Twitter does make me laugh —– most days

I’m just a girl …standing in front of your bathtub …. asking you to hold this toaster.


{long post was yesterday, if you want to pop over and have a read}

Dating older men …. and them wanting to date younger women …..



Part of setting up a profile for yourself on any dating site is that you indicate your age, and you indicate the age range of a potential partner.

The site uses this as one facet to “match” you to potential partners.

There are load of other criteria:  religious beliefs, ethnicity, the colour of someone’s eyes, the colour of their hair, whether they have any hair, whether they have piercings or tattoos, whether they drink, whether they smoke, the sort of job they do, their educational level, whether they attend church, whether they have dogs, whether they have brothers and sisters …. the list is pretty endless.

The idea is that the more specific information you supply, the less likely you are going to end up in chats with people who are so far out of your “acceptable range” that it will make you question humanity, and the dating site you are subscribed to.

Realistically the first search criteria are location, age, ethnicity, and belief system, and whether they drink.

I have connected weights to these and all the others that I have been given to select from.  If you say you do not want children, then you need to rate it according to “deal breaker” versus “well, let’s see where this conversation goes.”

A few days ago I was approached by someone older than me.

I glanced at his profile, and it was not so much the age that was an issue for me — but his series of photographs that not only left me going “what were you thinking?”  They immediately introduced me to someone that I probably would not gravitate to at a dinner table.

All the photographs appeared to be taken with a self timer — maybe not a well set self timer, which may explain his expression – but in more or less the same position in his lounge.

I was also led to believe that he owns white vests and black vests, and rugby shorts.

Without putting too much emphasis on how someone chooses to cloth themselves, I think it would make sense to say vests are not going to assist in moving this into any direction which may or may not result in a relationship of any kind.  A restraining order is probably more likely as the happy ending here.

The reason I am ambling through this post, is I replied to his first two messages and explained that the age gap was going to be an issue for me.  I wished him well for his day, and then got on with mine.

I try my utmost to be honest with people so that we both do not get emotionally invested in this process.  Possibly when I get a bit more jaded (which I am on the cusp of doing) I will just push delete and not respond at all.

I received quite an extensive response from R. and he explained how society creates these scripts we follow with regards to age, and that meeting and connecting with someone often has nothing to do with age.  Interesting people find each other interesting no matter how many birthdays they have had and so on.

I am paraphrasing, but that was the sense of it.

It was polite and well written,and pretty darn convincing.

By the end of it, I really started to think about the “ageism” I was practicing.  For a few moments I started to judge myself quite harshly for excluding this guy, because of his age.  And that is really bad of me.  Judgy.  And short sighted.

I had decided to say nothing about the photographs.  I had been shamed, and now I feel ashamed.

I  tend to give people the benefit of the doubt.  I thought let’s go read through his profile again, and just look at the rest and “ignore” the age and the vests —- and that he is wearing “hooker” stockings in the one photograph, which was not taken at a party, but looks like he was alone in his lounge.  Again.  Like the others.  That besides.

Keep an open mind I said.

I read through his profile again.  Here was the part where I thought —– interesting.  He is 55.  His age range for potential people he wants to meet is 29 – 44 years old!

Well now, that is an interesting little age band for someone who has no sense of age and how we are connected.

Seriously do I really really want to meet a guy who is 55 who has aspirations of dating a 29 year old girl.  And wears hooker stockings, with a vest and a rugby shorts in the privacy of his own home?

Probably not, so I am going to make a rash judgement here — PROFILE BLOCKED!


Timeline of a Divorce

Originally posted  :  · · in Healing From Trauma. ·

I hesitated to share this. Not because it’s private. Or controversial. But I’m afraid people will misinterpret it as an absolute.

And if there’s one universal truth about divorce, it’s that there are no absolutes.

I’m sharing this because I see a need. A void. People reaching out and wondering if their feelings are okay for the place they’re in. We all want to know that we’re “normal” and we seek reassurances that we are while silently worrying that we’re not.

But worrying about if your feelings are normal doesn’t help you feel better.

In fact, it makes you feel worse.

Your feelings are what they at this moment.

And that’s okay.

And it’s also okay to want them to be different and then to work towards making them different (notice the intent is paired with action!).

