What Am I Doing?

With every day that passes, I am growing more and more aware of something, and I fear it is so horrifying to even think about, I'm actually scared to admit it.

I don't love my husband any more.

The ramifications of just this one sentence are immense, and so far I have been carrying this sentiment around, feeling its weight on my shoulders, crushing my head and spine until the other day I actually stopped what I was doing and screamed my head off. I could no longer stand to hear Him and Daughter yelling at each other for something so trivial and pointless that I can't even remember what it was. Just the sound of his voice, winding Daughter up, constantly pick, pick, picking at her until she was sobbing made me want to punch him or a wall or anything.

These days, it seems the instant you get a whiff of displeasure in a marriage, it's off to counselling or to the divorce courts to get rid or upgrade to Spouse 2.0. But not so long ago, not loving your husband was not something you whined about. I'm pretty sure couples used to just get on with it and possibly learn to tolerate each other, but secretly be a bit relieved when your spouse kicked the bucket.

I feel like that when he leaves the house. It's relief and release and freedom that I can be myself for a few hours while he is out at work. But then the dread kicks in when he's due back, and when he's home I find myself tiptoeing around, being a lesser, muted version of me; not saying what I really think, not watching what I really want to watch on the TV, and generally behaving a bit like a Stepford Wife, albeit with a fatter arse, saggier tits and terrible hair.

My parents divorced when I was about ten so my idea of marriage may be skewed, but I honestly thought that a marriage was not about subduing yourself, but about being championed by your spouse for being who you are. After all, they married you, yes? You know what your spouse is like; that's why you married them after all.

I am wondering whether so many marriages fail these days because people are getting married with a hope that they can change all the things they dislike about their spouse once the confetti settles. I walked into my marriage knowing my husband had problems with alcohol, knowing he was a lazy slob who'd happily leave clothes, pots, food cartons and empty bottles strewn all over the house like he was still a student and knowing he couldn't maintain an erection. He knew I suffered from manic depression, knew I favoured writing over hoovering and knew I had trouble with my sex drive. So these things weren't a surprise, as we'd lived together for five years before getting hitched. So, unlike marriages decades ago when the couples lived apart until after marriage, we didn't go into this blind.

So why did we get hitched? I'd say several of our issues would be deal breakers for many. I find myself thinking this several times a day.

Firstly - and this is a selfish one on my part - I wanted The Day. I wanted the dress, the party, the venue the dancing, the food and the family and friends all there. I know a marriage is more than just the day, but I haven't been married before (close, but no cigar).

But apart from that, I suppose the usual things apply - I wanted security for myself and Daughter. It seemed the logical next step after living together and that old adage that "you either get married or split up" wasn't far from the truth. Did we marry because we were too lazy and scared to go our separate ways? I worked it out, you know. About a year before we got engaged, I sat down and costed it out - were we financial better off together or apart?

As it turns out, the latter was true in my case. I could have cut my losses and moved out with my daughter, and we'd have been financially richer (the Tax Credits would have shot up and household bills and rent would have been much smaller).

I find myself wondering now why I didn't take that more courageous of options and split up. And I think the crux of the argument is I thought that Daughter would be better off with a "normal" family unit. She's surrounded by friends who have "Normal" too and I've fought for so long to make her life as stable and happy as I can, carrying around with me the stigma of "single parent" for so long, perhaps I've forgotten that one happy single parent might actually be better than two miserable ones.

So: what now?

Number 39 - "You Did WHAT?"

Because sticking one of these in your mouth is so cool.

If there is one thing guaranteed to get my blood boiling and cause the Red Mist to descend, it's smoking. I'm quite evangelical about it and I'm not ashamed to say so. I HATE smoking. I hate everything about it, from the smell to how people look whilst doing it. (Clue: you look absolutely ridiculous.)

I have NEVER smoked, not even a sneaky couple of puffs on a Silk Cut as a curious teenager.

Mother is a smoker. (Quit at Christmas. Started with an eCig. Quit the eCig. Started smoking again 2 months ago.)
Sister is a smoker. (Quit a year ago. On an eCig.)
Husband is a smoker. (Quit 3 months ago. On an eCig.)
Father was a smoker. Has been smoke-free for 7 years.

As you can see, I'm from a smoking family. For years and years my parents would happily chain-smoke John Player Specials in our living room, a room which needed to be decorated every year to get rid of the yellow nicotine-stained white paint. I am surprised my lungs were not shot to hell as a child.

When I met Husband, he was smoking roll-ups but was in the process of "stopping". Which he didn't, until very recently, but I was willing to accept it as I understand that smoking is an addiction and cannot just be "stopped" unless you really, REALLY want to.

And I do not see a distinction between real cigarettes and these ridiculous eCigs. You look just as stupid puffing on something that looks like a biro, and whilst the damage to passive smokers might be drastically less, I still can't see how these things are that much safer. And surely you are just replacing one addiction for another? If you actually WANTED to STOP completely? Well, you just would, wouldn't you?

But I always warned that if I ever found out that Daughter had even LOOKED closely at a cigarette I would kill her. (Not literally, but death by Social Media Withdrawal and Indefinite House Arrest may be a real thing in the eyes of a teenager.) And she always swore she wouldn't because she agreed it was vile and stupid. So, she did the next best thing. She stole my mother's eCig that Mum had left behind when she stayed here and puffed away at that until the battery went flat.

And I went APOCALYPTICAL.

It is like having everything you've ever believed in whipped out from under you. My daughter, once this sweet, innocent little girl, had done something so reprehensible to me, so vile and stupid, I couldn't even look at her! I remember shaking with rage as she told me what she'd done and telling her quite coldly and calmly to get out of my sight. I couldn't speak to her for about 12 hours. She went to bed, got up for school the next morning without a word and by the time she got home, I'd had chance to process what she'd done. I'd researched the potential dangers of nicotine poisoning, possible addiction and everything else to do with these vile fake cigarettes and then I laid into her.

There was yelling.

She swears that she only had a few puffs as it was almost empty of the liquid that goes in the vial, and the battery was almost flat. There is no way to charge it here as it is not the same as Husband's and his is never out of his hand. (It's grasped permanently, like some sort of childhood comforter, and at night he lays it carefully on his bedside table.) And after a furious phone call to my Mother she is also adamant that it was almost completely flat and empty.

Daughter has shown no sign of poisoning and as yet, is not sweating, cold turkey, jonesing for another hit so there has been a slight bullet dodged there. She says she was just curious about it and what it tasted like and grudgingly I'll admit that it's marginally more preferable to try an eCig than the real thing. But this raises an issue of how these eCigs are seen by kids, and how they are marketed. For a while, there was an effective stigma against smokers. It was dangerous and smelly and disgusting. But these new things, with their slick, sexy ad campaigns are undoing all the work the anti-smoking campaigns did. Daughter was never curious about cigarettes. But with all the furore about how fantastic these fake ones are, well, she did the impossibly stupid and had a try. And I'm told that kids are buying them and starting up eSmoking; forgoing the Benson and Hedges and going straight to the technology.

And this disgusts me.

For the record, Daughter's privileges have all been stripped. She is on full House Arrest. Home > School > Home. That is all. Her Facebook has been deactivated, she is locked out of the internet for anything other than homework and that is supervised by me. She goes nowhere without an adult (usually me) present and she spends her evenings in the dining room studying or in the living room with me or Husband. The only time she is allowed in her bedroom is to get dressed/undressed and to sleep. Basically, she is being treated as a toddler who cannot be left alone until I feel she has learned a lesson.

Number 37 - In Which I'm Fed Up of "In Which"

Not sorry.

