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.
Sunday, 6 October 2013
Sunday, 29 September 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, 22 September 2013
Number 19 - In Which Exploration Leads To Lost.
For a while now the Dog has been suffering from a distinct lack of exercise due to the rest of the household being busy doing things such as work, homework, more work and recovering from injuries. Today we decided to go on an Adventure; something we did a lot when Teenager was a pre-teen and we lived in the middle of nowhere, much nearer the sea, than we do now.
A quick study of the relevant OS map and I had a route in mind. I have long held a fascination for disused railways and there is one near where we live. Something about the idea of making footsteps in the shadow of a desolate stretch of countryside that once carried dirty, loud trains. The one near our house has only been out of use for forty or fifty years, yet nature has already taken back what once was the domain of industry. In parts, trees and shrubs have grown so dense, the route is impassable. And in other parts, there is a stillness so unnerving that you can almost hear the whistle of the steam train as it barrels along the track.
As we walk, Teenager talks. She talks all the time. Sometimes she creates stories as she walks along; often tales of other worlds reached by magical portals. Sometimes the tales are of ghosts, inspired by the vast wild stretches of wild hills and fells that surround our little town.
Husband is usually silent.
The route seemed simple; a quick hike across the field at the back of our house should lead onto the Moor and from there, the disused railway cuts across which would lead us almost back home. There was a green dotted line on the map, so with map in hand, we departed.
An hour later, Husband declared we were in the wrong place. Not trusting my sense of direction, he commandeered the map and led us off in a different direction. He had us almost doubling back before I decided to challenge his orienteering skills. "This is not the right way," I declared.
He huffed and he puffed and he threw the map at me. After some careful studying of the green dots, I led the way once again. We walked over and under hills, around an old quarry, and through grass as high as Dog (which was amusing as it was like something out of a movie - the grass was moving but the monster was as yet unseen!) and after another hour or so, Lo!, the railway appeared.
The delight at being right was overshadowed by Husband being wrong. He sulked for the rest of the way which was a shame as the old railway was really quite atmospheric. We walked under an old bridge that featured brick work in an amazing tessellated pattern and bent sound around our heads that made no logical sense. How could a whisper by my daughter, three metres in front of me, sound like it was shouted from behind me? Truly creepy but exhilarating at the same time.
We arrived home about two hours later than planned so we got pizza and fizzy drinks from the supermarket. Husband still isn't speaking to me. I sense that there is more to this than just being wrong with the map. I expect it will come to a head very soon.
A quick study of the relevant OS map and I had a route in mind. I have long held a fascination for disused railways and there is one near where we live. Something about the idea of making footsteps in the shadow of a desolate stretch of countryside that once carried dirty, loud trains. The one near our house has only been out of use for forty or fifty years, yet nature has already taken back what once was the domain of industry. In parts, trees and shrubs have grown so dense, the route is impassable. And in other parts, there is a stillness so unnerving that you can almost hear the whistle of the steam train as it barrels along the track.
As we walk, Teenager talks. She talks all the time. Sometimes she creates stories as she walks along; often tales of other worlds reached by magical portals. Sometimes the tales are of ghosts, inspired by the vast wild stretches of wild hills and fells that surround our little town.
Husband is usually silent.
The route seemed simple; a quick hike across the field at the back of our house should lead onto the Moor and from there, the disused railway cuts across which would lead us almost back home. There was a green dotted line on the map, so with map in hand, we departed.
An hour later, Husband declared we were in the wrong place. Not trusting my sense of direction, he commandeered the map and led us off in a different direction. He had us almost doubling back before I decided to challenge his orienteering skills. "This is not the right way," I declared.
He huffed and he puffed and he threw the map at me. After some careful studying of the green dots, I led the way once again. We walked over and under hills, around an old quarry, and through grass as high as Dog (which was amusing as it was like something out of a movie - the grass was moving but the monster was as yet unseen!) and after another hour or so, Lo!, the railway appeared.
The delight at being right was overshadowed by Husband being wrong. He sulked for the rest of the way which was a shame as the old railway was really quite atmospheric. We walked under an old bridge that featured brick work in an amazing tessellated pattern and bent sound around our heads that made no logical sense. How could a whisper by my daughter, three metres in front of me, sound like it was shouted from behind me? Truly creepy but exhilarating at the same time.