I am sharing the rough outline of my emotions and mindset at different periods throughout and after my divorce. Please do not use this as a ruler to measure your own progress. Just because I reached a certain benchmark at month eight doesn’t mean you should too.

In fact, ban the word “should” from your mind as you read this. What I hope you get from this timeline is an idea of how healing comes in slowly, even as you’re living. I want you to find comfort in the fact that it’s okay to still struggle after X amount of time has passed. My wish is that you don’t feel alone and that you have faith that you will be healed one day.

Read the rest of this post here —->>>

Good morning …. I appear to have found more Ben Dahlhaus ….

Ben Dahlhaus …. the gift that just keeps on giving ……



Ben Dahlhaus



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On that note, enjoy your Monday further.




This whole grown-up thing has been a hoot …..



Happy weekend everyone!

Reading to your children ….. free podcasts with stories

There is huge value in spending time sitting with your child and reading them a story.

No doubt there are studies and experiments, and scientific journals dedicated to just this area of parenting and whether a child that has been read to, fares better at school than a child that was not read to.



I enjoy reading to my children.  Sometimes I am reluctant to abandon my tv show to go and sit on their beds and read “Find Teddy Bear” or what ever the book is called.

Once I have read the story, I always feel good.  I get that little warm glow that you do when your realised you have done parenting well, or just a bit well.  I also enjoy, as the kids age, the changing levels at which they participate in the stories.

How they remember the “punch lines” or realise too quickly if you have tried to skip three pages. Or make the sounds of the character eating, or sleeping or falling.

Connor is too cool for me to read him a story.

I usually read stories to Georgia and Isabelle together.

There are times however when you can’t always read your child a book, but it would be nice to have some of the classic tales read to them, or have good podcasts on hand.

I know it is easier to pop on a DVD to pass the time, but the beauty of reading is that it creates the story in your child’s head, and your child’s imagination fills in the details — which often they can’t do with a DVD, because all the details are supplied.

I like what goes on in my head when someone tells me a story, or when I read a story.

My brain is able to imagine the tastes, the smells, the sights and the sounds.  My “hearing” of the story differs from everyone else’s, and that is the power of reading and books.

I read the Book Thief and it was one of those stories, the easily evokes the scenes and the characters in your head.  Everyone who I now who has read it, was equally enthralled with the story, and how their mind was able to sketch and colour in the characters.

I am always looking for audio stories that I can play to the kids either when we are driving, or maybe when they are tucked into my bed, and I prefer them not to watch a movie.

I found a few on this site – IONA.FM  this morning, and it includes

Alice in Wonderland

Playtime (BBC Learning)

Step inside a Story

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

The Secret Garden

There are also several Afrikaans podcasts, which are pretty good, and really useful if your child is learning Afrikaans at school and you have an accent like I do when you are trying to help them with their pronunciation.

There are 25 podcast channels for books for children at this stage.

If you were wondering where Gareth Cliff went to –  you can also find him here:


There are several podcasts – you may want to listen to : Clinical Sexologist Prof Elna McIntosh in studio chatting to Gareth on the Gareth Cliff Show would be an interesting one to start with.


Happy podcasting.

For those of you who have never heard of …..

For those of you who have never heard of …..Ben Dahlhaus — it’s a pleasure …


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No, this blog post serves no other function that just a place you can stare at Ben Dahlhaus …..


Need a bit more?

Pop along here –

You can also go over and be his friend on Facebook — he looks like a lad that does not have enough friends –

His instagram has 9 posts, and just short of 2 000 followers —


A mental mind fuck can be nice.


I know all the words to The Rocky Horror Picture Show — the dialogue and all the words to the musical interludes.

Last year I went along to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show at The Fugard.  I was expecting it to be bad, or slightly not great.  Partly because I worship the show so much, and I felt any attempt at it would fall short of the original and leave me dissatisfied, and wanting.

I was wrong.

It is not the first time, and my guess is that it will not be the last time.

It was fucking incredible.  I loved it.

The show was brilliant, the cast were ….. oh my god they were good.

It is back on at The Fugard in Cape Town, from the 22 July 2014 — get tickets, put on your corsette, pull on a pair of stilettos. and rock yourself into a smile.

It is so fucking good — enjoy!




Book at The Fugard – not to be missed!


I sniff puppies …. yes that is what I like to do …..


I am not sure how many pleasures should be guilty pleasures.