One of the perks of having my own business is that I don't have to be "in" the office for 9am. I don't need to wear a smart suit or have clean hair or even get dressed at all. I can work from my home office in a dreadful fleece hooded poncho with a snazzy South American print on it, that I bought from Asda before Christmas. It makes me look like a mad fat Mexican lady, but it is warm and this house is cold.

So, I'm at my desk typing up an invoice and doing worky things whilst listening to Whitesnake. I make no apologies for my choice in music; I've loved Whitesnake since I was 13. And "The Still of the Night" gets me all fired up. 

It did today too.

The opening chords do something to my blood and my special girly bits. I get tingly and just a little bit horny. 

I decided to hop in the bath; ostensibly to wash my hair and have a long soak, but really it was because it's the only room with a lock on the door and I fancied a bit of a fumble with my fanny.

So I'm there in a hot bath, reading erotica on my phone and my hand slowly worked its way down my body to my clit. And stayed there for HALF AN HOUR. With no success.

WHAT THE HOLY HELL?

It never takes me half an hour. Ever. Am I broken? 

I got out of the bath and headed into the bedroom and got out my very quiet, very effective vibrator. Wrapped in nothing but a towel, I assumed the position and turned on my magic wand. Normally I just use the lowest setting as it's quite enough to get me gasping and breathless with blissful release.

Not today.

So I cranked it up to medium. 

I let my mind wander to those dark places that illicit the most heavenly of tingles.

Have you ever been almost there, almost there, oh God I'm almost there? The anticipation builds, all your nerves are at DEFCON 1 and you're ready for the bomb to go off. It's delicious.

Except I was at DEFCON 1 for another half hour. That's ONE HOUR at almost there, almost there, dear God I'm so CLOSE. 

WHAT THE FUCK? 

I cranked it up to full speed. 

After another 10 minutes of writhing, panting and grimacing, sweat pouring off my brow, my entire body shaking, worried that I was going to vibrate the skin right off my super-sensitive clit and leave it red raw, I felt it coming.

I came with the loudest "rrrarrgh" ever and couldn't move for about five minutes afterwards. Eternally glad that there was nobody in the house, I rolled over and tried to stand up.

Wobbly legs.
                              Wobbly arms.
                                                            Dizzy.
                                                                            Christ.

I got dressed (fell over a couple of times) and went downstairs. I put the kettle on with shaky hands and wondered what the hell was wrong with my body that would deny me from getting off.

I am still wondering 10 hours later. I'm going to try again tonight, if my clit can stand to be touched. It's not so happy about the jeans I am wearing so a vibrating wand might be too much.

EDIT: I tried again at bedtime. Nothing was happening. Fell asleep, mid-fumble. <sigh>

Number 36 - In Which Nanna Reads Soft Porn

That's a nice tie.

My last living Nanna is a trouper. She is 82, has terminal cancer and has decided that these last few months are going to be lived her way and the rest of us can "fuck off." Her words. She has discovered several new words lately. Fuck is her favourite.

She found the Fifty Shades trilogy in her local Oxfam for £1. Yep, a single, solitary pound for all three. Having heard about the books, or rather the furore surrounding them, she thought the covers looked interesting, thought it was a set of books about a fashion designer, and promptly bought them.

She rang me today, which is always funny because she has become so irreverent lately, she tells it exactly how it is. 

"These books, these about the grey outfits and whatnot."

"Erm, yes?" (About the WHAT?!!)

"Well, I'm not sure if you have read them but I don't think they are about a fashion designer. "

"Oh, right?" (I'm trying not to laugh at this point.)

"Aye, they're about this two-bit silly bint and her chap. She needs a damn good slap, all that carrying on. There's a lot of what I think is sex in them, but it's nowt like how me and your Grandad used to carry on. Is this what you youths are doing these days? No wonder you have a bad back, with all this monkey business. I'm surprised you can walk!"

I had no words. Not even Fuck seemed appropriate.

Number 35 - In Which History Is Stoned.

Such a pretty leaf...

When I was 17, I fell in love properly for the first time. He was the older brother of one of my friends and I can still remember the full-on chest palpitations and butterflies kicking the crap out of my tummy.

He was 4 years older than me: broody, intelligent and utterly fucked up. Of course I was going to fall for him.

In the summer before I turned 17, we had a water fight - me, my friend Emma, her brother Nick and a few other girls. It was hot, we were bored and it seemed like fun. 

Nick and I ended up in the bathroom: inside the bath, fully clothed, me in his lap, kissing, under a hot shower. Oh my. 

Emma blew a gasket and refused to speak to us for the rest of the evening. The morning after was awkward. By the time the summer ended and my birthday arrived in October, we were dating, or "going out" with each other. The first time we had sex was in front of the telly, with the gas fire on, in his front room, just after the first ever National Lottery had been drawn (we didn't win.) I remember the sex being fairly good. Later, it got great - he was the first boy to go down on me and the first to give me an orgasm. Which was nice. 

I fell into an all-consuming, couldn't-breathe-without-him kind of love. I worshipped the ground he walked on, watched the post for his letters (he was in his last year of Uni in Wales) and would cry if there wasn't a letter, and be hysterically happy if there was. 

He was also the first boy to shag around behind my back (whilst he was in his final year at Uni), give me a raging STD (can't remember which but it itched and burned) and break my heart. 

Do you remember your first "real" love? I can think about him now and still get a funny feeling in my tummy. Some of it is a teeny-tiny bit of "how dare you cheat on me and give me a disease!' rage, but most of it is remembering how wonderful first love felt. 

I remember driving from Bangor Uni to his family's home in the Dales in his beat-up car after he graduated. We sang songs from cassettes all the way over, and stopped near a waterfall to have outdoor sex. 

We held hands as we walked down to the river, dodging puddles and talking nonsense. 

We shared a single bed in his tiny room, in his parents' little stone retirement cottage in a tiny picturesque village in Wensleydale. 

We curled up by the open fire in the snug, and he introduced me to whisky and ginger.

What wasn't so good, but what I readily accepted at the time, was how large and expensive his cannabis habit was. Looking back, I can see it was a major issue. If I hadn't found out about the cheating, the reckless frittering of money on weed would've been a red flag. I tried it a couple of times and it was okay, but honestly nothing to write home about. (Which I didn't incidentally, when I caught the train to Wales to stay with him in his last week at Uni.)

But, when he forgot my 18th birthday and hurriedly bought me a crappy stuffed teddy and a jar of humbugs from the local shop in the village where he lived with his parents, that kind of gave me a hint as to where his money was going. And it wasn't on me.

I was quite jaded for a while after we split up. I was not in a good place for a while afterwards and went on a bit of a one-night-stand shagfest, declaring that I wasn't going to allow myself to get close to anyone ever again. My first year in University was a lesson in how to get branded a massive slag.  My Dad had cheated, my first real boyfriend had cheated. Was this how life was? Did all men cheat? 

No, as it turned out. Not all of them. But I had a long way to go before I could recognise true love from childish infatuation. I'm still not entirely sure I'm quite there yet.

Interestingly, my sister came across Nick on Facebook a while ago and mentioned him. I did a little Facebook stalking, as you do. I was sad to see that he is still single. I'd hoped that he would be happy and settled, maybe with a family, but he isn't. He's single, unemployed, and also suffering from a deep and chronic depression. He always laughed in the face of cannabis addiction and its dangers. 

It was harmless, he said. 

He could quit at any time, he said. 

It had no long term problems, he said. 

But, based on my quick perusal of his page, I'd say that it hasn't done him any favours either. 

Number 34 - In Which I Blatantly Ignore My Resolutions.

Happy... blah blah blah.

I'm late with this post. I have spent the last month eating chocolate, drinking Prosecco and reading trashy novels. Oh, I've done the work thing too, often while doing the eating of chocolate, drinking of Prosecco and reading trashy novels. I've always been brilliant at multi-tasking and as I am my own boss, I can't get fired. I don't think.

