals and core strength and finally, a day of rest.

I can imagine many people wonder where I get the time, because it does take a considerable amount of time.  And I have to answer that despite being the world’s worst morning person, I have had to learn to get up early.  And I mean early, when it’s still cold and dark.  I have also had to work out a way to combine it with other commitments.  For example, taking my kids to school by public transport and running home, instead of driving the car.  And the worst I’ve experienced so far is running in the half dark when it’s -2C and snowing, arriving back at the car with frozen hair and eyebrows.  Did I enjoy it?  Hell, no!  But the sense of achievement was incredible.

I am not a young person any more.  Young in spirit maybe, but not in body!  I admit that I sometimes worry that I will get up one day and my legs will just fall off!  But I am now committed to doing it and I don’t want to let myself or my children down.

I know I have a long way to go.  The longest run I’ve done so far is 14.5 miles – and I’ve only done it twice.  But I am discovering so much about myself.

I realise that I have the capacity to do far more than I give myself credit for.  I have no doubt that many of us, who are not over-burdened with self-confidence, are the same as me.  But I also know that I have to be prepared psychologically.  On a weekly basis, I am having to run ever increasing distances.  But I can’t do it if I’m not mentally prepared. I have to set my mind to the distance, or number of laps of the park, and just focus on doing it. 

Whilst I am very lucky to have a group of people I can train with, some of whom are experienced marathon runners, I have had to learn to zone out if they are either faster than me, or wanting to do a greater distance.  I have to rein in my competitiveness, forget about what everyone else is up to, and just concentrate on improving my own fitness level.  And that’s not always easy.

I don’t have vast amounts of emotional flexibility.  If I’m running with someone who decides, during the last quarter of the run, that they want to up the speed, or just do a couple of extra miles, I find it demoralising.  Part of me wants to excuse my lesser ability by attributing it to others being younger, or male!  The other part of me thinks it’s no excuse!  Maybe this is something I need to work on in the next couple of months.  To focus on my ability to deal with the ‘extras’ when I’m feeling like I’m already pushing myself.

When I first told people I was doing the marathon they asked what time I wanted to achieve.  To begin with, I said I would be happy to just finish the race.  Now, I want to do it in under four hours.  I know I will be really disappointed with myself if I don’t.  In the next few months, I will be keeping a training diary – which I hope I don’t bore you with!  And I also want to mention I am doing this for charity. 

My next post will be about the charity I’m running for.  And I will post a link to my Just Giving page.  If anyone feels inspired by what I’m doing, or just likes what the charity does, I would, of course, be really grateful for any sponsorship you feel able to give. 

All of a sudden, running 26.2 miles is seeming less of a tall order.  Raising the money for charity is scaring me more!

Is there life after divorce...? Join the debate.

Tonight, Graham Torrington of the late show on BBC radio in the Midlands, will be talking about divorce and asking: "Is there life after divorce?"

The programme is broadcast from 10pm on BBC WM, BBC Coventry & Warwickshire, and BBC Hereford & Worcester.

I will be appearing on Graham Torrington's programme at 10.30.

The programme wants to hear from divorcees (men and women!), wherever you are in the UK or overseas.

Just call 08453 009956 or email gt@bbc.co.uk.

Or, you can just listen in at http://www.bbc.co.uk/wm.

New school, new mothers...

Before getting into this blog post, I think I should explain exactly what type of mother I am.

I love my children to bits.  I would do anything for them.  Should I ever meet the man of my dreams, he would have to accept me and my children as a ‘job lot’.  Where the kids are concerned, there is no compromise.  They will always come first.

However, I am not a helicopter mother. I have no desire to get involved in endless school activities, competitive cake baking, or anything else that involves mothers becoming overly and unnecessarily involved.

That said, I wouldn’t want my kids to be excluded from any social activities, because I can’t be bothered to get involved.  And so, when I was invited to go out and meet the local mothers from my son’s new school, I was more than happy to go.  After all, Mums nights out at the previous school were usually a bit of a riot – but I realised that the new school has a very different dynamic!