My problem with guilt is that when it starts to be the uninvited passenger to your pleasure. It eventually stops being the co-driver and takes the driver’s seat, leaving you to slink away feeling shamed, and embarrassed for every thinking about doing anything delightful.


What do I enjoy ……


1.  Lying in a bath on a Saturday afternoon, sipping my chilled wine and reading my book.  With no kids kicking the door down, no dog hanging over the side of the bath trying to drink the water, and no cat trying to lie behind my head.  Quiet. Peace.  Wine.  Warmth.  A good book that I do not feel guilty that its pages warp.


2.  The Kardashians.  I actually dislike the Kardashians.  I do not understand what their point is on the earth.  I cannot stand hearing them speak, and watching the family do what ever it is that the Kardashians do.  I really detest them.  But this does not stop me flipping through a magazine and being captivated by anything printed, photographed or written about the Kardashians. If it has Kim’s arse in it, then I am even more interested.  I can’t explain it.  I love to hate them.


3.  Buying a pizza that I can throw in the oven, opening a bottle of Viognier, grabbing my warm fuzzy blanket, putting the gas heater on and picking up the remote.  That moment when I settle into the couch and realise I am alone, and it is just me, the 30 000 kilojoules of pizza, the clink of ice in my glass, and my press-press-pressing the remote control buttons.  Pure happiness. Pure happiness right there.


4.  The smell of puppies.  I love the smell of puppies.  I am not sure what it is.  It is a bit of the milky smell, it is that warmth like a jersey left in the sun.  I love to sniff puppies. Yes, people I am a puppy sniffer.


5.  Fresh bread, straight out of the oven, with a dollop of butter, that melts as you try to pick it up — and drips on your shirt as you try to maneuver the bread into your pie hole.    Knowing the entire time that this will set of a spate of IBS that you will be crying about in about an hour …. but there are still 59 minutes to enjoy this moment of true bliss.


I could go on —- I am very embarrassed about my Kardashian obsession — I think I would be more accepting of me if I just picked old chewing gum off from the underside of desks and re-chewed those.

Parents – how they get it right, and how they get it so very wrong …..

I have always been critical over my parents and their ability to parent.

I have written some scathing blog posts in the past.

At the time, that was how I felt.

This blog is where I put my thoughts, my ramblings and sometimes my emotional spews.

I know I can go back and delete, block or amend the many blog posts that I do not necessarily agree with anymore. Or the ones that I do not feel the same about at the moment … I could.  I prefer not to.

One of the things I like about blogging, is that it gives me the luxury to go back and read my thoughts.  To see how I felt about something.  And compare that to how I think and feel about something now.

To recapture my emotions in a slice of time.  To see my view point then.  And compare it to now.  That is a rare gift, and blogging allows that.

My parents should never have married.  If they did not have sex, that would actually have been great too.

Then there would have been no pregnancy, and  no p (more…)

“Weird Al” Yankovic – Word Crimes


Sadly I am often guilty of several of these Grammar and Word Crimes.

I really enjoyed this one from “Weird Al” Yankovic.








For parents, happiness is a very high bar …..



The parenting section of the bookstore is overwhelming—it’s “a giant, candy-colored monument to our collective panic,” as writer Jennifer Senior puts it.

Why is parenthood filled with so much anxiety?

Because the goal of modern, middle-class parents—to raise happy children—is so elusive.

In this honest talk, she offers some kinder and more achievable aims.

Excellent podcast :

Or view the Ted Talks :



Would you consider a discrete friendship?

“Hi, lovely profile. Wud u consider a discrete friendship?” This was from 43–Married–Southern Suburbs (Unspecified Suburb), Cape Town, South Africa  ——–  I’m going to go with, no thanks. My guess is this must work for some men, and women.  Not so much for me.   berry cartoon internet dating  

Suicide Bunny gets me through the day …. sometimes

I am so behind, and keep missing out on these ones, so yes, my blog challenge is pretty much ending up in the toilet.

There was one on day 4  that went along the lines of:  Is there something in your life that you absolutely can’t live without?  What is it and why can’t you imagine life without it?