We arrived home about two hours later than planned so we got pizza and fizzy drinks from the supermarket. Husband still isn't speaking to me. I sense that there is more to this than just being wrong with the map. I expect it will come to a head very soon.
Sunday, 15 September 2013
Number 18 - In Which I Walk For Alzheimers.
I walked twenty-six miles today. From Beadnell to Lindisfarne - a Brobdingnagian trek to raise money for Alzheimers UK.
My feet are blistered, my lower back feels like it has a knife embedded in it and I am so hungry I could eat a cow.
I am lucky enough to live in this area so the sights were not unknown to me, but it was nice to catch the comments of others who are not locals. Most were positive, but the woman in front of me who complained all the way from St Cuthbert's Cave to Fenwick about the amount of nettles and thorns there were on the paths deserved to fall off a cliff. The fact that the silly cow was wearing Daisy Dukes and wedge trainers didn't factor in to her whiny rants. I overtook her near a particularly boggy bit in Kyloe Woods and laughed my ass off (quietly) as she slipped in it and was covered in bog from her ankles to her hips. Retribution. Her companions carried on slagging off the area as they helped her up. Apparently Alzheimers UK should have put straw down on all the stretches of the twenty-six miles that were slippy. I didn't see her again for the rest of the walk.
At about 9pm I had a glass of whisky and I was ready for bed. All my joints are achy, especially my hips. Husband said, "I suppose a shag's out of the question?" He supposed right.
My feet are blistered, my lower back feels like it has a knife embedded in it and I am so hungry I could eat a cow.
I am lucky enough to live in this area so the sights were not unknown to me, but it was nice to catch the comments of others who are not locals. Most were positive, but the woman in front of me who complained all the way from St Cuthbert's Cave to Fenwick about the amount of nettles and thorns there were on the paths deserved to fall off a cliff. The fact that the silly cow was wearing Daisy Dukes and wedge trainers didn't factor in to her whiny rants. I overtook her near a particularly boggy bit in Kyloe Woods and laughed my ass off (quietly) as she slipped in it and was covered in bog from her ankles to her hips. Retribution. Her companions carried on slagging off the area as they helped her up. Apparently Alzheimers UK should have put straw down on all the stretches of the twenty-six miles that were slippy. I didn't see her again for the rest of the walk.
At about 9pm I had a glass of whisky and I was ready for bed. All my joints are achy, especially my hips. Husband said, "I suppose a shag's out of the question?" He supposed right.
Saturday, 31 August 2013
Number 17 - In Which My PC Dies.
For years I have muttered and grumbled about my PC; a Sony Vaio bought in 2007, that was so sexy and cool when first purchased, it's hard to imagine just how much I despise it now. Not the Sony part, that's still cool. It's the Windows thing that bothers me. Friends with Macs are notoriously smug about the ease and speed with which their laptops and desktops do stuff, without checking with you twice.
So I bought one. And now I can't find anything and it is so self-assured and smug, and does things without asking, and that makes me very nervous. All my old files and photos have been almost successfully imported from the PC, which finally gave up the ghost the other day. And now it sits here, next to the new Mac and I feel melancholy as the old and new sit side-by-side. Already I am forgetting the many rants and rages that the Vaio put me through when Windows crashed, taking vital work with it. All I can think of now is the happy times, when the flatness of it inspired hours of writing and editing and watching movies. How I squealed with delight when I got the Media Center to work and watched telly via a little antenna attached via USB. It even came with a remote control!
The iMac, by comparison, is just as, if not more aesthetically beautiful as the Vaio of 2007. Flat, minimalistic, with a screen that begs to be caressed. Can the images be that sharp and not be real? Even the box it comes in is lovely. It screams Money, Taste, Class, Cool.
But I am a person who relishes nostalgia. I have kept toys form my childhood. And clothes from when I was thin. And books from when I was Teenager's age. Each item takes me back and tells its own story. So, despite Husband insisting that I take the Vaio to the tip, I won't just yet. It can stay in my office for now. And when I get frightened by the iMacs independent thinking, I will glance over at the Vaio and remember how it used to ask me whether I was sure I wanted to send Risk Assessment Requirements.docx" to the Recycle Bin.