How was your Christmas and New Year? Any hangovers? Any ill-advised mistletoe or 2014 countdown snogging? Any resolutions? 

Husband had the face on on New Year's Eve and refused to go to any of the parties we were invited to, so Daughter and I decided to sod the miserable git, got dolled up and went to a friend's for civilised drinks and dinner. It wasn't the lively knees-up I had hoped for, as when we got there, we were the only ones invited for dinner and only two other couples turned up later, one of whom were tee-total vegans who were not happy about the table full of cheese, meat and alcohol. But, despite considerable hurdles, we had a fairly good New Year's Eve. I had several Kir Royales, Daughter had some low-alcohol perry and we twirled home. Husband went to bed at 12:30am in a sulk.

I was going to make a resolutions list but to be honest, it's the same every year. 

Stop eating chocolate. 

Go to the Gym.

Meet George Clooney.

It gets a bit repetitive and I'm setting myself up for a fail right there. I mean come on... stop eating chocolate? Never gonna happen...

I did decide on one thing on New Year's Day as Husband banged around the house like a bear with a literal sore head (I found an empty bottle of whisky in the bin and he smelled like the inside of a whisky barrel). 

I'm not going to put up with his shit this year. 

It's now three weeks later and I am still putting up with his considerable shit. He quit smoking today as well, and bought one of those eCig things. Already today he's made me and Daughter cry, and the dog is hiding in his bed with his tail firmly between his legs.

But this year I have work to focus on, a book to maybe finish, a dog to walk more and a daughter to help through GCSEs. I am still working out what to do with my marriage, but in the mean time I'm going to be busy.

Number 33 - In Which I Hide The Christmas Spirit.

Rows of spirits can either make a party that little bit better or so much worse. I expect some of you will look at the photo and think "mmm, I like a tipple of some/many of those on occasion." I wonder how many of you look at the photo and experience dread and dismay?

I do.

I have been known on occasion to have the odd tipple of Laphroaig after a long hard day, and on the rare occasions I do go out, I'll have a couple glasses of wine, a vodka lime, or a nice crisp G&T. I know my limits, I know that one or two drinks will give me enough of a buzz to enjoy myself, and I generally have cokes or soda water and lime in between alcoholic drinks, 1) because I hate hangovers and 2) because, frankly, it's cheaper. 

I know. What a sickening Miss Goody Two Shoes I am. 

But I live with someone who has a drinking problem, so the reason for my dread and dismay is that it's Christmas time again, and yet again, this holiday will be used as an excuse to be drunk for a good week and a half. 

"It's Christmas. What's wrong with having a drink at Christmas?"

"I have the Christmas Spirit, stop being such a miserable cow."

"For God's sake, why should I pace myself? It's the time to be merry and jolly!"

I've had those retorts thrown at me, and much worse over the years. But this year, my dread is early because Husband seems more belligerent than usual. He is miserable in his job, so drink is his crutch.

From June onwards, I put a little money aside each week. Nothing massive, just a few pounds here and there, in order to save a decent amount for Christmas. I am a small business owner who has noticed the pinch of recession in recent years, so I don't have the luxury of a regular income. I work hard, for much less than I'm probably worth. I know this is a similar story for many of my networking associates. 

As far as Christmas gift giving goes, I generally buy the majority of the gifts for my daughter, as well as whatever Husband wants, and also presents for all the nieces and nephews on both sides. I usually make the adults in both families something homemade: boxes of truffles, homemade mincemeat, christmas biscuits, non-alcoholic ginger wine. Or occasionally we will set rules like "only spend £5." It's long since been agreed that we spend the majority of our money on the kids in the family, as Christmas is really for them first and foremost. 

Husband just has to buy for me and his parents.

So this year, as usual, I have bought for everyone, including most things on Husband's list, (which is a bit specialised as he requires tools for his hobby which are not cheap). As my daughter is now in her mid-teens, she is at the stage where she doesn't really want anything. She already has a laptop, a fairly good phone, an iPod and a DS Lite. She hasn't asked for anything other than books, so I have bought her those, plus lots of little things that I thought she'd like. (If I totalled them up, it would probably come to £200 or so.)

Today, Husband asked me to buy a wreath for the door. I said I couldn't as I had run out of money. 

Cue RAGE as he found out I had no money left to buy the Christmas food; something I actually thought he was purchasing this year. (He got his Christmas wage on Tuesday, plus a bonus. And he says it has just about gone after rent, car tax, council tax and TV licence are taken off. And then he said, "So I haven't been able to get you anything much yet.")

I have just had to listen to him scream at me for the better part of three hours about how I could be so irresponsible and not check my bank balance. How I could have dared to invite my family up for Christmas when we now have little money left to feed them. How Christmas is essentially ruined by my  carelessness. And how did I expect HIM to pay for Christmas food when he NEVER has any spare cash at the end of the month, so why did I think this month was different? 

So I rang the bank and asked for an overdraft, which they kindly agreed to. 

(It is at this point where I need to point out that he earns twice what I do. Yet every month he needs a few quid for this and a few quid for that and can he borrow £20 for petrol, and he is out of tobacco and the world will end if I don't give him £10 immediately.)

But he spends £70 a WEEK on alcohol and tobacco. 

So, I worked out what we'd need to spend on food this week, to feed us plus an extra 5 mouths. It's about £160, including the massive turkey. And I wondered "why the rage, the food will be paid for?" Then I realised that it wasn't about food at all. His rage is because I haven't set aside any money for alcohol. 

So while I have been quietly scrimping and saving for 6 months to accrue money for Christmas, he has spent over £3500 on alcohol and tobacco alone. If he even halved this spend, he'd be £1700 better off a year. If he'd put that aside and saved like I have, we'd be eating like kings next Wednesday.

I hate being a penny pincher. But what I hate more is living with an alcohol-dependent person. He is selfish and self centred. He only thinks about how he will get his next drink. This is the third Christmas in a row he hasn't bought me anything because he had no money, which isn't a big deal, but it hurts, coming second to bottles of alcohol.

So I have very little Christmas spirit, if I'm honest, either literally or figuratively. I'm not looking forward to the next week, other than seeing my daughter open her presents, and seeing my sister, her family and my Dad on Christmas Day. It's been a tough month for him and this is the first Christmas without his mother. 

The bottles of wine and spirits I do have, given to me by clients, are hidden away. I hate not being able to freely enjoy one glass of something, because I know that the rest of the bottle will be drunk within 24 hours. I am so sick of living like this. But I don't know how to change it.

Number 32 - In Which I Return From The Bermuda Triangle

I haven't really felt like blogging recently, and nor have I managed to find the time.

One of my family members died recently. It wasn't wholly unexpected as she was nearly 90, but the deterioration from healthy to deathly was very fast. I suppose when it is your time, what is to keep you?

I wasn't present when she died, but my sister and mother were. My sister swears that the night before, she felt a draught and then felt someone touching her shoulder and noticed a strong smell of alcohol in the room. At this point, my mother apparently came back from wherever she had been and commented on the smell, asking my sister if she had been drinking. My sister said no and she says that she was struck with such an overwhelming sense of something that she didn't understand, that she burst into tears. At this point, my Grandmother stirred in her sleep/unconsciousness but held on, and the feeling in the room passed.

A day later, Grandmother died.

Grief is a funny, interesting thing. It seems to affect people in many different ways. My father became mean, vitriolic and belligerent, and frequently drunk. My sister is the highly emotional one, so she cried a lot. I suppose I am a mix of the two. I shed some tears despite being very sad, yet was more concerned with practicalities. What would happen to the house? (It is to be sold.) Did the burglar alarm work? (Yes.) Was the house and contents insured? (Yes.) Had my Grandmother expressed any particular wishes for the funeral arrangements? (No.) Did my father have power of attorney? (No.)