Finally, the day arrived.  I openly admit that I wasn’t looking forward to it.  It was my ‘night off’ when the kids are at their Dad’s and quite frankly, I would rather have been going out with friends.  Without wishing to sound harsh, I had met a few nice parents at the school, but, to be frank, most of them seemed… well… a little dull!!!

I arrived at the Tapas Bar 20 minutes late.  I figured that if I was a little late, I could just sneak in at the end of the table, everyone would have had a glass of wine, have loosened up a bit, and maybe, if I was lucky, we would have a fun evening.

In my wildest dreams, I could never have imagined how the evening would go!

When I walked into the tiny restaurant, there was barely any audible conversation.  It felt like a funeral wake.  A bunch of women, who I realized were ‘my group’ were sitting around a long table.  Not a bottle of wine was to be seen.  Everyone seemed to be drinking…. water!  I kid you not. 

As I sat down at the end of the table, a very bossy officious woman handed me a marker pen and sheet of sticky labels. 

Without so much as introducing herself, she demanded that I:

“Write your name and your child’s name on it!”

I did as I was told.  And then I stuck the sticker on my top.  I honestly can’t remember the last time I had to sit around displaying my name on a sticky label – but I know it’s been a very long time!

Having introduced myself to the mothers nearest to me, everything went very quiet.  I was beginning to think it was going to be a very, very long evening.

Finally, someone at the other end of the table made the radical suggestion that we might order a glass of wine.  A few brave mothers suggested that maybe they’d have ‘a glass’.  And just as I was about to scream:

“For God’s sake, bring me a bottle and a straw!” some sensible woman suggested that we should just get a bottle of red and a bottle of white.

I could bore you with tales of the conversation – but will limit myself to my two favourites.

Bossy Woman, (the one with the labels!), having banged on about how important it is to learn Latin (I bit my lip!), actually started to speak in Latin.  It was so pretentious and surreal, that I thought maybe someone had spiked my drink and I was just hallucinating!

And secondly, the very tall, extremely attractive, skinny mother, who didn’t look like she had even half a pound to loose, refused to eat and spent at least 15 minutes telling us all about her diet.  I’m sure you can imagine how irritating, not to mention boring, that is, for women who are clearly not built in quite the same mould!!

Then, as abruptly as she had handed me the sheet of stickers, Bossy Woman stood up and announced that the evening was over.  (By which she actually meant that she was going home!).

A few other mothers left at the same time and the rest of us, whilst hardly having a wild time, did have a nice chat for a short while, whilst finishing our drinks.

As I stepped back into my house, the night still young, and me still sober, I consoled myself that I had done ‘the right thing’ and would at least wake up without a hangover. 

On reflection, it made me laugh to myself that there has been no rush to organize another night out! 

I did my bit, behaved myself, and most importantly, my child knows that I went for him!

The Rebound Guy - RIP

Two weeks ago, as I was running home from the school drop off, in the crisp sunny autumn weather, I received a somewhat unexpected phone call. It was Jimmy, a colleague of ‘The Rebound Guy’, whom I have not spoken to for at least a year.

 I realised straight away that he could only be calling because something had happened – and my gut was telling me it had to be bad.

I was right.

 “I had to call you.” He said. “I really thought you should know.”

 He went on to explain that RG had had two brain haemorrhages. The second one had put him in a critical condition, in intensive care.

 “He’s dying Lara. It’s just a matter of time.”

 The whole thing seemed surreal. I couldn’t quite get my head around it. I wandered around all day not quite knowing how I felt about it. Then finally, that afternoon at 5pm, as I was driving back from school, he called again.

 “I’m sorry Lara. They did a brain stem scan earlier, and there was no activity. So the family decided to switch off the life support. He’s dead. I’m so sorry.”