Let’s assume that I am not permitted to list any of these, which would make life barely worth living if they did not exist:

  • My children
  • My friends
  • Nutella Chocolate Spread
  • Lays chips
  • Chuckles
  • The feeling of emerging yourself in a hot bath that smells like Orange Blossoms at the end of a day when you feel chilled to your bones
  • Wine
  • Toothpaste, toothbrush and ablution facilities
  • Books
  • Beautiful pens to write with
  • Tea
  • Good restaurants
  • Woolworths
  • Good sushi
  • Laughing until you snort
  • Dexter, Parker, and Jackson
  • My laptop
  • My leather boots from Poetry
  • Falling asleep on the couch whilst watching a movie
  • Oxygen, the o-zone layer, the earth’s magnetic force, the sun —- and all the other bits and bobs that keep us stuck to the earth’s surface and wake up to survive another day.

The list is somewhat endless of what I would choose not to live without, and items that are quite dear to my heart.  I could keep this list going until we both got very bored, if you are not there already.

To relook at the question –  Is there something in your life that you absolutely can’t live without? 

I gave it some real thought, not just about “can’t live” but “can’t survive” without ……

I can’t live without humour.  Without my humour often times than not.

I do not think I would NOT have survived my life, or myself without having my sense of humour.

This year has been a total shit festival, on many levels, and even when I was sitting in the corner crying, I still have managed to make myself laugh with the ridiculous way my mind often filters and orders information.

Even at my lowest, my internal funny voice has made me smile, a bit.

My humour is often the vehicle that gets me out of bed, and functioning.  My humour and self deprecating style has been my best tool, and my fondest companion against what could have been and still may be the rapid and quick demise into madness.

Or  more extreme levels of madness, than I am already dealing with.

I need my humour to look at things differently.

I need my humour to be able to absorb something that my brain is often times screaming against.

I need my humour to get me through my day.

I am not of the society that believes “a day without a laugh is a day lost” but I need my humour to help me cope.

I am sitting looking at a very serious letter that I need to attend to.  I have already read through it, and I knew that it was coming.

I know what it says, I know what I need to do, I am not sure if I can do it — or whether this letters fore spells a rather unfortunate change of circumstances that I will need to deal with very soon.

It is not a happy letter.

It does not make me feel warm and fuzzy, but my humour and my rather wry way of looking at situations, does help me to carry on and get this day done without offing myself by means of a papercut.  Granted it would need to be a very deep papercut.


First date on a dating site ….. well the intro at any rate ….

I sat before my flashing screen and my keyboard typing away.  Chatting to people, and feeling slowly more brave.

Not brave enough to tell anyone my name, but brave enough to enter into conversations.  Light conversations. Nothing of substance.

I decided to treat on-line dating like real life dating, and always have a glass of wine on hand.

Sometimes I would put out snacks, but the glass of wine was a non-negotiable.

One of those evening when the glass turned into glasses I realised that I was never actually going to go on a date IRL with anyone.

I had years of blogging, social forums and other inter web experiences behind me where I had managed to form high functioning relationships that were personal and familiar, but where I had never NEVER met the person on the other end of the cyber wire.

I realised I was doing the same thing here — I was chatting away to people, and there was this sense of familiarity, but jesus creepers, there was absolutely no chance I was ever going to put clean underwear on and step out and actually meet these people.

Good god no!

A few more glasses of wine later and I was feeling slightly braver and then I made a little pact with myself.

Go on 10 dates – 10 dates, that is all.

Go on 10 dates, they do not even have to be people you would consider sharing an ice cream with, but 10 people who have a pulse, possibly a penis (clearly my standards were pretty low), and you can sit across a table with them for a minimum of 60 minutes, try and aim for 120 minutes.  Just try.

Come on — I said to myself —- what do you have to lose?

Me back to myself —- well that will mean there will be some dignity being traded, and a fairly good chance I will make an a-hole of myself.

Scratch that, there is an almost certainty I will make an a-hole of myself.  Have you seen me in public or at social engagements?  Like that, but worse.

The Wine was talking now —- come on, go, it will be fun.

Me looking at the Wine knowingly —- you have often said things will be fun, and you have been wrong in the past.  Would you like to see the pictures of me doing the Gangnam Style dance, with the mickey mouse ears? That I did? No?  Exactly.

{Wine decided to start talking to me from this point on wards ….. yes, I know they have meetings for people like me}

Wine — it was fun though?

Me —- yeah, it was actually.