It fell to me to plan the funeral and to an extent, sort out my Grandmother's belongings. My father wanted to throw absolutely everything away after deeming it all crap and declared, "we are NEVER going to get this sorted."

Such negative finalities piss me off.

On a long journey: "We are NEVER going to get there." Of course you are.
In a car park: "We'll NEVER get parked." Of course you will, eventually.
After a relationship ends: "I'll NEVER get over him/her." Yes, you will.

Such defeatism. No need.

So, after my father declared that his mother's belongings, the story of hers and my Grandfather's life, was all shit, I stepped in. I made sure her clothes were bagged and donated to charity. I sorted through all her tablets and had them dropped off at the pharmacy to be disposed of. All her paperwork was either filed or shredded. I rang HMRC, the utility companies and the pension service. I spoke to the Registrar and the funeral directors and then to the vicar who would officiate the service.

In between all this, my Dad would have these mini meltdowns. The first time we went to her house, he walked into the living room and saw her chair, and dissolved into it, sobbing. For about 10 seconds though, then he would clear his throat, apologise and carry on doing whatever he was doing. Then it would happen again when faced with her Ventolin inhaler. And her kettle. And Dad's first birthday cards. And each time, he'd stop, apologise and carry on. And after each instance, he'd get a little more mean and a little more angry. We couldn't make him understand that crying was normal and he should't have to apologise, but he said that crying was a weakness and he had to be strong for my sister and me. We told him that was rubbish. He didn't listen and began to shout again. Every time.

He made it hard to discuss things. I began to resent him dismissing his mother's belongings as such trivial trinkets. They were not trivial to her otherwise she would not have kept them, certainly not after her husband, my Grandfather died.

In her things we found a photograph of her and my Grandfather, partying with Prince Charles in an opulent grand marquee.

Yep. Prince Charles.

It's hard to date it; Prince Charles looks young, so I reckon it was around the time he got married, in 1980 or 1981.

My Grandfather was decorated in the Navy and after leaving he was very high up in the then National Coal Board. He actually met Prince Charles another two times. We found photos of him shaking hands with Prince Charles and receiving medals and certificates.

I found menus from cruises they went on in the 80s and 90s. They dined with the Captain on most nights, and ate from lavish seven-course menus.

We found photographs of them in several different countries. I had no idea how well and far they had travelled.

When sorting through her clothes, we were stunned to find extremely expensive items of clothing, hats and jewellery which she hadn't worn in later years because she did not have the functions to attend that she did when my Grandfather was alive. She outlived him and most of their friends.

She kept newspaper clippings of things my Dad had done at school, accolades my Grandfather had won, and even articles about my sister and I when we won competitions at school.

We found our family genealogy that had been researched by a cousin of my Grandfather. To find that our Great Great Great Great Uncle ran off with gypsies when he was 12 made for interesting reading.

We found photos of her and my Grandfather when they were both in their teens; him in his Navy uniform of stripy top, white trousers and hat looking like Dean Martin; her looking like Margaret Lockwood with a teeny tiny waist and perfectly coiffured hair.

When alive, she and my Grandfather were private people. We would not have been allowed to rummage through her cupboards as we did now. But in doing so, we learned about them and gained a greater respect. She was proud of her family. This was clear from the things she saved. She was proud of her life, as each letter and photo and news article shed more light on the past. They lived well.

She was a classy, well educated lady and I'm proud I was related to her.

My tears came later. I was going through my own filing when I returned and came across a letter she had written to me when I was at University. In it, she wrote how proud she was of me, and how she and my Grandfather were close by if I ever needed to go and see them. She was appalled by the conditions of Halls, and how little we had to live on. She would send food parcels, money and recipes to help me out. What I rolled my eyes at 20 years ago, made me sob now.

Yesterday, my father called me to ask about my sister's account of what happened in the hospital the night before Grandmother died. Did I believe her? If I did, who did I think it was that came for her? Do I believe in a higher power?

We are not a religious family yet my father has found spirituality, but not necessarily comfort in believing that we are watched over by some higher power. He was telling me about some ancient texts from he Old Testament that had been found, in which describes a prophet that pre-dated Jesus by many years, who correctly predicted the fall of Babylon. (I assume he's referring to The Dead Sea Scrolls?) But he was certain that if something of such importance was accurately prophesied, then there must be someone or something on a higher plane that was giving the prophet these visions. And as a result, he believes that the rapid decline in my Grandmother's health was due to a "calling" from this divine being. He believes it was her time, and she was called to something akin to Heaven. I think he also believes that either her father or my Grandfather came to get her, which may explain the phenomenon my sister experienced.

I didn't and still don't have answers for him. I cannot and do not wish to believe that when we die, that's it. Nothing. We simply switch off and cease to be. It seems so final. At the same time, I wish I could wholly believe that the dead are always watching, looking down on us from some higher plane. I am inherently cynical, but quietly optimistic that after death, there is something else. There has to be.

Number 31 - In Which A Sandwich Leads To Highlander.

"That was lovely darling, but I have to go and save the world."

Most of the time I enjoy being British. We are, for the most part, fiercely proud, yet rarely are we braggarts about what makes us proud. We can also be particularly haughty about some things, yet utterly ridiculous about others. For example:

The Daily Mail (and its proclivity to thrive despite its utter vileness).
We are overly P.C. (As in Politically Correct, not Computer PC. Though I wonder what the ratio of PC to Mac is in this country? Hmm.)
We dislike making a fuss when things are wrong.
Sex is a dirty word.

I could wax lyrical (rant) about the first three, and I may one day, but tonight I want to talk about sex. And sex fantasies.

Yes.

I want to talk about something that the vast majority of us do, have done, or will do at some point in our lives.

It's OK, you can admit it. Don't be embarrassed.

I had a meeting yesterday with a business associate. Both being professionals, the meeting started out very business-like, as you would expect:

work,
          work,
                       work,
blah-di-blah,
                    profit,
                               loss,
                                        bottom line.

There we were in Costa, discussing marketing and PR over overpriced lattes and disappointingly dry cake. Then the conversation segued into TV. We talked about how clever yet emotionally manipulative Christmas TV adverts were. (Bear, Hare, Snowman, Snowgirl, awww bless, etc.) Then we got talking about Sky TV in particular. And then things got really interesting. We went from Sky Premiere movies to hit US TV shows, then the handsome actors and gorgeous actresses in these shows. And then:

"You know what I'd really love for Christmas? A Strike Back Sandwich."

Coffee may have been spluttered at this point.

"A what?!"

"A Strike Back Sandwich. Come on, you must have seen Strike Back, on Sky One?"

There was a nod and a wary grin as realisation started to dawn.

"All I can think about, watching those two guys, is what it would be like to be in between them. You know. In bed."

This was met with fascination, a touch of embarrassment and furtive looks to make sure the other customers hadn't heard and weren't about to call the Obscenity Police. Because women do not admit this kind of thing out loud. Do they?

Well, maybe it's time we did.

When I got home later on, I pondered on this tantalising revelation a little bit more and I think I understand why the idea of a hot sweaty threesome with the Strike Back guys is such a turn on. (OK, maybe the threesome element is somewhat unique, but stay with me.)

They are both handsome.
They are both sexy.
They are both physically fit.
They are both Special Forces.
They get dirty a lot.
They get beat up a lot.
They save the day.