So I bought one. And now I can't find anything and it is so self-assured and smug, and does things without asking, and that makes me very nervous. All my old files and photos have been almost successfully imported from the PC, which finally gave up the ghost the other day. And now it sits here, next to the new Mac and I feel melancholy as the old and new sit side-by-side. Already I am forgetting the many rants and rages that the Vaio put me through when Windows crashed, taking vital work with it. All I can think of now is the happy times, when the flatness of it inspired hours of writing and editing and watching movies. How I squealed with delight when I got the Media Center to work and watched telly via a little antenna attached via USB. It even came with a remote control!
The iMac, by comparison, is just as, if not more aesthetically beautiful as the Vaio of 2007. Flat, minimalistic, with a screen that begs to be caressed. Can the images be that sharp and not be real? Even the box it comes in is lovely. It screams Money, Taste, Class, Cool.
But I am a person who relishes nostalgia. I have kept toys form my childhood. And clothes from when I was thin. And books from when I was Teenager's age. Each item takes me back and tells its own story. So, despite Husband insisting that I take the Vaio to the tip, I won't just yet. It can stay in my office for now. And when I get frightened by the iMacs independent thinking, I will glance over at the Vaio and remember how it used to ask me whether I was sure I wanted to send Risk Assessment Requirements.docx" to the Recycle Bin.
Friday, 30 August 2013
Number 16 - In Which The Family Invade.
School Summer Holidays are well underway. And for once, the weather is glorious and everyone in my little backwater is happy and smiley. And sunburned.
And the tourists are here. Hurrah.
They invade with their caravans, their spotless hiking boots and their brand new 'outdoor' clothing to truly embrace the wilderness in which we live. I live in possibly the most beautiful of all the counties in the UK. Northumberland has castles, beaches, hills, valleys, forests and fields to explore. And where I am situated it is a ten minute drive to any and all of these.
My family cottoned on to this about thirty seconds after I moved here from a much less beautiful part of the world. A place where Jamie Oliver tried (and failed) to educate kids about eating healthily. A place where I do not remember with any fondness at all, and am eternally grateful every day that I got the opportunity to leave. I'll tell you that story one day. It's a doozy.
Anyhoo, I have my sister and her kids staying with us for a week. Teenager is secretly delighted, as being achingly cool with her other teen friends is tiring, and it's nice to mess about with younger kids without fear of judgement. And my sister is openly delighted that they get to visit a place so beautiful without having to shell out thousands of pounds for the privilege. And I get the challenge of cooking for a family with awkward tastes. (One doesn't like any meat other than chicken. The other likes any meat other than pork. They don't like garlic or chillies. They only like spag bol if it's made with Lloyd Grossman Bolognese sauce. Sigh.)
So far, we have explored castles, gardens, beaches and islands. I have had every corner of my culinary brain racked for things to cook which will suit everyone. My homemade creamy chicken and ham soup was a bust, but the Sunday roast was a triumph.
I don't mind having guests, but I love it when they leave. I suffer from a curious quirk of enjoying being a hostess, but not liking people in my house. And as I choose to leave the house only on rare occasions, my contact with other humans is often limited. So this week, being out and about IN PUBLIC has been tiring. But I have enjoyed visiting Alnwick Gardens and Castle (learned interesting things in the Poison Garden, but wished the guide would speak above a whisper) and enjoyed showing off some of our gorgeous beaches (there is one beach with a natural aquifer that spurts out of the rocks near the sea - it provides fresh, crystal clear, ice cold water which caused great fascination with my youngest niece.)
They are away home later and I am looking forward to eating food with chillies in, but am sad for my sister who really doesn't want to leave.
And the tourists are here. Hurrah.
They invade with their caravans, their spotless hiking boots and their brand new 'outdoor' clothing to truly embrace the wilderness in which we live. I live in possibly the most beautiful of all the counties in the UK. Northumberland has castles, beaches, hills, valleys, forests and fields to explore. And where I am situated it is a ten minute drive to any and all of these.