 The chit chat of my youngest son seemed to disappear into the background. I struggled to concentrate on not rear-ending the car in front, whilst trying to absorb what I had just been told.

 I have never had such a strange mixture of emotions. Having separated on such bad terms, I had had no plans or desire to see him ever again. But that was, largely, within my control. His death, and the fact that I no longer had a choice in the matter, was very confusing.

 If I had had the chance to see him before he died, what would I have said? Would it make any difference? Would it generate an apology from him for his bad behaviour? Would I have forgiven him?

On reflection, I would have liked to know earlier and I would have gone to see him, although I have no idea what I would have said. The only possible explanation for going to see him would have been that I knew he was dying. I doubt I would have been able to acknowledge that to him, because he may not have been aware of it himself. And in the unlikely event he had apologised for his behaviour, would I have forgiven him? Yes, of course. If someone is genuinely sorry, I could never hold a grudge.

Over the course of the next week, I was very distracted thinking about it. Jimmy called me again to tell me the details of the funeral and I spent the next two weeks agonising about whether to go.

Finally, I decided that going to the funeral was the ‘right’ thing to do. And I didn’t want to regret afterwards that I hadn’t gone.

Jimmy offered to pick me up on the way. He turned up in his van (!), wearing a very smart suit. The whole thing seemed quite comical – and after I’d teased him about dusting my seat before I got in, we had quite an honest and entertaining conversation on the way to the crematorium.

When we arrived, there were a lot of his Italian relatives in attendance. I couldn’t help but comment to Jimmy that it looked like the cast of The Godfather.

As we went into the chapel, it struck me that he would have been really pleased at the number of people who had turned up to see him off. It was a strange mix of people and I was amused to note that so many of them were clearly wondering who everyone else was.

The service was humanist – which was only befitting his staunchly anti-Catholic views – and the minister (if that’s what you call them) summed up his life perfectly:

He was a larger than life character who had lived life hard. He was highly intelligent, had a wicked sense of humour, could be brilliant company, was a talented artist and had an incredible eye for detail. In his work, he was a perfectionist. He also had a very dark side, he was controlling, had an evil, sometimes violent temper, was a terrible parent and his chaotic childhood had left him unable to function in any relationship.

But - he was a one off.

After a brief ceremony, the curtains closed around the coffin and we all filed out. Whilst I felt deep sympathy for his sisters and his son, I couldn’t help but feel that somehow, given the chaotic way he lived his life, dying so suddenly and at such a young age, was his ‘get out of jail free’ card.

Being the glass half full type that I am, despite all the chaos he caused me, I have to thank him for giving me the courage to leave a failed marriage. And if there is any kind of existence after death, I hope that he has been set free.

It’s hard to explain how all the chaos and trauma of my divorce were entwined with the relationship I had with him. In the back of my mind, I had always had a terrible fear of his reappearing at an inopportune moment and dredging up all those horrible feelings.

As Jimmy drove me home after the service it struck me that strangely, I felt set free too.

My Olympic Summer

For those of you who so kindly take the time to read my blog, I apologise for the rather long absence.

My excuse…? Well, to be honest, there isn’t an excuse per se – I’ve just been incredibly busy, thoroughly enjoying the Olympics and having a fantastic time with my kids and friends.

In addition, I think I have been suffering ‘blog fatigue’. And rather than write a whole pile of nonsense, I decided it would be better to abstain from blogging until the writers’ block dislodged itself.

My kids are now off on holiday with their father, which has given me time for reflection after the hectic first few weeks of the school holidays. I have been thinking about how different I feel this summer, compared to last year. I miss the kids a great deal, but last year, in their absence, I felt quite alone. This year, I am struggling to find enough time to spend on my own. I’m not complaining, quite the opposite, I am relishing the hectic pace of life – even though I wish there were a few more hours in the day.