I think this sums up most of what is going on in a lot of women's heads - HEROES ARE HOT.  The same reason James Bond is so attractive. The same reason romantic literature always favours the bad boy with a heart of gold. As long as the end-game is ultimately for the greater good (and this bit is important - this does not include serial killers or wife beaters or anyone genuinely evil, there needs to be a goodness deep down), women LOVE bad men. We love our men to get dirty and sweaty and take charge. Bonnie Tyler knew; she sang about it. I sing along to 'I Need A Hero' whenever it comes on the radio but never really absorbed the lyrics until now.

Is it primal? Is it genetic? Does it hark back to our cavemen days where a stronger man was more likely to survive and provide? I read one of Jill Mansell's latest books the other day, called "Don't Want To Miss A Thing", which sees the female protagonist date a boring but good guy, whilst massively attracted to her devilishly handsome (yet womanising) neighbour who inadvertently gets guardianship of his niece after his sister dies. And, as with all chick lit, it's obvious who she ends up with. I knew what would happen, but I read it anyway. The same as the sexy SciFi book I read before that. And the Paranormal romance before that. And I love them all.

Then I looked back on my past long-term relationships, short flings and one-nighters. And found something interesting. In real life, I have never actually stayed with the bad men. I've had flings and one-nighters with bad boys that have been incredibly intense, erotic and emotionally exhausting, but ultimately I settled down with the long-term guys who were and are a bit… vanilla.

So how come we marry the safe ones, but fantasise about the ones that have us orgasming multiple times but may ultimately break our hearts? And is there a way to maybe combine the two?

Could our safe guys be prompted to take a walk on the wild side once in a while?

Or could the bad boys be tamed slightly so we can safely marry them?

I married a safe one. He doesn't really like to be dominant in the bedroom. Out of the bedroom, I manage the household's money, I plan the meals, I walk the dog and I discipline the teenager. I am the one who arranges for tradesmen to visit when required and am here when they do and listen when they tell me why the boiler/water tank/electrical appliance has exploded. I fix the gadgetry. But if I suggest that he maybe takes charge once in a while, maybe gets a bit more raunchy in the bedroom (and how about pulling my hair or slapping my ass?) he usually bolts like a frightened rabbit. Quite the turn off.

Shit. Hang on. Am I the bad one in this relationship? Do men like bad girls; girls who take charge and who wear the trousers? Are we all going round, searching for a hint of danger and dominance in our partners, but in any relationship there can be only one, a bit like in Highlander?

Bloody hell, am I Highlander?

I've asked a lot of questions here, I know. But, my little Highlander worry aside, my point is this. The Strike Back Sandwich fantasy is just as viable a sex fantasy as a man using a porn mag or film to jack off to. The very purpose of a fantasy is to excite, tantalise and arouse. It may happen, but more than likely it won't, but either way does it matter the form a fantasy takes?  I'm not ashamed of having fantasies and I think we should be more open and honest about sex. Let's talk about it more and stop being so frightfully British. If it weren't for sex, none of us would be here and I wouldn't be worried about being an Immortal Macleod right now.

So: men - I'd like it if, every once in a while, you could run around in a vest and combat trousers, thwart a villain, diffuse a bomb and then shag me thoroughly senseless, any and every which way, in a hotel room. Somewhere exotic where the voile panels at the window blow slightly in the hot summer wind. Then pick up the dog poo in the garden, fill the car with petrol, put your dirty clothes in the laundry basket and please could you fetch me a curry?

If you'll indulge me in my fantasy, I'll do the same for you. I'll wear that really uncomfortable peephole bra you like - the one with the matching split crotch knickers. And yes, I'll bend over for you and provocatively bite my finger. Or, if it floats your boat, you can wear the kinky lingerie and I'll thwart the villain, diffuse the bomb and shag you senseless in a hotel room somewhere. Because we all need a hero every now and then.

Number 30 - In Which I Say I'm Doing NaNoWriMo.

Closely resembles my office. Except on my desk, there's whisky.

My very good friend and sometimes colleague, Karen, thinks I should give up the day job and write the novels I have been banging on about for the last ten years. Well, what she actually said was; "oh for heaven's sake, if you want to write, bloody well do it, but stop moaning about it!"

I've had stories in my head since I first read Enid Blyton's The Faraway Tree. At school, I'd rather sit by myself (in the woods behind the playing field) and read or imagine other worlds, than hang out with my friends. I suspect that's why a) I had no friends until I got to University, and b) I did so well in English Language and Literature.

As I've grown up, so too have the stories. The characters became more complex and the adventures became less innocent.

As it's November, and NaNoWriMo is a good focussing exercise, I thought I'd give it a go this year. My day job is quiet at this time of year so I'm lucky in that I have the time.

"Righto," I declared on 1st November. "Let's do this."

On 2nd November, it was the organised fireworks display in our town, so there was no way I'd be able to concentrate with all the bangs and flashes.

On the 3rd, I realised the kitchen was a bit messy. I gave it a good clean. Then I did the utility room, the downstairs shower room and had a sort through of all my cookbooks in the dining room. I have 106. (Possibly a few too many really.)

On the 4th November, I was feeling a bit under the weather so I ate a lot of comfort food and watched trashy telly until Husband complained. Husband is on annual leave, so when he isn't at work, I am expected to be off too. So no computer time for me. (Or trashy telly time either.)

On the 5th to the 9th, my mother was visiting. I got nowhere near the office but I introduced my mother to charity shopping. She bought two pairs of designer jeans for £7 and the first three Game of Thrones books for £5. She was delighted. (I have created a monster.)

The 10th was Remembrance Sunday. I had a church service and a procession to attend. I was surrounded by very handsome Army, RAF and Navy men.

In uniform.

(It felt wrong to have such lusty feelings in church. I'n fairly sure I'm going to hell.)

Yesterday was Armistice Day. I had a headache and Husband's Extended DVD Edition of The Hobbit arrived which he watched - all 14 hours of it. (My punishment for thinking impure thoughts in the House of God.)

And that brings us up to today. I made a concerted effort to get on with things today. I read an article about how to prepare yourself and your workspace for the writing process. I gave my desk a good fettle, by moving the pile of invoices from one part of the desk to the other. I was also inspired by Alexandra Brown's work area, as featured in this blog recently. So I went to Jo Malone and bought a candle to help with this process. It's a lovely Blackberry and Bay scented one. And they very kindly give you Jo Malone-branded matches too, which is cool because I hid all the matches in the house when Daughter was four. (Ten years later, I still can't find them.)

Smells delicious. It ought to for £39 sodding quid.

I lit the candle, blew out the match and threw it in my office bin. About 10 minutes later, I wasn't really smelling the candle, but there was a strong smell of burning. Turns out the spent match was still a bit hot and alive and had started to smoulder all the waste paper in my bin. Luckily I was a whole five minutes away from setting fire to the office.

The fire is out now. It is quite handy having a bathroom next to my office.

The candle is still burning. It smells lovely now. But I can't get to the stories or my characters, possibly due to almost burning down the building. I'll try again tomorrow.

Listening to: Guns N Roses - Use Your Illusion I 
Reading - A Fucked Up Life In Books - Anonymous

Number 29 - In Which You Say Potato, I Say Carbohydrate.

Give me a spoon.

I flipping love mashed potatoes. Something inside me is trigged by the clocks going back: I need stodge, I need carbohydrates, I need to hibernate. This time of year demands stews, steamed sponge puddings and piles and piles of mashed spuds.

So imagine my horror when Daughter announced today with a "meh," that she "doesn't like mash potatoes anymore. They are too creamy."

I'll give you a second to let that sink in.

TOO CREAMY? Clearly my child is ill. I needed to sit down.

I tried the Atkins diet about ten years ago and craved potatoes so badly, I once nicked a french fry off a lad in Burger King who was walking past me carrying a tray piled high with them. My hand snaked out, I grabbed one, and I stuffed it in my gob. He didn't see. I didn't care if he did or not.

