Insomnia

The children were sleeping soundly in the next room. Her husband was beside her, snoring. She'd managed to spurn his alcohol fuelled advances earlier but knew it would only be a matter of hours before he'd be waking her with his blood engorged penis pressing into her back. She cringed at the thought.

Gone were the days when any physical affection he showed made her feel loved. These days she avoided intimacy wherever possible. On the rare occasions she did let him in, she willed the whole process to be over as quickly as possible. She couldn't look him in the eyes as she was too afraid of what she would see. She'd sensed for a long time that his heart wasn't in it, and now, with every thrust, she too wished she was in the arms of someone else. Someone who would make her feel happy and fulfilled.

She tried to remember the feelings of love and contentment she'd experienced when she first met her husband, but as his nasal reverberations echoed around the room, all she could feel was resentment and a sense repugnance at the sight of him lying next to her. He expected her to make an effort with her appearance yet seemed content to let his own deteriorate. With his growing beer belly and receding hairline, he was becoming more like his father every day.

His family background had caused her to have a few reservations before they got married but he'd convinced her that they were the dysfunctional ones, not him. She didn't mind that he wasn't close to his mum as she'd dated men who were and always felt like she was second best. He'd convinced her that his dad's promiscuity and disregard for family values weren't hereditary. He'd lied.

As she lay in the darkness, thinking about the way things had turned out, she felt cheated. On her wedding day she'd never imagined their marriage to have ended up like this. If it weren't for the children, she feared it would have been over long ago. The pressure of being the main breadwinner was taking its toll and she was acutely aware that her daughter was picking up on the tension between her parents. More often than not, they struggled to share a civil word. Sometimes it was easier not to talk at all as, when they did, a spiteful slanging match often ensued.

He'd threatened to leave several times, and in many ways, she wished he'd had the conviction to follow it through. Her friend had pointed out that she may actually be better off claiming working tax credits than relying on her husband's meagre contribution to the family finances. It was risible to think that once, they had planned on emigrating to sunnier climes. Rather than sitting on a nice little nest egg, they were up to their eyes in debt - not that that stopped him from booking a weekend away with the boys.

She'd agreed to let him go only because she didn't want to be seen as the demanding wife. She knew his mates disliked her and the feeling was mutual. She trusted them as little as her own husband. For 2 days she'd tried to stop herself imagining their sordid acts of drunken debauchery while the words 'what happens on tour, stays on tour' echoed through her mind. He may not have been the best looking man she'd ever been with, but she'd experienced how he used his charm and humour to woo her into bed. It was amazing how resourceful he could be when sexual conquest was his aim. Not that there was any sexual chemistry between them these days.

The last time she'd had any carnal urges was when they were trying for their second child. She'd hoped that another baby would bring them closer but her plan had failed. The added work and responsibilities only succeeded in pushing them further apart.

She was tired but couldn't sleep. Tired of her life and how it had turned out. Tomorrow, she resolved, she was going to make some changes......................

The Game

So, Christmas is over for another year. The season of goodwill has come to an end and it comes as no surprise that the festive greetings extended to Lee were not reciprocated.

I know enough about him now not to take this shun personally. I am just one in a long line of old acquaintances that he has been forced to forget.

Had I known his reputation for being a liar and a flirt, perhaps I would have been better prepared for the games he played with me. Had I read "The Game" by Neil Strauss I may have been wiser to the techniques he employed to reel me in; I'd have known that the profile I created, stating that I was happily married and not looking for extra marital 'fun', only served to make him more determined to break me. He liked a challenge.

The fact that I was hundreds of miles away helped him avoid temptation and made it less likely for his cover to be blown. Embarrassingly for him, I like a challenge too.

He always claimed he wouldn't meet as he was afraid of what might happen. More specifically, he was convinced we would end up in bed together! Perhaps in his mind it was OK to indulge in cyber sex, but meeting in person was a step too far. Strange how a hand posted invitation to his office weakened his resolve. It would have been nice to think that our rendezvous was agreed to for my sake, but I am well aware that his sudden change of heart was purely a means of damage limitation on his part.

I'm sure the game was fun for him whilst he was in a position of power; saying and doing exactly what he liked without any repercussions; proving his mojo; having his ego massaged. I wonder how he achieves that now. No doubt there are plenty of other mugs lurking in cyberspace who are filling the void in his life. I don't know who to pity more. Still, no matter what he says to them, there'll always be the cliched get-out clause, "I meant it at the time".

I'd hoped that one day, Lee might have had the courage to say that to my face, but I can see now that he doesn't have the strength of character. He'd rather get his formidable wife to do his dirty work.

The Truth

When you question someone's honesty and their response is 'I don't have to prove anything to you', you can pretty much guarantee that's because they can't substantiate their claims. The following list is not exhaustive:

1. I own a property development company...working on projects (worth between £5ooK and £1 million) all over the UK I sell houses (average value £350K) within a 5 mile radius of my office.
2. I live in a detached house A terraced house
3. I'm not married I got married 2 years ago
4. I live in Harrow Bushey
5. I don't have kids I have a young daughter who is my world
6. My dad's a git he lent me £70k to keep my business afloat
7. My brother's useless he runs a successful business, is happily married and still makes time for friends
8. A pal and I own an apartment in Spain it actually belongs to my in-laws
9. I love you I want you to say it back to me to boost my ego, 'cause my wife rarely does
10. I don't go in for all that religion shit but I'll still have my son circumsized

Some of the above statements were clearly based on opinion, therefore cannot be classed as lies as such. The others however, show how addictive lying can be. Once lie #3 had been told, #1, #4, #5 ,#8 and #9 were inevitable. As well as keeping his identity hidden, they served to hide a certain amount of hypocrisy:

"you shouldn't be chatting to me, you are a married lady....you made vows"

Sure, I vowed that I would love and honour and respect my husband and I'd spent 10 years doing just that, but here was a man, recently married, telling me how I should conduct myself within my marriage. A man who denied the existence of his own spouse in order to justify his unsavoury internet activity. A man so dissatisfied with his lot that he felt the need to big himself up.

Perhaps I was wrong to have embarked on a relationship with him, although I don't remember vowing not to talk to another man after my wedding day. I'd always had male friends and had no intention of relinquishing them, just because I had a 'Mrs' before my name.

My husband knew about 'Lee' because I told him. I didn't tell him everything of course, which is probably just as well given that I did eventually untangle my friend's web of lies. I doubt Mr S would have reacted very favourably to Lee's confessions of what he'd like to do with me. Nor would he have taken to kindly to his suggestion of 'hiring a hit man', so he could have me all to himself.

I guess my being economical with the truth makes me just as guilty as Lee. The difference is, I did it to protect him and my husband's feelings, he lied purely to protect himself.

Boredom: Blog Ratios

I'm acutely aware of of the sudden increase in the frequency of my blogs, and it's got me wondering about the catalyst for this recent splurge.

It would be easy enough to attribute it to Boredom, however that doesn't take into account Frustration, the sibling of Restlessness. I've wrestled lamely with both the former and the latter lately, but managed to keep Frustration in an unyielding head-lock. Up to now that is.

I was brought up to observe manners such as: writing thank-you letters for gifts/hospitality; not talking over/ interrupting people; waiting my turn; respecting others' religion/ sexual orientation/ feelings; holding doors open for people; giving up my seat for the old and infirm.....and it annoys me when others don't follow these basic principles of social etiquette.