Before the kids went away, having got through the excitement of all the end of term events, it was no time at all until the Olympic torch was making its way almost past our house, en route to the stadium. With six kids and four adults in tow, and after 20 minutes waiting, the torch passed us in a split second. But hey! We were there and have the photos to prove it! And I hope that in years to come, the kids forget about ‘being bored’ and waiting around, and remember eating ice creams and being part of something extraordinary, that will never happen again in their lifetimes. And of course, there was the obligatory party back at my house afterwards!

During the week before the Olympics started, I was lucky enough to be invited to watch the rehearsal for the Olympic Opening Ceremony. It was a fantastic evening. I’m not especially nationalistic, but it was definitely one of those moments that made me feel proud to be British - not just because of the show that was put on, but because everyone was so well behaved and polite. There was rapturous applause for everyone taking part in the ceremony and as we left, no one pushed or shoved. No one complained about being kept waiting to get onto the tubes and trains home – everyone just felt thrilled to have been a part of the whole event.

Having failed miserably to get tickets to the Olympics, we were invited to a friend’s house two days on the trot, to watch both the men’s and women’s bike races. Quite apart from the great party my friend laid on, having such a close view of the cyclists going past and soaking up the atmosphere was fantastic. And the kids loved it!

I have never been all that interested in the Olympic Games before, but this time I am addicted. It must be the combination of my starting to do triathlons this year, the fact that it’s all taking place in my home town and having friends who are really interested in it all. I’ve downloaded the BBC Olympics App and have found myself checking the tally of medals! On my eldest’s behalf, I even worked out the ratio of Chinese to British populations, to demonstrate just how brilliantly our tiny little country is doing per capita.

Sadly, this weekend it will all be over! But then I have the kids return from their holiday to look forward to – not to mention another triathlon, which the kids are coming to watch me compete in. So I am making the most of the kids absence to train hard and get some really boring jobs done at home – with the TV on in the background, tuned into the Olympics of course.

As I cycled home from a friend’s house the other evening, using the pavement, as I had no lights on the bike, I felt an extraordinary sense of freedom and lightness. A bit like a teenager! I have one more week to relish this feeling before slipping back into my role as a responsible mother.

I think this must be the first summer holiday I have had, since the kids were school age, which is going to go by way too quickly.

Rakish Charm

Last week, my wonderful hairdresser came to chop all of our hair. I have know him for a very long time and I regard him as a fantastically kind and supportive friend.

The fact that he is a brilliant hairdresser almost becomes a moot point. But I would hate to miss the opportunity to say he is the only hairdresser in the world I would let anywhere near my tresses!

When we do get together, he always wants to hear what I’ve been up to. And being my hairdresser, I feel obliged to divulge! I honestly don’t think that there’s a lot he doesn’t know about me! But that’s the point, isn’t it? We all need someone we can trust with our deep dark secrets! Someone who never judges us, but gives us support.

And so after the initial pleasantries, by which I really mean the time it took to cut the kids’ hair, we kicked the kids upstairs and the real conversation began.

“How’ve you been?” He enquired. To which I had to admit, I’ve had a couple of rough weeks.

A couple of weeks ago, I woke up with dreadful tooth pain. I rushed to the dentist (who is a friend of mine) to discover that the bash I gave my head earlier in the year did more damage than I had thought. The scar above my eyebrow may have given me a Rakish* appearance (according to a friend) but somewhat more seriously, it has damaged and killed a molar, resulting in the need for root canal work. Oh, what fun!

Whilst the dentist may be a good friend of mine, I am still terrified of going to the dentist and I felt incredibly vulnerable. In all honesty, I would rather be immersed in a vat of hot tar than “lie back and open wide” in the dentist’s chair. (Actually, that sounds a bit naughty! Ahem… I digress!). My friend Sarah has always been a complete trouper and I know she would have offered to pick me up afterwards, but I felt guilty asking.

Hell, I’m a big girl! I can get through a root canal without the need for assistance! It should come as no surprise therefore, that when an old boyfriend phoned me out of the blue and offered to look after me, I jumped at it!