So, for me carbs and cold weather go hand in hand. A doctor told me that the body craves food that it needs. Clearly my body needs carbohydrates. Who am I to argue?

So my dilemma tonight is what on earth to cook with our Monday Roast? (We have our Sunday dinner on a Monday, just to be really contrary.) It's roast beef tonight with roast potatoes, garlic green beans and the last of our carrots from the garden. Normally I'd do mash alongside, with a hint of garlic, topped with cheese. But Daughter and her "meh" ing is making me worried. I don't think it's about the potato per se, I get the sneaking feeling it's about Thigh Gap. It's the first day back to school today, she had PE third period and she's had a week of being idle. I caught her posing in her mirror last night and poking at her thighs and tummy. If she were overweight, then fair enough, but she isn't. She's a size 10 and is about 5 foot 5. 

So, Thigh Gap is the current thing with the kids online; ripping anyone apart, celebrity or not, about whether their thighs touch at the top. Apparently you are hideously fat and disgusting if your thighs do. And apparently it's not OK for me to log on to her Facebook account and tell all these girls what utter fucking morons they are for subscribing to this fatuous notion.

I worry about Daughter every day. I worry about what lies she is exposed to, by fashion magazines and media who should know better but don't care that they make teenaged girls feel that anorexia is cool. I worry about the pressure she is under at school to perform well in her GCSEs. I worry about pressure from her peers and celebrities to be much more sexualised than she should be. (I'm looking at you Miley Cyrus. Put some fucking clothes on and stop whoring about on a builder's yard.) And I worry that I, as her mother, want to act on her behalf; to wrap her up in cotton wool and prevent the world from ruining my little girl. But I know I can't, as she has to live in it too. So instead, I shall make dinner, make pudding and if she's worried about Thigh Gap, I'll go for a long walk with her at the weekend where we can burn some calories whilst we walk and talk. 

Number 28 - In Which I Watch The Leaves Turn Golden.

Not quite the view from my window, as there are kids in the park at the moment. I''m scared to post pictures with kids in. The internet is dark and full of terrors.

The view from my office window is one of myriad trees, bowing and shimmering in the wind, their leaves slowly turning from green to the colour of bonfires. I quite like this time of year. Whilst I adore a snowy winter, golden Autumn calls to mind Hallowe'en, toffee apples and standing around smoky bonfires, staring into the flames and feeling the heat on your face whilst getting lost in thought as the flames hypnotise. Besides, I like coming indoors and smelling of woodsmoke, it makes me feel tribal and at one with nature. (I have a ton of Wiccan literature on my shelves and it's about this time of year where I quite fancy flinging off my clothes and dancing around the aforementioned fires. But I get the feeling that the folks round here might still burn witches.)

Not our bonfire either. 

Living in this little parochial backwater means there is never an organised bonfire, possibly due to health and safety, but more likely that our Round Table are notoriously lazy. That said, the annual firework display that they put on is a corker and this year's was no exception, although I was a lazy tightwad this year and decided to watch them for free, from the relative warmth of our attic, in our pyjamas. Husband was away and Daughter had nothing to wear apparently, so I think I made the right call.

I have been in quite a reflective mood of late. Last week we had family staying with us, and it was fascinating watching other marriages at work, other kids being raised and other lives being lived. Both my parents are quite ill at the moment, so whilst my father escaped to Ireland (on the pretext of work, but really just drinking stout and carousing with the local ladies) my post-nervous breakdown mother came to stay with us. Then my sister and her ex husband and two kids. Then my In-Laws. At one point I was feeding so many people I felt like presenting them with bills at the end of their stays. (Service not Included, a 15% tip is suggested.)

Do you put on a show for other people? The "Look How Harmonious Our Family Is" show? I think people must. I know we did. Husband and I barely sniped at each other for a week, Daughter was almost never a brat and the Dog could have been performing at Crufts. And when they all left, the four of us sort of slumped in our respective spots and were too exhausted to do much other than order a takeaway curry, drink a shit ton of wine, lick our own privates or disappear upstairs to chat to imaginary friends on social media. (I'll leave you, dear reader, to figure out who did what.) But the Harmonious Show led us all into a false sense of security. Daughter thought she'd got away with lying about and ignoring her week's worth of homework until the last minute, Dog thought nobody would notice that he'd had a massive shit right in the middle of the vegetable patch at the top of the garden, I'd almost got away with not doing any work all week, and Husband thought I'd forgotten than I am really fucking furious with him for drinking so much he passed out on the new sofa, spilling red wine all over it and the new (light coloured) carpet, staining both beyond repair. With the careful application of rugs and throws, the stains may be hidden, but because they were left for hours, they have done their damage. Carpet and upholstery cleaner and the frantic consulting of my 101 HouseHold Tips book have helped, but not fully removed. I hate being such a ball-breaking bitch, but sometimes I feel like I'm the only one in this house with any sense. Then I go and do something utterly stupid like CUT MY OWN FRINGE, and realising that I actually did a better job of it the last time I cut it. When I was FIVE. Then I realise I'm not so shit-hot after all.

Number 27 - In Which I Am Sad.

I knew messing about with New MySpace would lead to trouble. Apparently, the mere action of me logging in triggered an email from MySpace to everyone on my "Connections" list. So now Handsome Jeremy has an email from MySpace telling him I'm back online and why not say hi? Hmm.

We didn't leave things well.

I might have intimated that I'd quite like to shag him if ever he was over from California. He said he'd rather just be pals. Thanks god for the Internet - my furious and sickening embarrassment was disguised with a jovial "LOL, I'm like totally kidding!"reply from me. Ho hum.

In other news, I think I'm coming down with a bad dose of The Fucks. Symptoms include:

• Blatant disregard for arbitrary parking regulations
• Irritation with idiots
• Short temper with recalcitrant technology
• Shouting at contestants on tellybox quiz shows
• Increased desire for controlled substances such as caffeine, chocolate, cake and crisps
• Decreased desire for sex
• Fatigue
• Argumentativeness
• A general but all-consuming malaise

Treatment for The Fucks includes:

• Chocolate
• Caffeine
• Cake
• Crisps
• Loud Rock Music
• Long baths
• Avoiding the public

Alcohol is not recommended, as may improve things in the short term, but can lead to an inadvertent releasing of home truths best kept secret. It may also lead to maudlin crying.

I'm fairly familiar with the condition so I have it in hand. I have a massive bar of Galaxy on my desk, a pot of tea on the go and Metallica coming out of my speakers. I've also just seen the new Thor trailer, and the sight of a topless Chris Hemsworth has made my blood run a bit hotter and faster.


Listening to: Metallica:  "The Black Album"
Reading: Lindsey Kelk - "About A Girl"

Number 26 - In Which I Am Frightened by MySpace.

About seven years ago, I had a MySpace account. I had a whopping 18 friends, only two of whom I ever properly conversed with, and one of whom I'd ever actually met in real life. You could add friends on the other side of the world, based solely on how funny their blog was/how hot their profile picture was. (I'm talking about you handsome Jeremy.) You didn't need their permission first. They didn't have to verify if they knew you or not. Then I stopped using it in favour of MSN Messenger, promptly forgot about it and never gave it another thought until the other day.

"I wonder," I thought, "whether MySpace Tom still has 2 billion friends?"

I logged back on today, via a followed Forgotten Password link.

MySpace is NOT THE SAME. It is shiny and new with strange icons and shiny, flashy things and where are my old blogs and photos and friends? Where is the handsome Jeremy?

I was on it for all of five minutes before I decided I hated it. Not as much as Facebook, but still. The new MySpace is an enormous sea change from what it was, circa 2006. Facebook's changes are merely gradual and insidious.