Being ignored upsets me most of all. Granted, I'm guilty of this crime myself when it comes to responding to the Inland Revenue, but I'm not stupid enough to think that, by ignoring the letters they send, they'll just forget about me. I also doubt whether the VAT man will take it personally.

Ignorance is bliss....

as they say. If that's the case, I know one ignorant person who must be wallowing in a blissful bed of roses now. Hope he can ignore the thorns.

Mojo

I sometimes wonder, now that I am no longer a 'distraction' in his life, does he still feel the need to prove his mojo in chatrooms or, is the effort he has been putting in at home finally paying off?

How to choose your friends wisely

They say you can't choose your family but when it comes to friends, most of us have freedom of choice. That's what makes friends so special.

Friendships help us develop as people, but the very term "friend" covers a whole range of relationships. You have a very close friendship with your partner but with others it may just be a common interest or history or simply children the same age. We all have friends with whom we share a common interest, like football or shopping, but such friendships are less profound than those with the ones we love for themselves or something in their character; the mates we can sit down with and share a meal or the ups and downs of life.

The advent of social networking sites such as Facebook has given rise to the idea that we can have almost limitless numbers of friends but this only serves to dilute the concept of friendship. I'm as guilty as the next person for adding people out of curiosity. After the initial dialogue, correspondence usually slows down to a trickle proving that when it comes to our circle of friends, quality is the most important factor, not quantity.

A strong friendship, like a successful marriage, is based on trust and honesty and is mutually beneficial but good friends can be hard to find. In 'How to choose your friends wisely', Sarah Letts recommends that you:

"Inquire about the person's family. Even if someone is not close with his family, you can learn a lot about him by the way he talks about them. If he comes across as

bitter or mean, it's a signal that he may have issues in relationships."

I've always considered myself to be a good judge of character, however I can't help wishing that I'd read that bit of advice before investing my time and effort in one particular person. The friend in question only ever had negative things to say about his nearest and dearest. His dad was 'a git' , his mum 'a pain', brother 'useless' and his wife 'a nasty piece of work'. I have to concede that there's certainly some truth in the idea that he has issues with relationships, so much so that he now relies on his wife to control who he see and when.

Whilst I can understand him wanting to keep his best friend / wife ( I use the BF term loosely here as I sense the marriage is based more on honour and convenience than friendship) happy, It saddens me to think that he has cast most of his decent friends aside. I used to feel hurt that I was one of the friends in question but when I remember his words "I've never been dumped - I always dump them before they get the chance", it all makes sense.

Time is a great healer

It wasn't so long ago that my mum used these words to reassure me. She could plainly see the hurt and anguish Lee was causing as long as I was still in contact with him. If I took her advice to cut all ties with him I would, she promised, soon be wondering what it was I ever saw in him.

Deep down, I sensed she was right, but I struggled with making that break. I've never been a great believer in burning bridges, however I knew that in order to put an end to the cycle Lee's half-baked apologies & excuses and my acceptance of/ forgiveness for them, I had to light the touchpaper. Perhaps using his wife as the ignition point was unfair, but as he'd never stuck to the rules, I felt justified.

It's been 9 months now since I brought things to a head and, although I'm not particularly proud of myself for the way I went about things, I realise that it was the only way to force Lee's head out of the sand. All around him desert storms were raging, yet he continued to bury himself so deep that I feared he would eventually suffocate.

Looking back at our relationship, I can see how I had ended up feeling asphyxiated. In the early days, talking to Lee was like a breath of fresh air. I guess the problems started when he kept insisting on turning that air blue with constant requests for me to watch him masterbate. The first time I conceded was more out of curiosity than anything. Maybe I was looking for proof that he was as Jewish as he claimed. His circumsized willy was, he claimed, for my eyes only. When I saw it again, unbeknown to him, I was using a different name (by this time I had created a new profile in UK Chatterbox). I did feel like a naive fool, and slightly jealous if I'm honest, but I figured that as a single guy, slightly lacking in terms of physical appearance, he had to take it where he could get it.

The idea of someone relieving his sexual frustration all over the desk in his back office is made sadder when you realise that the wanker in question has a wife of 2 years at home. I'd be mortified to think of my husband spending our honeymoon period in this way. It'll come as no surprise to learn that I fell for the old 'my wife doesn't understand me' line when Lee finally confessed to her existence. It's no wonder she didn't understand him. She barely knew him and the secret life he lead.

Obviously I didn't divulge Lee's more sordid actions when I contacted Miriam, I spared him that humiliation. I could've sent transcripts of all the things he said he'd like to do with me, but knowing that his wife has issues about her body, I didn't think it would do much for her self esteem.

During one of the last conversations I had with Lee he claimed that in spite of everything, he was glad he'd met me. I helped him. I made him see how a marriage should and can be and now he was taking steps put right his own. I'm glad I had my uses.

The burning smell of the bridge I had set alight left a bitter aftertaste. What I had believed to be a genuine friendship was coming to an end and I couldn't help feeling cheated. I searched for positive things that our relationship had given me but failed to find anything of great significance. I'd sent birthday cards, Christmas presents and a gift for his new born son, I'd welcomed him into my life, introduced him to my friends, been patient and forgiving but what did I get in return? I'll tell you. A few nice words which, it turned out, he only meant 'at the time'.

It took Lee a matter of weeks to recover from the feeling that he loved me and realise that I wasn't The One he professed me to be. Granted, it's taken longer for the wounds he inflicted on me to heal but, ironically, with the help of one of his friends, I'm well on the road to recovery.

Mr E

I sense a new reader. Best start writing again.

To the ghost readers of the ethereal writer......

......, welcome. I don't know how you finally ended up here but I'm always glad to receive new visitors. x

Dying for Spring

I feel dead inside. I'm just waiting for my body to catch up with my soul.

Betrayal

I was conscious that throughout this whole sorry 'affair', everyone has suffered feelings of betrayal, everyone apart from Lee that is. I thought it only fair that he too should experience the hurt that it causes, after all, it is impossible to have empathy with our loved ones until we have walked in their shoes.

I am disappointed in myself for stooping so low but I am learning to only give respect where it is due. After almost 4 years of being taken for a fool , lied to and ignored, I don't feel that Lee deserves any more of my respect.

Contemplation

If I don't write, I fear I'll do something stupid. I feel ready to explode but have to keep a lid on it for the kids' sake. When my phone vibrated during a lesson, to signal an incoming text, my curiosity got the better of me again. Pretending to check the time, I took a sneaky look at the message: ' please call me urgently re. available house buying funds'. I wish I hadn't bothered as it meant missing my break to call Pots. Clueless as to the whereabouts of all the relevant bank statements, he had to be guided through the house, by me, to locate them.

It annoys me that he's never bothered to help manage the home economics. I'm used to the idea that I'm expected to know the location of every sock, cleaning material, book or useful phone number in the house, however I resent being responsible for all things money related too.

By the time I arrived (late) at my next lesson, I was on the verge of tears. I'd stopped briefly to talk to Ali, who'd heard the tail end of my phone call and had asked how things were going. I'd been quite calm and matter of fact at first, but her sympathetic look and kind words tipped me over the edge. Damn.

The day has been getting steadily worse since then. I came home at lunch time to cry in private, only to find Pots' car on the drive. Sometimes it seems he's everywhere I turn. I feel hemmed in, suffocated and it's always more stifling at the weekend.