He even offered to bring me a bottle of Champagne, if I promised not to be a big girl’s blouse and cry!

Well, after an hour’s horror in the dentist’s chair, we staggered over to my ex-boyfriend’s house. Despite the fact I had no feeling in one side of my face, and was dribbling, I managed to draw a glass of champagne to my lips.

Maybe it was the relief at having got through the first stage of horrific dental work, or maybe it was the combination of pain killers, alcohol and a certain sexual ‘frisson’ that still exists between us, but… I just didn’t want the afternoon to end. My friend started to worry that I would be late to collect the kids from school. But I was on a roll… I was closer to school than my own home, so I just imagined that it would only take a few moments to get there.

“It’s fine! Don’t worry!” I assured him, before realising that there was, in fact, absolutely no way I could get to school in time.

After frantically calling round a few other mothers, who might be able to collect my youngest, I staggered out of my friends flat. I didn’t have the car – and was to p*ssed to drive it anyway – and there was no way I could make it by bus. I had no option but to take a taxi.

I arrived at school, leapt out of the taxi to grab child 1, before dashing to another building to collect child 2. I would like to point out that my children were never at any risk, but I was still a little p*ssed.

Having deposited the kids with their Dad, I went out with Sarah and Running Man. I managed to get through the evening without divulging my dreadful behaviour, but on the way home, I finally confessed to my debauched state earlier in the day. Running Man was suitably amused.

“I just can’t believe you would get yourself into such a state that you would have to take a taxi, for a five minute journey, to collect your kids.” He shrieked. “What were you thinking?”

I instantly felt like a bad mother.

“But it could have been worse.” I protested.

“Worse? How?” Running Man continued.

“Well, imagine if I’d turned up with messed up hair and a glazed expression!” You know where I’m going with this, right? “He is an ex-boyfriend. And there was alcohol present. Imagine how that would have got the mothers talking!”

As the scissors snip snipped at my hair, I could hear my hairdresser chuckling to himself.

“It’s strange isn’t it? Just how much your life has changed.”

And I have to admit, I could never have guessed what a lot of fun I could have. I would love to say that I worry that I might be seen as some kind of louche mother. But the truth is…

I’m having way too much fun to care!


1. Rakish – Having or displaying a dashing, jaunty, or slightly disreputable quality or appearance.

Trim and fast-looking, with streamline angles and curves.

Oh, God! I had no idea I’d be so happy to be described as Rakish!

Porn and Sexy Ladies

Strangely, over the last week, the subject of porn seems to have risen its head a number of times. (Ooops – that sounds like some dreadful pun. But maybe I’m just being smutty!)

It started last weekend, with a small group of friends, after a couple of drinks. I have no recollection of how the conversation started, but I do remember that it ended up with two friends, one male, one female, insisting that all men look at porn.

For reasons I don’t want to get into here and now, I got upset about it. I don’t mind admitting that it is something I am very uncomfortable with. I can intellectualise it, and reason that if it’s not harming anyone involved in its production, and is only exposed to consenting adults, it should not be a problem.

But as a woman, I have to say it makes me feel cheapened. I guess it doesn’t really matter if Joe Blogs wants to look at porn, but I would be upset if a man I was involved with was looking at it. I also worry about how children view it, how it affects their attitudes to women and most of all, how scarily easy it is to access on the Internet.

Given my feelings on the subject, you can imagine my surprise when I got a phone call from my youngest child’s teacher.

Having reassured me that my child was not in any trouble or at risk of life or limb, she went on to explain that there had been a little ‘incident’ at school.

It transpires that two of the children in the class had noticed the cards in phone boxes, advertising the services of… well… prostitutes. One of the children (both are boys) had decided that some internet research was required.

And so, when his mother left him for five minutes to print out information for his Olympics project, he decided to do a search for “sexy ladies”. What he discovered, was undoubtedly more than any child of his age (7 yrs old) could have predicted. I did not see them myself, but I understand that they were graphic images. Nice.