Wine — come on stop being a chicken, go on 10 dates.  After the 1o dates if it is all quite sucky, then you can advertise for a friends with benefits, laugh this dating thing off totally, wear your slippers all day, and just not go out ever.  Butd you will need to get cats.

Me —- why the fuck will I need to get cats?

Wine —- crazy cat lady needs cats.

Me —– I have a cat.  Crazy cat lady actually indicates a level of insanity and only requires the ownership of one cat.

Wine — yes, but Kennith has listed the cat as an asset on the spreadsheet.  If he gets awarded the cat in the divorce negotiations, then well you are all crazy lady with fuck all cat.

Me — wine, I must tell you, you are starting to make an alarmingly convincing argument at this stage of the evening.

Wine — yes, funny that.

Me —- okay, Wine, let’s get our shit sorted, who am I going to ask out on a date?

Wine — can I suggest a little walk by the fridge for a fill up before you step out off this rather uncertain little ledge.

Me — fuck Wine there you go again, with all the good ideas.



Just in case there are parts that do not make sense …… granted even with this, much of the above still does not make sense, but let’s blame it on wine.

IRL = In real life

Cyber wire = The magic thread that connects us all to the inter web

Inter web = Internet, but the term is ridiculous enough to make me smile each time I see it.

Wine =Chenin Blanc

Glass = Large fish bowl


I found this bottle of booze in your room …


I don’t believe in beating my children ….


Friends with benefits …. and friends with wisdom …..



{The blogger topic for day 10: is The best advice I ever received/ heard …. I may well be behind a day or so….}

Throughout this year I have been blessed to know that I have friends who stand by me.

Offer me support, allow me to sleep on their couch, and who keep me focused on the things that are good, and ways to keep me happy.  Sometimes they just supply good wine, and a ear to listen, and that is often enough to make everything all better.

Divorce, no matter how well it is managed, is still a pretty kak process to go through.

No matter how much the two of you try to appear adult, and to deal with each other in a respectful manner, you can’t help feeling that your life is in a state of free fall.  You are trying to desperately grab onto tufts of grass as you slide down the slipper cliff face into who knows what.

I have tried my utmost to be upbeat, and brave and not lose my sense of humour.  I tell everyone I am fine, and I seem to be coping.  Some days I am a bit side swiped and I struggle to get my head around where things have brought me, and I am petrified of what the future offers.

I do try my utmost not to wallow in my pity, shame, sadness and embarrassment.  I am embarrassed that I could not make this relationship work.  That I failed, and that my failure is so public.

I know in time I will have a different outlook.   I do feel a fair degree of shame, embarrassment and a sense of failure that I could not make this relationship work, and retain Kennith as my partner.

He divorced me, this was not a mutual decision, so I have been divorced from.  I know it is just semantics, but it does not soften the fact that I was rejected.  I was left.

Possibly for something better, possibly for nothing, possibly for the possibility of something better.  Or what ever else.

It still hurts.   It goes right to the core of my psyche, that I am not good enough.

Back to my good friends — I have had friends who have remained in my corner, who have let me vent, who have offered me their couches to sleep on, and who have sent me messages of support, given me hugs, and just been there for me.

No judgement.  Allowing me to speak, offering guidance and support and not insisting I take their advise.

The one piece of advise I think of on a regular basis  was given to me by Karen and it rings true for most things:  “If everyone could put their shit in a brown paper bag, and throw it up in the air, everyone would rather catch their own shit, than have to catch someone else’s.”

I am ad-libbing there, but the gist is that your shit is your shit.

It is easier than having to deal with anyone else’s shit.  And when you really sit down with someone you realise that they have far more in quantity and in complicated-shit than you could ever imagine.  So rather hold onto your shit bag, and keep it as your own — everyone else’s shit is going to smell worse, and probably make you gag.

That piece of advise, or that sentiment has sat with me for some time.

I often want to pull on a hessian bag and push charcoal through my hair and weep at the state of my life, but I think of the bags of shit and I am thankful that my shit is actually not that bad in comparison to others.

In no way am I minimizing my pain, or my experience, but I am owning my shit.  At least my shit is familiar.


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I am also a fan of the old adage: “don’t shit where you eat!!”  Wise words those.






They should put prizes in tampon boxes ……

prizes in tampons


They really should ……

The one about Jim … and how Jim rhymes with rim, and what the fuck ….