For two days each week, I face the reality of my life without distraction. Work provides me with a welcome escape from the sadness I feel at home. My whole existence feels to be in limbo and the pressure of the major decisions which rest on me is, quite honestly, too much to take. As I can't contemplate any sort of happy future for myself I have been considering the alternatives.

Agnosticism proves to be quite useful here because it means I don't have major moral issues about suicide. I know it's the coward's way out and I feel guilty that the loved ones I'll leave behind may suffer feelings of self-blame or loss. I'll be sure to remind them of my stubbornness in the note I leave. When I've made my mind up about something, I become unyielding. I'll also point out how their lives will be richer in my absence - it'll be my way of doing a bit of counselling from beyond the grave.

Pots will be able to enjoy living with his children in a mortgage free home, free to find a woman who will love him like he deserves to be loved. Pinky and Perky will be saved from their Mum's voice of doom, which thwarts them from dawn til dusk. Lee will have his dirty secrets taken to the grave, and will be able to enjoy life with his family without 'distraction'. I wonder, should a schedule a Moonpig card to be sent to him or Misriam, announcing my departure?

The Killer Curiosity.

A recent post concluded that feeding ones appetite for curiosity leads to a satisfactory sense of fatness. Today's entry in my disjointed virtual journal will consider whether being too curious can result in death.

I am feeling rather melancholy today. The offer Mr S made on a 3 bed semi has been accepted. I accompanied him to a succession of viewings last night and one in particular stood out: recently renovated and tastefully decorated; attached garage with potential use as bike workshop; convenient location for school and kids' friends; garden with patio area for barbecues; open view over valley.

This show of financial commitment makes our separation seem a lot more definite and I'm saddened by the idea that our 13 year marriage is all but over. The thought of my children's future step mum keeps popping into my head yet when I try to imagine how I'll feel about her, I draw a blank. I can't seem to picture life that far into the future, then I wonder if that scenario might happen sooner than I'd expected. I wish I could fast forward to that time to find out what my gut feeling would be towards my husband with another woman. By then though, it might be too late. Like many men, Pots isn't one to sit around moping over a woman. Once he's made the decision to move on, that's exactly what he'll do.

I know I'm being naive believing that we may remain good friends. We have always had and still have a strong friendship, however, although that is a good basis for a successful marriage, I fear it is not enough. He's a red blooded male and I love him enough to provide him with an escape route from a sexless relationship. I can't promise that my sexual desire for him will ever return and I feel I've kept him waiting long enough already. He calls it 'throwing the baby out with the bath water', him being the baby and the bath water representing my issues.

I'd hoped that, with Lee withdrawing himself from my life, I'd have more time to concentrate my thoughts and actions on saving my own marriage yet I've felt so devoid of any emotion, I've hardly even had the inclination to try. The mental torture suffered over the last 4 years has beaten me down so far that I have no fighting spirit left. You could say that my inquisitive nature was the catalyst to it all. My almost obsessive need to know. My being 'obsessed by another bloke'.........' brain washed'...........'taken for a fool'. The actions I took to satisfy my curiosity caused so much damage. By talking secretly to Lee, I destroyed Pots' trust in me; confiding in my Internet 'friend' put my loyalty to my husband in question; the ad I placed on Gumtree to find out Lee's true identity made me look like a stalker, as did the phone call to his office when I finally tracked him down.

The consequences of my curiosity have been tragic. Lee often boasted that he knew 'how to press my buttons' but the question is, did he really intend to deploy the one marked 'destroy marital bliss'? When I look back at jealous comments he made in the early days, I do wonder.

I trusted Lee intimately which was quite a big deal for me. To have that thrown back at me was soul destroying and killed off a huge part of my trusting nature. When I consider the compromising positions I put myself in for him, I feel sick with shame and stupidity. It all adds to the overwhelming guilt I live with each day. All nails in the coffin of my former, happy life.

'F**k Off and Get a Life - seriously, get help'

The words on my lap top monitor stared back at me cuttingly. The sharpness of the tone sliced into my soul, hitting a few raw nerves along the way.

The e-mail from Lee's wife was short and to the point. She didn't wish to hear my apologies or care to share my insight into her marriage, nor did she 'give a shit about' what I'd been through. I can see that it wasn't her empathy that endeared her to her husband. He'd said she was a 'nasty piece of work', and here she was, threatening to show me 'what she was capable of'.

I know that she's capable of refusing her husband access to his children, should he leave, but I'm left wondering how she plans to hurt me. Handbags at dawn perhaps? A bit of hair pulling and face scratching? A vicious stream of aggressive, vulgar insults?

My confessional message of apology to 'the moody wife' (her ironically sarcastic words) hadn't been intended to hurt her. If I'd wanted to inflict a bit of mental pain, I could have simply mailed her the transcripts of the MSN conversations between Lee and me. I chose to write and tell her my side of the story because I couldn't stand the thought of being judged as a home wrecker or stalker. I wanted her to know the truth as I saw it, not how Lee had (or not) described the whole affair to her.

Another part of me hoped that my interference might stir up some sort of a reaction from Lee, a show of emotion, be it positive of negative. If my meddling resulted in me being told, in no uncertain terms, to fuck off, then at least I could accept that he was a cowardly, lying bastard and move on.

As far as 'getting a life' goes, I'm working on it. Miriam might be surprised to learn that I do have quite a lot of insight into the life of an intelligent married mother, juggling with the stresses of weaning, potty training, house moves, loss of libido, lack of sleep, work.................Perhaps she's jealous that I had enough time in my life to spend making her husband happy; or annoyed that Lee had caught a glimpse of another attractive wife who did all of the above and still seemed to show her husband love and support; maybe she's laughing at me because she knows that I was yet another of her spouse's 'meaningless indiscretions'.

On paper, I still have the same life I had before this all started: a doting (albeit estranged) husband; 2 happy, healthy children who excel at school, a beautiful home with hardly any mortgage; a career I love; supportive and trustworthy family and friends. I take exception to Miriam's opinion that I need to get a life, although I'll concede that I do need help. Perhaps she could recommend her counsellor.

Curiosity Killed the Cat......

......or, did satifaction make it fat? Discuss.

Last week, in the doctor's waiting room, I tried out one of those height/weight/BMI/bloodpressure/pulse rate/bra size/ hair colour measuring machines. It reminded me of the contraption used by the Clarke's shop assistant to measure my feet for new school shoes. After a few satisfying whirrs and beeps, out popped a receipt bearing my vital statistics. OK, so maybe it didn't show the size of my boobs or reveal my hair's greyness percentage, but it did tell me that I'd lost 2cm and gained 2 kilos. Yahoo!

For me, weight gain is a struggle. I know that makes me unpopular with a lot of women who have the opposite problem: to some, it's acceptable to call me a 'skinny bitch' ; others, who haven't witnessed my appetite, assume I am anorexic; holidays involving bikinis have been avoided by one or two. I wonder how those women would feel if I addressed them as 'fat cows', or assumed that their extra weight was acquired through greed or laziness. Perhaps I was nervous about my petite breasts being compared to my friend's ample cleavage, but I wouldn't let it ruin a potentially great trip away.

Anyway, the fact that I have put on some beef lately, comes as welcome news. Firstly, I can fill my bras without the need for 'chicken fillets' and secondly, when I'm holding The Bow position my hip and pubis bones don't dig into the yoga mat quite so painfully. I actually get quite excited when I see the beginnings of a 'muffin-top' spilling over the top of my jeans and it takes longer for my skin to turn blue when I'm out in the cold.