The following day, having stashed his print outs into his school bag, he decided to show a couple of his class mates – with my child being one of them.

Clearly, the two children that were shown the images were shocked.

“They were totally inappropriate, Mum.” I was confidently told (by my 8 yr old). And I don’t doubt it.

They told the teacher that the child had inappropriate pictures in his bag and all hell broke loose. The child was dragged off to see the deputy head, his parents were called in and the child was left in no doubt about the seriousness of his actions.

And that’s where I started to get concerned.

Had the child done this before, and been told it was inappropriate behaviour, I would have supported the school’s actions. But as it is, he had never done this before and could not possibly have known what he was going to encounter.

So do I blame the parents? Knowing them as I do, no, I don’t. I cannot believe there is a single parent out there that hasn’t, at least once, taken their eye off the ball for just a moment. And that’s all that had happened.

When I caught up with the father of the other child that was shown the print offs, I was interested to hear him also voice his concern that the child should not be made to feel shamed. In fact, there was a part of me that could see a little glimmer of entrepreneurial spirit in his actions – although I suspect his parents have greater hopes for him than his becoming the next Hugh Heffner!

Without in any way wishing to diminish my child’s concern at what he had seen, I did find myself smiling on the way home in the car.

As I said at the outset, I do have a bit of an issue with porn. Sorry, but as a woman, I just don’t like it. But any worries I may have had, about teaching my children to be respectful of women and their bodies, seem (for the time being at least) not to be an issue.

Dating Coach or Emotionally incontinent F*ck Wit…? You decide…

We live in a mad and crazy world…

I met up with my great friend @AHLondon_Tex today.  She had cunningly arranged for the kids (hers, mine, and an assortment of others) to be ‘entertained’ elsewhere, so that we could have a good catch-up.  

Her Russian friend, Anechka, was also there.  

For background reference, Anechka is a very attractive young mother, whose husband has decided to ‘absent’ himself from her life, without giving her the courtesy of a divorce.

As a result of his two year absence, A has decided that, should a romantic opportunity present itself, she should not turn it down.

And so, a couple of weeks ago, she took herself off to the cinema alone.  On her return, she bumped into a tall, handsome English man… 

Having made eye contact, he approached her and struck up a conversation.  He explained that he lived round the corner, thought she was very attractive and asked if he could take her for a drink sometime.

She was flattered by his attention, gave him her number and suggested he give her a call.  Over the next couple of days they texted each other and arranged a ‘date’.

So far, so good…

They met in a friendly local pub and the conversation seemed to flow well.  It was at that point that she asked him what he did for a living.  To begin with, he avoided her question, which struck her as ‘odd’ and made her more curious.  She asked him again, and somewhat reluctantly, he explained that he was a ‘Dating Coach’.

I’ve heard of dating coaches before, but never actually met one.  Neither had A, who was a little surprised by this revelation.

Naturally curious, she asked him what type of people he ‘helps’.  He responded by telling her about his most recent client.  An unhappy, overweight, 22 year old ‘virgin’, with a whole ton of problems.  Apparently, he takes his ‘clients’ out on the street to help them ‘chat up’ women and get their phone numbers. 

It immediately struck me that his ‘training’ might help a 22 year old virgin get a date, but then what?  It’s not going to make him any slimmer, more attractive, help him address his personality issues, secure a second date or finally address his virginity!

But I digress…

Having been slightly stumped by the revelation that he was a Dating Coach, Anechka was more than a little alarmed when he started getting a little ‘fresh’ with her.  And when I say ‘fresh’ I really mean ‘outrageous’!  Call me quirky, but I find it a little odd that a Dating Coach would think it appropriate to stick his hand up someone’s dress on a first date.  Had he introduced himself as a ‘Get Laid Quick’ coach, I might have been less surprised.

