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.