These physical signs are evidence of my improving mental state. Prior to the popping of my first happy pill, I was warned that I may put on a few pounds, however the drug had the opposite effect on me. I have been able to resign the medication to the back of the drawer because my curiosity about a few things has been satisfied.

Upon consideration of the evidence, it would be reasonable to say that, in this case, satisfying one's curiosities does lead to fatness. It does not however, take into account the notion of curiosity being fatal. This will be discussed in the next blog.

Until then, why not think about what gives YOU satisfaction? I'd love to hear your comments. Meanwhile, I'll leave you with a rather topical poem:

Curiosity
by Alastair Reid

may have killed the cat; more likely the cat was just unlucky, or else curious to see what death was like, having no cause to go on licking paws, or fathering litter on litter of kittens, predictably.
Nevertheless, to be curious is dangerous enough. To distrust what is always said, what seems,to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,leave home, smell rats, have hunches do not endear cats to those doggy circles where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches are the order of things, and where prevails much wagging of incurious heads and tails.
Face it. Curiosity will not cause us to die--only lack of it will.Never to want to see the other side of the hill or that improbable country where living is an idyll(although a probable hell) would kill us all.Only the curious have, if they live, a tale worth telling at all.
Dogs say cats change too much, are irresponsible,are change able, marry too many wives,desert their children, chill all dinner tables with tales of their nine lives.Well, they are lucky. Let them be nine-lived and contradictory,curious enough to change, prepared to pay the cat price, which is to die and die again and again,each time with no less pain.A cat minority of one is all that can be counted onto tell the truth. And what cats have to tell on each return from hell is this: that dying is what the living do,that dying is what the loving do,and that dead dogs are those who do not know that dying is what, to live, each has to do.

Hauntingly Poignant Sexual Tension.

Once again, Mistresses has incited in me that gut wrenching feeling of empathy (in this case, with Siobhan) which inevitably leads to tears. I say inevitably, but what I mean is, those stirred up feelings make me want to cry but I've managed to surpress the tell tale tears in Pots' presence.

Alone tonight, I got upset at the scene where Siobhan recoils from her husband, Hari's passionate sexual advances. She's too distressed to hide the body language and facial expressions which reveal her feeling of dread...........repulsion almost.

It's not that the husband is an adulterous letch who's offerering her a free dose of the clap whilst he executes his conjugal rights. Nor is he some follically challenged, ogre like creature. He's kind, gentle, compassionate, attractive, stylish, trustworthy and lots of other nice things. Perhaps that's the problem; he's just too nice.

The seemingly libidoless wife however, harbours feelings of guilt and he'd see it in her eyes if she'd allow him to gaze into them for more than a second or two. She's tormented by the knowledge that her orgasms are better when she's masturbating alone, thinking about another man. She feels guilty because the man she shouldn't be thinking about keeps popping into her head; on hearing the words Lee, Harrow, Sue, red+hot, Casio, Haberdashers, go-kart, Fifi, Thor, property, (et al); driving through the Jewish area on the way into town; when she hears anything by the Turin Brakes or watches a John Cusack film; passing a Saab 93 convertible or a Subaru with 'picnic table' spoiler; walking past any man with a goatee, glasses and a #1-2 head shave..........amounting to dozens of times over the course of a day.

I seem to have deviated from the plot slightly, but you get the picture. Pots was right about there not being enough room in my life for two men - the 3rd party in our marriage may never have had a physical presence, but his cerebral existence has certainly made its mark. It haunts me still and I don't know how to exorcise it.

Siobhan's 'solution' has been to have illicit sex without the complicated emotional strings. I wonder what the script writer has in store for me?

She's got Jennifer Connelly Eyes.

The trailer for the new film He's Just not that into You brought a reflective smile to my face today. The casting credits show Jennifer Connelly, whose eyes were once likened to mine. Lee, who has shown himself to be just not that into me afterall, commented on the similarity some years ago. You have to laugh at the irony.

I wonder if Janine, Jennifer's character, will fall for the 'you've got beautiful eyes' line?

On Mistresses and Being Human

These days I have sole control over the TV remote which means that I no longer have to endure the droning sound of football or golf commentaries. Not that 'doofer' ownership was ever an issue between Mr S and me. We've always enjoyed the same programmes, and even though televised sport isn't my genre of choice, I'd let him watch an important game/ event........AFTER channel hopping to check for preferable alternatives.

Sadly, or fortunately for Pots, recent TV schedules haven't offered much to entice me. There's a direct correlation between my blogging frequency and the number of rubbish shows on the box. Expect to see a dip however, now that I've discovered Being Human. For obvious reasons, it's broadcast late at night, which happens to my most productive time for writing.

I was excited to see Orla Brady being interviewed last week to promote the new series of Mistresses. The last one had me looking forward to each new episode, just as Attachments and Cold Feet and This Life did before it. All providing a healthy mix of humour, drama, tragedy and food for thought. I can identify with all 2/4 of the leading female characters on so many levels.

Married, like Siobhan, to a lovely guy who loves her unconditionally. Content, but bored and subsequently led astray by someone claiming to be a friend.

The secret mistress, Katie, who is hidden away like a dirty little secret. She's old and wise enough to know better, but can't help following her heart.

Trudi reminds me of so many of the mums in the school yard; pretty but mumsy and lacking in confidence unlike Jessica, a beautiful free spirit. I've never seriously considered lesbianism as an option for myself, but after watching the exotic beauty's escapades, I have to admit, I'd let her snuggle up in my bed if she asked.

The empathy I have with Mistresses may make me sit up and take note of elements of my own life, but it was Being Human which provided me with the poignant quote of the week. It went something like this:

'Ok, leave, but remember I WOULD have listened. When you've thrown it all away and you're sad and lonely you will think of those words and they will haunt you.'

Life on the other side of the fence.

I was asked a few years ago, whether I believed the grass was greener on the other side. To put the question in context, I should tell you that we were discussing marriage at the time, and I conceded that other meadows may indeed smell sweeter or appear more lush.

When I hear that great cliche, another one, involving glasses with rosy hued lenses, springs to mind. Perhaps it's the realist in me; the annoying voice which ruins the nail biting climax of a film by announcing, 'that building wouldn't have been in darkness even if the baddy had managed to find and sabotage the power supply. The emergency lights would have come on.' I feel inclined to point out the flaws in stylised scenarios - it helps me maintain a healthy appreciation for the life I have.

I don't wear specs with correctional OR rose tinted lenses. Sunglasses occasionally, yes, to cut out the glare, but nothing to distort my vision. I like to see a clear picture, not an airbrushed improvement on reality. The pages of Hello and OK magazines may depict the 'Happy (Celebrity) Families' in their perfect homes with their manicured green lawns, but does living the dream make them happy? Judging by the number of extra marital affairs, divorces and custody battles, I'd guess not.

I won't deny I've enviously watched Cribs on MTV, coveted the kitchens in my home styling magazines and aspired to the exotic holidays afforded by the rich and famous, however, without love and respect, none of life's material rewards would have any meaning for me. The love which once flourished in my field has been the victim of neglect, under-fertilisation and poisoning. Whether or not it's hardy enough to regain its original lushness, remains to be seen, but in the meantime, I'm free to skip around a few meadows and spend time winning back some love and respect from my kids.