Feeling more than a little uncomfortable and realising that the guy was actually quite dull, not to mention a pervert, A decided to make her excuses and go home. 

Over the next couple of days, there was an exchange of texts.  I have to confess, I thought it was rather forgiving of A to even speak to him again.  Then finally, the fourth day after the ‘date’, A decided to ask how the 22 year old virgin was getting on.

The reply was extraordinary.

It read:  “You said how is “your” Virgin.  This implies that said Virgin is someone important to me.  This client is not important to me and we don’t have ongoing contact.  Meeting him was not a significant event in my life.  Anechka, I did not understand your reference.  Perhaps you should consider that the fault lies with your poor use of English rather than criticising my mental faculties or integrity.”

To be brutally honest, I’ve always suspected that ‘Life Coaches’ and ‘Dating Coaches’ are not much more than pub psychologists, acting pompous and charging a fortune.  But this one seems more like a sociopath.  I’m just glad A got out of it in one piece and not after having her drink laced with Rohypnol.

It just makes me more convinced than ever that the best way to meet someone is through friends.  And if you do go on a blind date, for goodness sake go somewhere public and make sure they know exactly where you are going.

And as for ‘Dating Coaches’, the more I think about it, the more I think it’s not so much the ‘blind leading the blind’ but more ‘the emotionally incontinent guiding the f*ck wits…’  

And to think the f*ckwits have to pay for this service!

What a load of bollocks!

I’m sorry – but there really is no other word for it.  It’s bollocks!  

We live in a mad and crazy world! 

The object of hatred…

This morning, my lovely postman delivered me a very interesting letter.

When I picked up the envelope, I instantly recognised the handwriting as that of my ex-mother-in-law.  My heart sank.  The last few unsolicited letters from her have been unexpected, unprovoked, unwanted and deeply unpleasant.  Actually that’s not strictly true.  Her letters have been deeply offensive and threatening.

I had a dreadful ‘sinking’ feeling as I opened the envelope.  It seemed to contain reams of paper.  She has a bizarre habit of sending me printed copies of the e-mails that she has sent to my ex-husband, accompanied by offensive letters addressed to me.

I am fully aware that my ex-husband has all but moved his new girlfriend into his flat.  By all accounts, she is nice to my children and my ex’s behaviour is much better towards the kids when she’s around.  I have no desire to meet her, but I have positive feelings about her.  But more significantly (given their behaviour) I am aware that she has been introduced to my ex-parents in law. 

Throughout the time I spent with my ex-husband, I was subjected to some exceptionally bad behaviour by my in-laws.  Being objective about it, it seemed clear to me that the abuse was not personal to me (they barely know me, as we have spent so little time together).  Their problem was that they saw me as the woman who had ‘stolen’ their son - as as such, I was the object of their hatred!

So when I heard that the ex had introduced his new girlfriend, I did wonder how long it would be before she become the new focus for their dreadful behaviour.  And I wondered whether they would then leave me alone and focus their venom on the new incumbent.

And so, back to the letter…

Just as predicted, they have decided that they don’t like the new girlfriend.  They have sent their son a letter outlining their reasons for disliking her and told him that she is not welcome in their home. 

He has replied in defence of her and told them that conversely, she thinks highly of them (that bit made me laugh out loud!).  He has also told them that he will not tell his girlfriend what they have said, as he does not want to tarnish her view of them (he doesn’t need to, they do that very well by themselves!).

All of this private correspondence has been printed out by my ex-mother-in-law and posted to me with a covering letter, apologising for anything she has ever done to hurt me.  Absolutely bizarre!

Having expected to get one of her abusive letters, I had a real mixture of feelings about what I had read.

Part of me felt great pity for my ex-husband.  He did not choose his parents.  He can do nothing about their behaviour – and they are unbearable.  I also feel great sympathy for his girlfriend.  Whilst the ex-MIL did outline some rather odd behaviour on her part, there was nothing that she did that warranted them barring her from their home and making unpleasant personal remarks about her. 