I'm not even sure what, if anything MySpace is used for these days. Is it just musicians and actors on there now? Surely FaceBook and Twitter have friend-reaching and Vine-sharing sewn up?

I'm going to cancel my MySpace account. It feels like walking back into a house you used to live in, long after you've moved away. Sort of familiar, but looks and smells all wrong.

Number 25 - In Which I Get Lost In The Romance.

Is it true that the longer a couple is together, the less romance there is? Husband and I have been together for almost ten years, and I think he has only bought me flowers three times. Not that flowers is the be-all-and-end-all of romance, but it indicates that you have thought about your partner and got them something they'll love for no reason other than 'just because'. (Unless you believe the adage that a man only buys a woman flowers when he has done something wrong. I don't believe that. And I love flowers.)

But then I think, when was the last time I did something nice for him? Does rolling him into the recovery position count when he's passed out on the floor at 3am from too much alcohol? I used to buy him books 'just because' but money is tight now. So, no books and no flowers any more. Sometimes the occasional cup of tea or coffee is made, but that is it. And, no I don't think a Blow Job counts as romance.

But what defines romance? What makes us romantic? I am struggling to think about anything that indicates romance other than flowers/books. That's a bit sad, but I suspect I am not alone, which is why Romance books still sell so incredibly well. Despite knowing pretty much how every Romance book I buy is going to end, I still buy them. I still want to read about romance, even if it's lost in my relationship. I want the girl to get the guy, and even though I sigh and roll my eyes when it inevitably does happen ("god, this is soooo cheesy!") I read on to the end, then start the next one.

I have a pile of them at the moment. I have just finished Alexandra Brown's 'Cupcakes at Carrington's' which was delightfully lighthearted, funny and made me crave cake like you wouldn't believe.

Husband likes cake, especially carrot, and coffee and walnut. If I go and bake one 'just because', that would be romantic, right? And serves a dual purpose in that there will then be cake in the house. I think that's a win all round.


Listening to: Billy Joel - "Piano Man"
Reading: Lindsey Kelk: "About a Girl"

Number 24 - In Which I Replace One Fantasy With Another.

I think Wank Banks vary - whereas Husband's seem to focus on things that have happened, mine is things that I wish would happen. His is based in tactility, mine is based in fantasy. I suspect that is the same for most men and women. Certainly the ones I have spoken to.

Despite the fact that Husband and I have been together for almost ten years, we haven't talked about sex as much as I'd like. I have had more than twice the number of sexual partners as him, and he was married once before, whereas I had been in relationships without the 'I Do'.

With Ex, the boyfriend before Husband, things were much more open. Again, my sexual encounters massively outweighed his (he was another first marriage gone wrong, and I was Sex Partner number 2). The difference here was that we were both younger (I was 23, he was 25) and I think with a decade in our favour, it was easier to be open about what got us revved up. I disclosed my same-sex encounter, the many one-night stands and past borderline S&M relationships. He disclosed how he had only had sex with one woman before me and how she and I were polar opposites in every sense.

Through Ex, I met one of his friends, Drew (via ICQ and telephone, never in person). For you guys under 35, ICQ was an instant messaging service. I have no idea if it is still a thing. I used to converse with EX via ICQ (after meeting him via an online dating site). It was instant, obviously, and cheaper than telephones or text messages (back when we had to pay per message, before Unlimited tariffs properly existed).

Anyway, Drew was an expat who lived in the US. And Drew was incredibly aloof and incredibly intelligent. So naturally I saw this as a challenge and our conversations were frequent and long. Ex and I were engaged at the time, and looking back I think Drew saw me as as much of a challenge as I saw him. He opened my eyes to my dysfunctional relationship with Ex, and I pursued Drew's approval and craved his attention. He made me want to use my brain and learn and grow as a person. He was a man who challenged me, toyed with me and forced me to see that the cocoon Ex had wrapped me in was not healthy. Ex wanted me to himself, and I was discouraged from forging friendships. The whole time we were together, I did not have one other friend that was mine alone. All my friends were his.

When Ex and I came to the inevitable end, Drew hung around. We'd email and chat and things took a turn for the darker. Phone calls led to phone sex, and ICQ chats led to video chats which led to divulging parts of our anatomies that had until then, only been imagined. I'd never had phone sex before. I was terrible at it the first time, but after a few attempts, I got the hang of it and let down my guard.  Emotional walls came down, secrets were shared and my eyes were well and truly opened to a dark side of myself that I had suppressed. I liked the danger. I liked closing the curtains to my bedroom, putting on crotchless knickers and peephole bras, and tantalising myself as he watched or listened. The first time he dropped his jeans and showed me his semi-erect cock via a terrible quality webcam, I thought my heart was going to explode, it was pounding so hard. Masturbating via webcam was not as sexy as it sounds, given this was a few years ago and they were not as clear and smooth as they are now, but at the time it served its purpose and the sight of him shooting cum all over his desk is imprinted in my brain forever. It was possibly the most erotic thing I had ever witnessed.

I have never met Drew in person. He's in Massachusetts, I am not. And when Husband came on the scene, Drew and I sort of fizzled out. I haven't heard from him in years. But since Giant has ceased to fill me with that delicious rush of blood to my clit, I revisited some of my archived ICQ chats with Drew. They were much more suggestive than I remembered, but looking at them with many more years' maturity is interesting. I was such a giggly fangirl, it's quite cringey to read. I'm almost tempted to email him and say "hey, remember 10 years ago when we wrote this?" and copy and paste snippets of the transcript. But I won't. The lure of him is still there in the back of my head. He'll always be there, this mysterious almost-stranger with whom I shared some of my deepest, darkest desires. And I think I like him better as a deep, dark secret that managed to enlighten me about myself more than anyone else ever has.

Number 23 - In Which I Have The Worst Week Ever.

I think the title says it all really.

This week I have learned that:

My mother has had a nervous breakdown and is heavily medicated and off work (from the job that broke her) indefinitely.

My father is also on the verge of a breakdown. He is an only child, and his elderly mother is in the throes of dementia and lymphoma. He cannot cope with caring for her alone and is leaving her for three weeks to go to Thailand. How she will manage during this time is unknown. I have offered to go and stay with her. This was rebuffed by him. He is hoping Social Services will get involved, but when they visited her last week, she told them, she was fine and refused all help offered. My dad cried on the phone that night. Something I haven't seen or heard him do since he was dumped at Christmas about 6 years ago by a slag of a girlfriend he insisted was in it for the long haul. We still don't talk about her.

My other Gran is also terminally ill, but she does so with a quiet dignity and grace that belies the viciousness of the cancer attacking her whole body.

Husband is also close to a breakdown after the stress of his job has him yelling, pacing, fuming and drinking more than he has ever done before. Every day he comes in and I listen to the same diatribe daily. He is caught in an impossible situation; he has an incompetent boss who repeatedly breaks employment laws, with a board of Directors who turn a blind eye and don't give a fuck. I am worried that Husband will crack.

My daughter is struggling at school, something she hasn't experienced so far in her education. This is making her frightened and incredibly tense as she comes to terms with the fact that school is hard, for the first time in her life, as GCSEs loom.

My business is also struggling; it seems that while the rest of the country may be slowly recovering from the recession, this hasn't spread to the desolate North. People still are not spending and as a result, my company is feeling the pinch. Invoices are being paid later and later, and customers are fewer.

But in the midst of all this utter shit, I learned through the grapevine yesterday that Giant proposed to his long-term partner. This is delightful, and a long time coming for them, but I hate that I felt a pang of resentment as I was told the news. He's not mine, he never has been, and yet I felt a flash of jealousy! I am now disgusted with myself, but oddly, when I try to conjure up the normal fantasy from my Wank Bank, it sort of fails and I don't get as excited. It's time for a new fantasy.