The Wish Bone from the Last Supper.

As I foil wrapped the chicken from our last Sunday dinner together as a family, I couldn't resist freeing the wishbone from its carcass. The heart, which once pumped behind it, had long since stopped beating but the bird had provided feathers to stuff pillows, organic meat for us to roast and now, the chance of a wish.

My wish for some time alone has been granted, giving me space to try and figure out what I really want from life. I've already worked out the fundamental answer - HAPPINESS. It's deciding what I need to do to give me that feeling of peace and contentment that's the tricky part.

In an hour long phone from my sister, I was forced to face up to the idea that 'he's really not that into me' - Lee, that is, not Mr S. Coincidentally, I had been reading an article in Grazia with that very title. In it, comedian and author Greg Behrendt gives women a few truths about men:

• men lie cause they're too terrified to say you're the one
• men are never 'too busy' to get what they want
• if he says 'he's scared', he's just scared of how not into you he is

I've certainly heard the 'busy' and 'scared' lines. The former never washed with me; it's a pathetic excuse for not being able to send a 2 line email, acknowledging the hours I have spent composing an message to him. The reason for the latter, he said, was that he was scared about what would happen between us. Afraid of breaking up two families. Frightened that his wife would take his children away. Worried that he'd be the 'one everyone hates'.

The idea that he's not that into me would more digestible if he hadn't declared his love for me or told me I was 'the one'. I know people's feelings change over time, but I'm struggling to deal with the demotion from 'the one' to the 'no-one'. I'm confused, I'm lonely, impatient and humiliated.

I'll pull that wishbone tomorrow, and even if I don't win, I'll be making a wish - for clarety.

The Rabbit and the Cucumber.

I wish I'd bought a cucumber the other day; not just because a) the childdlers have suffered a vegetable deficit this last week, or b) my Rabbit is missing. A couple of chilled slices of its watery flesh may have reduced the puffiness of my eyes to something closer to normality. Not that I would have had time to lounge around with cucumber slices adorning my face. I didn't wake up until 45 minutes before I was due to take a year 9 literacy lesson. I may have mastered setting the alarm time, but I must remember to press the sodding button to set the buzzer.

My ocular swelling was still quite obvious when I slid into school, just as the first bell rang. No time for the bacon sandwich and cup of hot tea this morning. A colleague comments on the 'heaviness' of my eyes, and when Tori comes to ask me to reclaim their reading group from the supply teacher, she looks genuinely concerned: 'Are you alright, Miss? You don't look very well.' It still tickles me when they call me Miss. Even weirder is when other teachers greet me in this way, especially when they are my old teachers. There are a few who have been there since my schooldays in the 80s.

I love my job. It helps me focus on something worthwhile instead spinning figures of eight in my own head. It gives my day some variety, purpose and structure. I get a yummy school dinner, a bit of staffroom gossip, access to a whole new social life and great banter with the kids, but best of all is the free education I am getting. Every day I learn something new in the classroom, however, more importantly I'm gaining more insight into people. Seeing the home lives of some of our students helps me understand why kids, and the adults they become, act the way they do.

I have far more patience at work than I do at home and that makes me feel quite guilty. Is that feeling of shame a common one amongst 30-something women who actually enjoy life outside of the home /family sphere? I was always happy in my little bubble but then I met Lee, the Lothario and within weeks, my life had changed.

It was as if he'd blown smoke from his Lucky Strikes into my bubble. At first I was hypnotised by the haziness and headiness of it all, but pretty soon I began to get frustrated by the smoke and mirror games. I wouldn't admit to it at the time, but I was already addicted. I've tried weaning myself off slowly and going cold turkey, neither of which have worked. As with smoking, I need to convince myself first that I should and want to stop.

The thing I REALLY want is not possible for many practical and moral reasons. I'm too scared to suggest it for fear of rejection. My genuine concern for the feelings of others, prevents me from sharing with them my proposed solution for clearing the smoke. I can barely dare to think about it, because it makes me feel guilty, for contemplating such selfishness.

I am being urged to follow my head and take the safe, easy but boring path out of the smoke, without question, and without looking back. My heart, I think, is straining towards a more challenging route. Pots sent me a text last night:

Umbrella Biffy Clyro To you x

Apparently the lyrics express how he feels towards me. The question is, do I want to be sheltering under an umbrella for the rest of my life, or I am prepared to get wet a little?



Oh, and if the relevance of the title puzzled you, let me explain.........it's a little experiment of mine to attract more hits to my webpage. I'm expecting the results to be quite amusing.

Out of Focus

I've had one of those wobbly days today, where everything seems to blurr. The hours have passed as a jumbled haze of actions and emotions, I can't focus my mind and my vision is obscured by the tears in my eyes.

Yesterday's positivity and pride in myself must have ebbed away during the night, because by morning, I was intent on losing some dignity. Was it curiosity that got the better of me, or could it be boredom? I did miss one of my happy pills, so perhaps I was delusional thinking that hearing his voice would make me feel better. I've already unsuccessfully analysed all the reasons why I decided to call him, but I did it, and that's that.

So, now I feel even more like a stalker. Not content with the humiliation of unanswered e-mails in my Sent Items folder, I've now shown myself to be a needy, obsessive, fruit the loop. I don't know what I hoped to achieve by calling him, but I was compelled to.

I desperately want to be able to hate him; it would make things so much easier. I half expected him to be cold and angry towards me when he answered, even though he's never acted like that with me before. The conversation, however was polite, honest ( I think) and amiable. He questioned why I couldn't move on with my life without him in it. I asked how his feelings for me could diminish so significantly, that he could happily live the rest of his life without any contact from me.

I couldn't answer his question. His reply to mine was that he had made a decision to save his marriage, which meant ceasing contact with me. If I thought that he could be living in marital bliss, were it not for my intermittent intrusions, it would be easier for me leave him be. I know it's not my job to, but I worry about him. I can see the sadness and it frustrates me that I can't be there to cheer him up with a hug or a cheese and pickle sandwich.

I miss him. I miss his humour, his calmness, his sarcasm, his appreciation, his determination. I mourn the hours we spent putting the world to rights, taking the piss out of each other and generally just enjoying each others' company.

D.I.Y. Karma

Crash, Bang, Moral Dilemma

A few lessons have been learned lately:

1.If you feed metallic holographic wrapping paper through a shredding machine, it buggers the cutting blades. ( I was trying to make cheerleader style pom-poms for Thing 2.)

2.My daughter has stronger moral fibre than my son.

3.Honesty generates good karma.

I'm 5 days into single-mummydom and, rather than lamenting my husband's absence, I've been embracing my temporary independence. When the alarm buzzed on Monday morning I felt a sense of self-satisfaction along with the usual irritation at being awoken from my peaceful slumber. That annoying little sound proved that I am still capable of setting an alarm clock.

I wanted to prove I was a decent Mum too, by enjoying some quality time with the chiddlers; hence the pom-pom experiment. I asked their advice on which type of sandpaper we should buy in B & Q, to help us with our DIY project. Back home, I put Pinky in charge of finding the sander in the shed, and his sister was given a screwdriver and pointed in the direction of the handles to be removed. With all plans for the proposed extension on hold, I decided to make the most of what we've got.
Sanding is hard work, but there's something quite therapeutic about rubbing away years of stains, varnish and grime. Stripping the wood back to it's bare beauty, revealing the grain which tells its life story. The final result will be all the more rewarding, knowing that I have helped create it. I say helped, because it was my friend Lucy who motivated me to start the task AND put her fair share of elbow grease into it too. Her positivity rubs off on me and that's a good thing, although I wonder what her reaction would have been, to the moral dilemma I faced tonight.