I did start this process and made it clear that I was totally shocking at following anything of this nature.

But, I am back and this is the topic for day 9: Pinings.

I knew what it meant, but it made sense to google the meaning just so that I wasn’t missing something.

v. pinedpin·ingpines


1. To feel a lingering, often nostalgic desire.
2. To wither or waste away from longing or grief: pined away and died. Archaic

To grieve or mourn for.


Intense longing or grief.

I have pined for many things in my life.  In most cases I am one of those people who get sad, but eventually pull my pants up, wipe the Marie biscuit crumbs off my front, and just get on with it.


I wanted to remain in the moment, not over think the subject matter, and write about the first thing that popped in to my head.


I gave it some thought about things that I have pined for, and my brain kept running back to an ex-boyfriend of over 20+ years ago.


Let’s call him Jim.  That isn’t his name, but uses far less characters than his real name, so works really well when you are trying to type up a quick post.


Jim entered my life at a time when I was not sure who I was, where I was going, and what I needed to get there.  I was 18 or 19 years old, and had avoided relationships to a large part up to that point.


I felt an overriding urge to “protect” myself, and I tended to appear aloof and rather stand off’ish to most people.


He totally blew me away, and I was absolutely smitten.


My mother, bless her, saw Jim and knew that this was not a good idea, and she tried every tactic to ensure that I did not see him.


The only option left to me, was to bunk College and then head out to see him during the day when I should have been at class.  I had a strict curfew and pretty much after 17h00 my every move was monitored.  Granted it was not the only option, but I was 18, cripes what did I know about creative problem solving.  And knock on consequences.


My mom had never ground me, not once in my life.  I was a model student, I was the most responsible for the three children, I was pretty much Mary-Ellen of the fucking Waltons.



My mom took one look at Jim, and thought “yep that is not a good idea” and proceeded to ground me.


I carried on seeing Jim, and in the euphoria of young (and somewhat stupid) love was that I could not see what was right in front of me.  I thought the sun rose and set on either sides of his shoulders – I did not stop to think about myself, and that I was in way over my head, emotionally.


I thought on weekends he could turn water into wine, and maybe separate the Red Sea if he was in the area.


The term “idolized” does not even hint at the extent of it.


The short story is that one day he was there — then one day he never arrived when he said he would.


He just disappeared. “Poof” gone.  Never to be heard from again.


This was before cell phones, google and google maps – so when someone dropped off the radar, you were pretty much stuck with TELKOM, and two numbers.


Jim exited the scene.  With no reason.  No excuse, and not so much as a “hey, I am off to serve in the Foreign Legion” or what ever vaguely creative story he could have come up with.


If you have ever been a teen-age girl, you will know how fragile their psyches are and how thin the layer is that protects their self esteem.  Paper thin.


I was absolutely infallibly in love with this idiot on a very intense level – who did not even look over his shoulder as he disappeared out of my life.


I spent months, months questioning every action, every thing I had ever said, because I felt it was me. I had been the cause.  It was my fault.  I had done something wrong.


It affected me on a profound level.  It still does, strangely enough.  The fact that someone was “so into me” and then just disappeared, left me with questions about myself.  I beat myself up about it for years, and what is funny is I never thought of him as the shit he was.


To add insult to injury — I stumbled across the same person again earlier this year.  Being me, still stupid it would seem, I was totally taken by him.  The warning bells rang, but I put them on snooze and carried on without a care in the world.


Then he “broke” up with me via SMS.  NO really.  No!  Fucking really.


I spent a few weeks going over the “how” “what” and “what the fucks” — again ——I reverted to the same strategy that had not worked for me before, and again I looked at myself and what I had done wrong.


Eventually I realised that actually it was not me. It was totally him.  He was an arse then, he is an arse now.


I don’t wish him dead, I wish him well.


The one good thing, is that the “stuff” I had dragged around with me from when I was 18 or 19, disappeared, because I realised I had been pining for something that was in my imagination.  The reality was that I should be thankful he did a runner, then and now.


It was painful, like pulling a plaster off a sore. But once it is off, you have a slight burning sensation and then hey-presto, that shit is almost all forgotten.


I should fall on the floor and give an “amen” because I dodged a bullet …. twice.


Fuck pining!!  Fuck it totally.


Life is too damn short, and really I do not have the energy.