Number 22 - In Which I Read And Cry.

I like books.

No, that's an understatement. I fucking LOVE books. I try to imagine sometimes, when life gets me down, what I'd do without stories. What if Enid Blyton hadn't written about the Faraway Tree? What if Roald Dahl hadn't conjured up a factory where sweets and chocolates and all manner of deliciousness were created? My entire childhood was built upon the blocks of Enid Blyton stories. I still look for dark rings in grass, and feel around to see if there is a magic button that will take me to see fairies and pixies. And I still check trees in woods to see if there's one tree that is impossibly high.

I'm never without a book. I have a queue of about twelve on iBooks and Kindle and a pile about 2 foot high next to my bed.

This blog was  never created to be specifically a diary-style rant, nor did I intend to review anything but I've read some books lately that I believe deserve a review.

Today's is a book called 'The Drowning of Arthur Braxton' by a relatively unknown author called Caroline Smailes. After I read this, I instantly fired up trusty Google and went on a bit of a stalk, and bought all her other books in the space of two minutes.

'Arthur Braxton' is at times visceral, at times mystical and at times whimsical. The story switches between several of the characters and with each switch, the voice changes flawlessly. I'm not going to give a full synopsis as other blogs and reviews do this, and I think too much information beforehand gives the magic of the book away.

And it is magic. There is magic in the writing (I can picture the swimming baths so clearly, it's like I am there) and the story is heartbreakingly beautiful. And, unlike Enid Blyton's fairy tales of old, this one is a fairy tale with a grown-up twist. One I will read again when I've finished devouring her other books.

Buy it here: Amazon

Number 21 - In Which I Have Very Bad Thoughts.

My parents divorced when I was about twelve. I have a dim recollection of much shouting and screaming, fraught phone calls to hospitals and the police and the eventual showdown when it transpired that my Dad was late home not because of an horrific accident (as my mother had rang every hospital and police station in the entire county), but because he'd been shagging my Mum's friend. I no longer have a good relationship with my Dad as he still thinks with his cock, twenty-odd years later and I have no respect for someone who is so fickle with relationships as to have a new one every year, often overlapping.

When my sister had a fling which subsequently wrecked her marriage, I was so disgusted, I couldn't talk to her properly for months.

So I have a dim view of extra-marital affairs.

So the thoughts I have been having lately are abhorrent to me, yet still they persist. I won't ever act on them, but I go there in my head and it is tantalising, titillating and wholly capable of getting me off when the need arises.

He is local. He is in a long term relationship with the mother of his children. He is a giant of a man, both in stature and personality. He speaks with a broad, local dialect which often I cannot understand, so I imagine him bending close to my ear and whispering slowly, his breath tickling my neck and earlobe. He works with his hands, so they are rough and calloused and when I imagine them touching me, I start to get warm in places I shouldn't.

I am friends with his partner. We are not close friends but I have been in her kitchen and sat with her and some other friends, drinking tea as we talk about our teenagers, our dogs, our men. And I hate myself for having such wicked thoughts about her man. But still they persist.

In the grip of one of these moments of madness, I initiate sex with Husband. He's not very dominant in bed, nor is he is real life and often I get tired of being the one who wears the proverbial trousers, both in the bedroom and out of it. I always thought that the submissive woman and the Man In Charge was a horribly sexist cliché but in fact, it is quite arousing to relinquish control and let sexism take over.

So, with thoughts of the Giant in my head, I approach Husband for sex. But of course, it's fairly late at night and he's on to beer number 6. At first, he is reluctant, (tired, stressed, drunk?) but I can't think of many men who would turn down sex when offered to them on a plate.

We start to go at it, and he asks me what I want. I am thinking of Giant, his rough hands all over me, and I ask Husband to slap my ass and take me from behind.
Pull my hair.
Be rough.
Take me like you own me and can use and abuse me any way you want.
Call me a whore.

He does this, initially with some glee, but after about five minutes, he stops. He's gone soft again, and pulls out, sitting back on the bed with a frown. He says he's tired. Normally I would go down on him, and Blow Job him to life, but this time I don't. I am tired too. Tired of having to constantly coax some sort of firmness out of his alcohol-wilted cock. And I'm tired of hearing that it is my fault because we don't do it enough, so his cock has forgotten how to work. But I don't say this, because I know it will cause a row and it will be one that we may never recover from.

He goes downstairs and I hear the sickeningly familiar sound of beer number 7 being cracked open. The sound of the ring pull. The crack and hiss. I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth and go back to bed. I take out of the sex drawer my favourite vibrator (the quietest too) and finish myself off. But it's Giant I'm thinking off as the orgasm rips through me, leaving my skin sticky with sweat and my entire groin pulsing with release.

I awake at about 3am to Husband missing from bed. I go downstairs, and find him passed out on the floor. I stand and watch him for a while, snoring and grunting. He's flat on his back, beer number 8 knocked over and making a urine-coloured puddle on the living room carpet. I clean the stain as best I can, and think about waking him up. But we've done this dance before. I'm fed up of it. The last time I woke him and told him to come to bed, he told me to fuck off and stop being his mother. So with the stain cleaned as best I can, I turn off the TV and the lights and leave him on the floor.

The next morning, he goes to work without a sound and I wonder whether this is my life now.

Number 20 - In Which We Get A Year Older.

Mine and Husband's birthdays are twelve days apart. It is convenient as it means that our families only have to visit us once, usually somewhere in between the two dates, resulting in Husband's cards and presents often being a bit late, and mine a bit early. It's no big deal - as we get older, it seems our birthdays matter less, and all my energy tends to go towards making Teenager's birthdays the best they can be.

I cannot recall many childhood birthdays. I have a vague recollection of my 5th, supported by a few photographs that still exist despite many house moves and carelessness. I also dimly recall my 13th which was supposed to be a surprise, but was ruined by a kid called Paul in my music class at school. He was invited, though I refused to dance with him. We had hot dogs and a disco at the local community centre, and I remember the awkwardness at discovering the girls who relentlessly bullied me throughout school being there. My mother had blissfully invited my entire form, assisted by my best friend at the time, who had invited the bullies because she was scared to exclude them, should she incur their wrath later. They mocked the piss out of me for months afterwards because my relatives were at the party too, and my aunts had the nerve to DANCE with us to the Birdy Song. Like, how totally lame. Yet, they had the most hot dogs, cola and cake, so my lame party at least fed the bitches.

I don't remember what I did when I turned 16, but my 18th was a Pernod-and-black fuelled VomFest, which started in a nightclub and finished on the pale blue flowery carpet that my mother had just had fitted in the hall and on the stairs. My mother said later that the stain never really came out. I haven't been able to look at a bottle of Pernod since.

My 21st involved another nightclub, the name of which I cannot remember, but ended with me going back to a house with a cute chap called Lee. This night was not one of the highlights of my life, as the sex was disappointing and the photographs in the living room that I properly clocked the next morning were of his long-term girlfriend and child, who were away that weekend. He dropped me off home the next morning (which involved some sneaking out of the house to the car in case his neighbours saw) and I took extra special care never to run into him, or his girlfriend ever, ever again.

I dislike parties now. Being the centre of attention scares me. I'd rather be the one behind the scenes, keeping things going like a well-oiled machine. So this year for my birthday, I just asked for a small outing to a pub for lunch. No fuss. No fanfare. Which we did, and I am eternally grateful for. But during lunch, talk turned to our 40th birthdays, which are approaching like a Japanese Bullet train. Husband is 40 next year, I follow suit the year after. It seems inevitable that either Him or me will get a party. Neither of us wants one. And neither of us wants to acknowledge being 40 either. But our families are persistent, so watch this space. The post-40th-party blog will be angst filled and full of swears.