It's 7pm and the Hollyoaks credits are rolling. It's 1/2 hour since the kids finished their chili and now they want pudding. They won't be fobbed off with apples, and I could do with some cake to see me through the night, so we head off for the Co-op. Walking = exercise, fresh air, environmental friendliness, economy......but........as Pinky slams the front door behind him, wearing only a polo shirt, my mind shouts, 'car= warmth, speed, comfort, convenience.'

I've driven 50 metres from my gate and I'm trying to manoeuvre my Chelsea Tractor past a Yaris, parked 2 metres from a junction and obstructing more than half of the already narrow lane. Crash, bang, 'shit'. Did that lady, loading something into a nearby car, hear that sickening sound of metal against metal. Should I stop and report it? Try and get away with it? Thing 2 urges me to do the former, Pinky the latter.
In the end, I was compelled to side with my daughter, when she posed the question: 'How would you feel if someone had done that to your car?' , right after berating me for using a swear word. I'd been torn between the satisfaction of doing the honest thing and the desire to keep my no-claims bonus intact. Pinky, I fear, may turn out to be one of the 'if you can't beat 'em, join 'em' types, but for now at least, he's still intent on beating them above all else. I have to admire his competitive nature. On Sunday, in an attempt to prove he was as good a chef as his dad, he rustled up a fantastic cooked breakfast. who cares if his ulterior motive is to gain Brownie points towards the skateboard he wants? I intend to get a bit more mileage out of his current willingness to cooperate - I've always preferred the carrot to the stick method.
I duly placed on note under the windscreen wiper and awaited the call. I 'felt the fear and did it anyway'. At worst, I could expect an irate driver shouting abuse down the phone at me and an increased premium on my motor insurance. As it turned out, the caller was perfectly reasonable and polite and even thanked me for leaving the note. Sometimes, all it takes is for someone to acknowledge on act of honesty to reinforce my faith in karma.

Jealousy

It's not often that I'll admit to being the victim of the green-eyed monster, but reading Anna's blog, I can't help but feel a little envious.

I know her situation is painful, and the fact that she can't talk directly to Leigh cuts her up, but at least she gets some sort of feedback from her. Updates via Facebook to let her know she's ok and mutual friends who can pass messages on.

I don't have anything tangible like a ring, or even a birthday card to remember my Lee by. I don't expect him to add me to his list of Facebook friends, but being able to see his profile page would be nice. He doesn't trust any of his friends enough to allow them to keep in contact with me. Or maybe he's embarrassed.

It hurts to know that after all the trust I put in him, he finds it so easy to cut me out of his life. Early November he told me he still wanted to hear from me; that he wasn't going anywhere. By December, he'd promised his wife he wouldn't get in touch with me - a strange promise to make when you've just announced that your marriage is over.

Sex, Lies and Videotape

Well, I'm half way through my first week as a single mum and surviving. More than just getting by in fact, I'm actually enjoying it.

Instead of festering at home over the weekend, waiting for something exciting to happen, I went out to find a bit of light relief from the tedium that usually defines the time between 10pm Friday and 11pm Sunday. After waving Mr S off on his skiing trip, first stop was the music shop for Thing 2's free piano lesson. She seems to have a flair for music which I encourage, however I think the shiny new piano in the dining room will have to remain a dream for now. With Brownies subs, cello tuition, gymnastics fees, football subs, trial bike boots, parts and maintenance to pay for, I doubt there'll be a spare £44 a month spare to coach the next Mylene Klass.

After an ice-cream and lunch (yes, in that order! - get me being all audacious having dessert before dinner), we went to spend the afternoon with friends, followed by an early dinner at their local Italian. I really enjoy their company 'cause I feel at home with them. When I was in the depths of despair over the intangible relationship I didn't think anyone would be able to understand, Jo was there for me. I worried that she would judge me for being disloyal to Mr S, who she adores. I needn't have though, because even though she can boast an 11 year, affair free marriage (on her part at least), she didn't get all moral on me and start condemning my actions.

Jo understands me enough to know that I didn't get myself into such a hideous situation to hurt Pots or because I was looking for a bit on the side. She, like my husband, tells me I've been too naive, too trusting, too stubborn......all accurate observations.

I admit I was rather green when I first discovered chat rooms and MSN messenger. Stuck in the house with two young children and a home based business, internet based communication was the perfect way for me to keep in touch with the outside world. It had the added benefit of negating the need for dressing up and putting on the lippy before socialising.

I like being described as trusting; trusting people are always the most trustworthy. Interestingly, the thesaurus cites gullible as the top synonym for trusting. Perhaps that's closer to the truth. How else do I explain being stupid enough to believe that he wore a ring on his wedding finger 'cause the finger on his right hand was broken. 'Of course he's not married,' I told everyone. ' I trusted him when he told me he was single. And childless. A property developer. In love with me. I eventually found out that the first 3 were lies. I only have my gut feeling to tell me whether the latter is true.

Oh dear, I seem to have gone off on a tangent again, barely touching on what this post's title promises. Tune in again for the Sex and Videotape references. I'm sure you'd rather read that than an account of Sunday/Monday's events. ;-)

At peace whilst he's on the piste.

The pond that is my life was given a little stir last week. As you may have gathered, its water had become a little stagnant of late, and it was time to get a bit of life back into it. It's succumbed to a fair bit of dredging these last couple of years, but it's not pollution free yet. A primitive life form still lurks in its depths, hiding under rocks, too afraid to swim out through the pool of blue.

On Friday, Mr S and I shared our last night together as a co-habiting married couple. Ironically, it was one of the best nights I've had in ages because we talked. After taking the ninos for tapas in town, we came home to share a bottle of wine and the leftover olives Pinky had rescued from dinner. We chatted about who was going to live where, how we would manage our finances, what we were going to tell the children about our new domestic arrangement..........all without tears or raised voices. I remember one of the things I love about him; his calm, positive attitude to life and the cards it deals him.

As I write, he's enjoying a bit of apres-ski with the lads. When he returns, he'll house sit for my parents for a month until they return, and he will, hopefully, be close to completing the purchase of his new pad. Officially separated.

I feel alarmingly calm about the whole situation and wonder if this is due to relief or because it doesn't seem real yet. Who knows what the reality of being a single mum will be like for me? I will be finding out over the next few months, so I'll keep you posted!

For now, I am left to tend the pond alone. Time for an early, yet belated spring clean. Should I fish out the deep water creature which has been depleting the water of its oxygen and stirring up a muddy haze with its games of hide and seek? Then I face the dilemma of sending him back to his own murky puddle, creating a fresh new one for him or chucking him out to sea? My instincts are telling me now, that he'd prefer the first option. Big fish wannabe in a small pond.

Once, I mistook the creature for the bud of a lotus flower. I love that they emerge from the muddy depths to become things of such beauty and inspiration but let's face it, what were the chances of a lotus flower surviving in my northern pond?

My creature, or Meuslee as I affectionately call him, seems to be burrowing deeper and deeper. Do I stop chasing and allow him to suffocate or help him out? Either way, I'm hoping that the water will be clearer by summer and life will be thriving in the once negelcted corners.