I also felt a huge relief that, as predicted, the burden of their dreadful behaviour has been lifted from my shoulders.

But this was all tinged with a bit of sadness too.  To read my ex-husband’s defence of the woman he has known for such a short while, whilst knowing that he did not do the same for me, is undeniably hurtful and distressing.

I was then stumped about what to do.  In the past, I have always told the ex when I have received unpleasant letters from his parents.   But I don’t know what good would come of telling him about this latest letter.  How would it make him feel to know that I had read such personal correspondence.  No one expects a private letter, written to their parents, to be sent to probably the one person above all others that they would hate it to be sent to (in this case ME!).  What would it achieve?  Absolutely nothing but his distress. 

And so, I have decided that I should allow myself a smile and a chuckle.  I think I deserve that, having been the object of their venom for so long. 

I now feel officially ‘divorced’ from the in-laws… and let off the hook.  I feel sorry for the ex – but I feel great for me.

Being a single parent is tough…

Being a single parent is tough.  Isn’t that what they always say?  You read about it in the newspapers and in magazine articles, see it enacted in TV soaps and hear interviews on the radio discussing it.  It always seems to be accompanied by a weary sigh and a sense of hopeless resignation.

To be really honest with you, in practical terms, I can’t actually say that it’s tougher than when I was married.  My ex-husband did none of the domestic chores or kid related stuff anyway.  So on some levels, life is actually easier.  After all, there is less laundry and fewer people to feed.

That said, I do have days when things really get me down.  And the last 24 hours has been one of them. 

Over the last week, the three of us have all had a terrible stomach bug.  A really aggressive bug, which left me (somewhat embarrassingly) crashing into the wall of a friend’s house, whilst struggling to make it to her sofa to lie down.  It was only 8pm, but I was worried that they would think I was already drunk!

My friend subsequently dragged me home and put me to bed and had to come back the following morning to walk the dogs for me, as I just couldn’t get up. 

This was followed by a couple more days of feeling like death warmed up, whilst simultaneously trying to get my eldest to study for his school exams.  Not an easy feat, when you’re doing it by yourself.

But finally, I was on the mend, and the kids went back to school. 

Then yesterday, my little one came home from school with his exam results.  He is still very young and it’s a huge pressure for these children to be doing them.  As he announced his results, I could tell that he was disappointed with the Maths result.  He got a really good mark, but he was upset that he had done less well than in his previous exams. That said, his English had improved significantly and overall, he did really well.

Unfortunately, however, this wasn’t enough for his father. 

Having not seen their Dad for over a week, the little one was clearly looking forward to his mid-week visit.  He wanted to tell his Dad his exam results.  And that’s when it all started going wrong. 

That evening, I had three calls from the kids.  Firstly, the eldest was really upset because his Dad had been really foul and grumpy with him.  Then I had another call from his, just because he was feeling upset and needed to talk to his Mum.  Then I had the little one on the phone, hiding in the bathroom, to say that his Dad had told him that his results were only "acceptable" and that “he should have been getting higher marks” and that “it wasn't really good enough”.

He was so upset - and I was too.  I just wanted to drive over and collect them.... but of course, you can't can you?  

I was at a friend’s house for supper when the phone rang, which was fortunate, because I was so upset, I needed supportive friends around me. 

The situation made me feel helpless and impotent. Unable to protect my two children from someone I shouldn’t have to protect them from anyway.  And whilst trying to keep a practical head on my shoulders, I realized that I had to keep it to myself.  It’s important that the kids can phone me when they feel upset.  Alerting the ‘ex’ to their call would seriously backfire if he took away their phone.

So, sometimes it’s really very tough being a single mother.  And today is definitely one of those days.  Even my friend and Guru @AHLondon was stumped as to how to deal with the situation.  And really, seriously, she knows most things!

But I am a glass half full person and I will plough on…  I may be a single mother, and it may be tough, but I will never be a stereo type!