My family cottoned on to this about thirty seconds after I moved here from a much less beautiful part of the world. A place where Jamie Oliver tried (and failed) to educate kids about eating healthily. A place where I do not remember with any fondness at all, and am eternally grateful every day that I got the opportunity to leave. I'll tell you that story one day. It's a doozy.
Anyhoo, I have my sister and her kids staying with us for a week. Teenager is secretly delighted, as being achingly cool with her other teen friends is tiring, and it's nice to mess about with younger kids without fear of judgement. And my sister is openly delighted that they get to visit a place so beautiful without having to shell out thousands of pounds for the privilege. And I get the challenge of cooking for a family with awkward tastes. (One doesn't like any meat other than chicken. The other likes any meat other than pork. They don't like garlic or chillies. They only like spag bol if it's made with Lloyd Grossman Bolognese sauce. Sigh.)
So far, we have explored castles, gardens, beaches and islands. I have had every corner of my culinary brain racked for things to cook which will suit everyone. My homemade creamy chicken and ham soup was a bust, but the Sunday roast was a triumph.
I don't mind having guests, but I love it when they leave. I suffer from a curious quirk of enjoying being a hostess, but not liking people in my house. And as I choose to leave the house only on rare occasions, my contact with other humans is often limited. So this week, being out and about IN PUBLIC has been tiring. But I have enjoyed visiting Alnwick Gardens and Castle (learned interesting things in the Poison Garden, but wished the guide would speak above a whisper) and enjoyed showing off some of our gorgeous beaches (there is one beach with a natural aquifer that spurts out of the rocks near the sea - it provides fresh, crystal clear, ice cold water which caused great fascination with my youngest niece.)
They are away home later and I am looking forward to eating food with chillies in, but am sad for my sister who really doesn't want to leave.
Friday, 9 August 2013
Number 15 - In Which I Get My Legs Bent Behind My Ears.
Yes, indeedy. Today was spent in a room with a man who manipulated my legs a lot, and kept asking me to bend over. Ooer! But we were clothed. And in the Physiotherapy Department of my local hospital. So not kinky at all.
Mt back has gone and slipped one of its discs (careless) and there is a touch of arthritis in there too. So today I found myself talking about my pain with a young male Physio who can't be much older than my Teenager. He has decided that I must move again (by walking, cycling or swimming) but am no longer allowed to run. (I was getting good at running which is a bit of a shame.)
I have a program of exercises to follow that involves a lot of bending, grunting and groaning as I try and get the muscles around my damaged spine to relax and stop being so over-protective.
I'm at home now, sitting in a towel after a hot bath and generally feeling like an old, arthritic woman. There are rogue grey bits in my hair, and I have noticed wrinkles around my eyes that I swear were not there yesterday. I'm still in my thirties (albeit the later ones, dammit) so by no means am I over the hill, or even middle aged, yet I am having one of those slightly panicky moments where I realise I am nearly forty and what have I done, really?
Dog is at my feet. He's kindly letting me know just how comfortable he is by assaulting my sense of smell. I'm going to take him for a walk in a bit and see if I can get the old muscles going again. And while I am out, I am going to have a think about things and maybe make some changes around here.
Mt back has gone and slipped one of its discs (careless) and there is a touch of arthritis in there too. So today I found myself talking about my pain with a young male Physio who can't be much older than my Teenager. He has decided that I must move again (by walking, cycling or swimming) but am no longer allowed to run. (I was getting good at running which is a bit of a shame.)
I have a program of exercises to follow that involves a lot of bending, grunting and groaning as I try and get the muscles around my damaged spine to relax and stop being so over-protective.
I'm at home now, sitting in a towel after a hot bath and generally feeling like an old, arthritic woman. There are rogue grey bits in my hair, and I have noticed wrinkles around my eyes that I swear were not there yesterday. I'm still in my thirties (albeit the later ones, dammit) so by no means am I over the hill, or even middle aged, yet I am having one of those slightly panicky moments where I realise I am nearly forty and what have I done, really?
Dog is at my feet. He's kindly letting me know just how comfortable he is by assaulting my sense of smell. I'm going to take him for a walk in a bit and see if I can get the old muscles going again. And while I am out, I am going to have a think about things and maybe make some changes around here.
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