WTF? It's Friday!

Most people look forward to the weekend, but my Friday Feeling is one of dread. I do look forward to my Saturday morning lie-in, unless I'm on football duty. Those mornings I have to substitute the warm, snugly duvet for an hour and a half on the side-lines of THE coldest football pitch- ever. Even a sausage and egg McMuffin doesn't warm me up.

When I'm playing 'Football Mum', it's because Dad is at work. The joys of running your own business, eh? He's supposed to work one Saturday in 3, but by the time you take out weekends when he's on holiday, (stag weekends, golf trips, skiing with the lads, motorsport jollies oh, and family holidays) he ends up working at least every other week.

Not that I'm complaining. It allows me a few extra hours of time when I don't need to rebuff his advances; time when I can lock the bathroom door and enjoy some thinking time in the tub. If I lie with my ears just under the water and my nose being tickled by the ginger scented bubbles, I can sometimes imagine that I am far, far away. Inevitably though, the sound of rowing children on the other side of the door penetrates the watery barrier, and I am brought straight back to reality. Mr S will be home in an hour, which means I must concentrate on not letting my face betray my feelings until Monday morning.

This weekend has been more difficult than usual. On Friday night, whilst he was partaking in the weekly male bonding session at the local, I was home, working on some marketing ideas for his latest business venture. One idea involved accessing his Facebook account in order to create a page for the new product. Obviously, I had a little peek at his messages while I was there. I mean, how many women can honestly say they wouldn't have been tempted?

They say curiosity killed the cat but thankfully, due to my allergy, we don't have any feline friends. The sight of a volley of messages, between him and a woman he has never mentioned to me, (but knows well enough to invite to lunch) did however mean that there'd be one less pussy to stroke. Mine.

A few years ago, I'd have felt sick to the stomach reading those words, but strangely, I experienced a mixture of annoyance (at his hypocrisy) , relief/envy (that he was getting some tangible attention from someone), and sadness. I feel sad that my children are going to lose regular close contact with their dad because I have pushed him away.

For the three years since the catalyst, we've managed to live fairly harmoniously. Neither of us have ever been big on arguments. I'm too stubborn and unapologetic when I'm being shouted at or feel I'm being condescended. Mr S knows that it's best to allow me some alone time to calm down and reflect and, because of his patience, we can resolve our differences or discuss issues, typically with composure and rationality, frequently with a few tears from me.

Lots of things make me cry, but the puffy-eyed, red-nosed, happy-pill popping image isn't one I like to share. Only select members of my family and true friends know the sadness that lies beneath the facade of the perfect marriage. The ones I trust are those who know of my virtual infidelity but do not tar me with its brush. Judgemental types are hard to bear at the best of times, particularly if they're of the hypocritical variety.

Perhaps the thought of being judged as a selfish mother has stopped me from packing my bags and taking the kids to live in a pokey flat. Or being judged as a selfish wife for forcing my husband out of his home and away from his children. Staying together has been easier but is it the best long term solution?

My parents leave soon to go travelling for a month, leaving an empty house. After this weekend, I'm more certain than ever that 4 weeks apart will give my husband and me chance to discover whether 'absence makes the heart grow fonder', or familiarity has indeed been breeding contempt between us.

Inspired by Anna

In one sense, I'm feeling quite calm at the moment. There haven't been any major frustration fuelled bouts of anger or floods of tears. In fact, I've cried very little in the last few weeks. My new found fad for blogging has helped distract my mind from its usual pattern of thought. If I could get my pop-up blocker to allow me to download pics on here, I'd post a drawing of that pattern. I can't, but if you imagine a series of interlaced figures of 8, you'll get the picture. I keep turning corners but ultimately end up back where I started.

I must confess however, to shedding a few tears today. Not, I'm pleased to say, through frustration or pain but I did up up blubbing when I read Anna's account of her own mid-life crisis. Her motivations for writing are so similar to my own, that many of her words really hit home. Hence the tears. A salty mixture of relief and empathy.

I realise that my blogs to date sound random and confused. Probably because they're a reflection of my state of mind. Things often seem that way when you're only given half the picture. My own journey of investigation over the past 3 years has finally provided me with more than half the picture for the souvenir postcard, albeit a little blurry, but I'm still uncertain about its final destination.

Inspired by Anna, my future blogs will hopefully help readers understand the reasons behind my feelings. They may even result in me breaking away from this loop of boredom, mourning and frustration.

If you want to see me in my underwear, cough up.

It's official. This year I'll be donning my customised bra (there's a job for the 19th June), lacing up my Adidas trainers (kindly donated by my friend in the marketing department there - snail mail is so slooooooooooooooow; let's hope they arrive in time for me to break them in ;-0) and joining a herd of other mad cows on the Moonwalk. Twenty six miles around Edinburgh in the dead of night.

I have to say I'm quite excited because the scottish capital is one of my favourite cities. Many moons ago, I almost took a place at college there but instead, I opted for the Lancastrian fields of gold. To think , for three years I endured being surrounded by Prestonian babble, when I could have been serenaded by the gentle tones of the Edinburgers. Rather than chomping on Umberto's fish and chips, I'd have been munching deep fried Mars Bars on the way home from the Student Union drinks promo night.

I consoled myself in the knowledge that I was closer to my boyfriend of 2 years and able to live the Manchester scene every other weekend. It was a pretty cool place to be in the early 90s and anyway, Edinburgh would still be there when I graduated, even if my boyfriend wasn't.

I didn't return until I was married and pregnant. Eight months into it in fact, at the end of a long, hot summer pregnancy. The idea was to enjoy our last romantic weekend of peace and tranquility before Pinky (or Felix as he was then known) arrived. Not that waddling up the City's hilly streets, bloated and out of breath was very romantic. Nor was developing heartburn as my meal arrived or falling asleep as soon as my head hit the tartan pillowcase.

I can assure my sponsors (go on - dig deep, it's all in aid of Breast Cancer) that I'll have more stamina this year. I reckon that if I fill up my Camelbak with Red Bull and keep up my blood sugar levels with deep fried Mars, I should walk it!

Keirsey - more accurate than Mystic Meg.

When I first took the Keirsey Temperament Sorter test a few years ago, in the days when I still had delusions of being a career woman, my results outed me as an INTJ.

These four letters are pretty good ones to have after your name if you're looking for a job at Nissan. Allegedly, these Japanese car makers look for this personality profile when employing new staff. Don't ask me why. Sales companies, however, prefer the E (extrovert) personalities to the I (introvert) types like me. My acronym was as different to my colleagues' as my sales technique. I felt quite silly sitting there, in the training room, a lonely I drowning in a sea of Es. Maybe that's when I began to question my vocation.

I managed to avoid making any decisions on the career front when Nature deemed that I was to indulge my maternal instincts for a while. After a break of 12 months from the pressure and money driven world of sales, I realised that I didn't miss it. Since making the decision not to go back, I've tried my hand at a few things.

The last 10 years have provided me with a number of firsts and new experiences. My body has been stretched out of shape by babies and kept supple with yoga, it's balanced on skis, danced around (and fallen off) a pole, scaled a climbing wall and parascended over the Mediterranean but other than a few more lines and the occasional grey hair, I don't really look that different on the outside.

I've suspected for some time that things are different on the inside. I'd always assumed that by my late 20s, I had become who I was going to be. Not what........WHO. I thought I knew myself and that I wouldn't change, but the results of my most recent Keirsey test seem to suggest otherwise. Thirteen years of marriage, two children, a miscarriage, a period of self-employment and one of depression, have turned me into an INFJ.

INFJs are gentle, caring, complex and highly intuitive individuals. Artistic and creative, they live in a world of hidden meanings and possibilities. Only one percent of the population has an INFJ Personality Type, making it the
most rare of all the types ........They know things intuitively, without
being able to pinpoint why, and without detailed knowledge of the subject at
hand. They are usually right, and they usually know it. Consequently, INFJs put
a tremendous amount of faith into their instincts and intuitions.....This may
result in an INFJ stubbornness and tendency to ignore other people's
opinions. (ref: http://www.personalitypage.com/INFJ.html)

Usually self-expression comes more easily to INFJs on paper, as they tend to have strong writing skills. Since in addition they often possess a strong personal charisma, INFJs are generally well-suited to the "inspirational" professions such as teaching (especially in higher education) and religious leadership. Psychology and counseling are other obvious choices (ref: http://typelogic.com/infj.html )

Seeing myself defined in this way is quite spooky, but explains a lot of things, not least my internet activity over the last 3 years. Being told I was conducting an inappropriate relationship wasn't going to stop me. Instead, I was driven to resolve differences in a cooperative and creative manner, exercising my influence behind the scenes in true INFJ style.

I typically crave a high degree of intimacy and emotional engagement, and am happiest when I'm sharing my innermost thoughts and feelings with my other half. He's happy to share, particularly if it's in the exchange of bodily fluids, but he just doesn't get it. Intellectually or sexually. The lever which cranks my sex drive into gear, IS NOT located in my knickers, so stroke, lick and nibble as much as you like, it won't get the engine going until the switch in my brain has been activated. Perhaps I need some WD-40 in my veins to stop me rusting up.

I think I may, judging by my change of career path over the last 3 years, be en- route to happiness in the work area of my life at least. I love my job for so many reasons. When I'm there I'm too busy with other people's problems and conflicts to give my own any headspace. I'm learning new things every day. Best of all though I get to 'champion the oppressed and downtrodden'. It's easier to teach adolescents new tricks than a 37 year old dog.

Watch this space. I have plenty more tricks up my sleeve!

'Life is made up of many layers of shit.....we just choose the layer we're most comfortable with', Lee 2007

Whoever said, 'a tidy house a tidy mind' may have had a point. I mouthed this mantra as I lay, belly down, dusting the wooden floor under the sofa with my hands. I retrieved a significant handful of fluff along with a random Pinky sized sock , some loose change, a AAA battery and a bull sized toenail clipping. Now I had a pocket full of clutter with a mind to match. Corner to corner, room to room, my pockets slowly filled up with miscellaneous objects. Fragments of bigger things lost and destroyed by little Things. My little Things. Pinky, Thing 1, who isn't actually that little at all, and his skin and blister, Thing 2. As I picked a Connect Four disc out of the fruit bowl, the mantra became a loud whisper.

Ferbreezing the curtains helped to take my thoughts away from the pending drudgery. You know I'm a sucker for smells. They're on a parr with music for having the ability to take me to another time and place. If I close my eyes and inhale the scent of fresh wildflower meadows, I can trick myself into believing this sweet smelling house must be tidy as well as clean. Pop a bit of Vivaldi onto the i-Pod and replace the Proctor and Gamble chemicals with Sanctuary linen spray and I could be in one of the suites at Hotel du Vin. If I'd been there on a Monday morning, instead of chez Saint, I doubt I'd have been fretting over reuniting a piece of plastic with its yellow brothers and sisters.

I don't have a problem with cleaning. It's the tidying that has to be done first which causes me to procrastinate. So far this morning, I've made a bacon sandwich, smoked 2 cigarettes (one with each cup of tea), chatted on Facebook and pondered over this blog. Anything to avoid the dreaded housework. Perhaps I over exerted myself yesterday and feel I need to be rewarded for the trio of charity bags I managed to fill and drop off at Oxfam this morning. It's good to know that my daughter's clutter will be converted into something more useful. The clear floor in her bedroom is a bonus too. Now I'll be able to vacuum without running the risk of blocking up the Dyson with hair bands, Barbie shoes and pennies. One room down, only 10 more to go!

Pots (Mr S) keeps urging me to pay one of our old cleaners to come back and 'help me keep on top of things'. If I were just a teensy bit paranoid, I could take that as an insult to my housekeeping abilities. I usually rebuff these suggestions on the basis that I've never had much success in employing people to declutter and clean. A few years ago, when my business was thriving, I decided I could justify hiring a cleaner. Enter Fizz.

Larger than life with a mouth to match, she came armed with a pair of slippers and a 2 litre bottle of coke. She claimed to be gifted (she did appear to be a little....erm....special) and often pointed out my typical Gemini traits. Actually, I think she did read my mind once as I stashed her FULL FAT pop in the fridge because she started a monologue about how her large frame was the result of a gland problem. Nothing to do with the 6-packet of chocolate Hobnobs she polished off at my friend's house then? The fact that she'd taken them without asking was a little worrying, as was the way she used our CD/DVD collection as a free library and spent two out of the four hours I paid her for on our phone, sorting out her disability/spf/housing benefits. Maybe it was my fault for telling her I was laid back. A few months in, her chubby feet were so far under our table that it began to hinder her performance. Ironically though, it was then that she decided to announce a 20% increase in her hourly rate. Exit Fizz.

Enter Daphne. If you're imagining a french au-pair type or Scooby Doo's blonde friend, think again. Think more Mrs Doubtfire meets Deidre Barlow. A good all rounder and was game for occasional babysitting jobs too, however she insisted on spending most of her time ironing. Sadly, Daph couldn't master the steam function so I often resorted to doing the pile again, cursing her through gritted teeth. I think she preferred this task to all the ones I'd hinted at, politely asked her to do, then finally WRITTEN IN BIG CAPITAL LETTERS ON A NOTE, which I placed under her wages. Despite several pleas, she would not do the windows or under the toilet seat. After a few months of good work (in between month long holidays of visiting her globally spread children) she too seemed to lose interest. I arrived home early from work a few times to find her long gone, or on her way out. Rather than challenging her, I started working from home while she was there so she wouldn't take advantage. During that time I realised why my house seemed clean. It was the smell. A quarter litre of bleach tickled around the loos with a toilet brush, Zoflora mixed with water and squirted from a plant mister, a cup full (I think she misread CAP full) of Pledge wooden floor cleaner in the mop bucket and Mr Sheen polish. I know he's meant to 'shine umpteen things clean', but not, surely, the dining room floor? Although, it did provide a great comedy moment when Pinky decided to rugby tackle Thing 2. The sock/polish combo produced a slide tackle John Terry would've been proud of. The table put up a strong defence, much to the intended target's delight. Anyway, soon after I found my key posted through the door. Another mind reader!

This term I'm taking on an extra day a week at work. I've come to the conclusion that increasing the amount of time I'm working to deadlines, rules and bells will make me more productive. Following a Year 8 history lesson with an autistic adolescent certainly makes me focus so much that I have to mentally sweep the clutter into the corners of my mind. Watching Hitler's abominations on the class TV helps me forget about the mini-warfare going on inside my own head.

I'll leave you with some wise words I saw recently on a cross stitch sampler:

"A tidy house is a sign of a wasted life"