learning

After my freak-out on this blog about that little blip with S two weeks ago, I decided that I would learn from past mistakes and just let it go when S contacted me the night of our aborted lunch date.  We have seen each other a number of times in the past fortnight and each time has been lovely.  Loveliest of all was this past Friday.  It was one of those spontaneous evenings which end up being great fun.  S was meeting me close to my work for a drink, my friend Indie Nurse tagged along for a swift half while waiting for her boyfriend to meet her.  When said boyfriend arrived we all had another couple of drinks and the laughter and conversation was flowing so well that we moved on to a nearby restaurant for dinner.

S stayed Friday night at my place and when he'd gone yesterday morning I realised he had left some things behind.  I sent him a text offering to meet him at his homeward bound Tube station after work yesterday evening as I was going to be in the area anyway, hand over the stuff and we'd both be on our respective ways within 5 minutes.  He texted back "no thanks" and asked that I bring the stuff the next time we meet instead. 

I puzzled over it for a while (the stuff he left was the book he's half-way through reading and his favourite jumper so nothing vital but still...) but have now decided that maybe S is uncomfortable with sudden interuptions to routine, even if they are quite minor, and I should stop ambushing him (even though it's unintentional).

Thoughts?

panic

Things between S and me are going really well. He came over to my place on Sunday night and I cooked supper. We were both glad that I had chosen a meal which is best served cold ;-)

And now I am panicking, as is my wont. Gentle reader, I really like S and I think I am in real danger of falling in love with him. I feel that I should raise my shields and not let him in to my life (and heart) any further.

Talk me down off the ledge!

birthday

Today was my 45th birthday (gulp)

It started with a 7.00am "happy birthday" phone-call from S (smile)

Moved on to breakfast of coffee and chocolate cake, courtesy of S on Monday (yummy)

Continued with a long, wine-filled lunch with my parents (oof)

Ending with another slice of birthday cake while reading one of the books I got as a present (bliss)

I'm single, childless and this is not where I thought my life would be at this age.

But I am happy, and two years ago I never thought I would be able to say that again :-)

on boys and makeup

A boy likes me!

After coffee on Tuesday S and I emailed and texted and then, out of the blue, he suggested an additional dinner date for Saturday night. A re-boot of the one my chest infection scuppered: drinks then dinner at his favourite French restaurant. I readily agreed and so 'twas so. And it was lovely.  One moment we were enjoying a glass of Pimms and the next instant it was five hours later and he was flagging me down a cab.

Yesterday we took books and a blanket to my local park, from where you can see all London laid out below, and just talked until another five hours had vanished and it was time to walk back down the hill for pizza.

We had The Conversation. Not, as it is in fertile world, about where-is-this-relationship-going.  No, we had this community's conversation about children. S had, on his profile, ticked "maybe" for "want children". I suspected that he'd said that more so that any potential woman who already has children wouldn't just click away from his page.  But I had to be sure and told him that kids are something I couldn't bring. I know that 4 dates in is pretty early to have this conversation but I didn't want to waste his time. Or, truth be told, find myself really liking him only to break up once he knew. And it turns out that he's never felt an overwhelming desire to have children but would have been open to building a family "with the right woman".

Gentle reader, I am officially dating someone. I'm still keeping this quiet IRL, until it goes from "dating" to "a relationship" but I am really rather happy :)

P.S. I lied - there's no talk about makeup

notes from my sofa

1.  I am still poorly.  The antibiotics did their job to a certain extent but by this past weekend I was still coughing, feverish and now starting to get wheezy so instead of going to work on Monday morning, I had to go back to the GP.  He listened to my chest with growing concern, prescribed a course of steroids and an inhaler, signed me off work for another week and sent me off to the local hospital to have a blood test.

2.  Yesterday, four doses steroids under my belt and I was feeling a whole lot better.  So much so, in fact, that I went out in the afternoon and met a friend* for coffee and I decided to go back to work on Thursday.

3.  Today I am nauseated and completely exhausted.  The mere act of having a shower sent me back to lie on the bed for half an hour to recover.  Worse still, it made me read the patient information sheet inside the box of drugs (something I never do).  Yep - nausea, vomiting and fatigue are among the common recognised side effects of this particular drug.  Maybe I won't be going back to work tomorrow after all...

4.  One of the advantages of being off sick is that you get to watch bad daytime tv.  My tv reception vanished yesterday and has still to return.  Apparently it's something to do with the satellite feed to the whole building and they will mend it when they mend it.  I'm not normally a tv addict but being sick for almost a fortnight means that I have been watching a whole host of cookery and DIY shows and, dammit, I need my fix!

5.  On the other hand - catch-up tv on my laptop is a godsend!

6.  *Ahem. A friend for coffee.  It wasn't a friend, exactly, it was S.  As he works weekends, he doesn't work Mondays and Tuesdays and yesterday he was doing a particular London walk (the weather is amazing, totally un-London-like and actually could be said to be a little too hot) which ends about 10 minutes away from where I live.  As we had been in contact during the past week, he knew I was home and suggested, if I felt up to it, we gave date #2 another try.  I was feeling so much better that I said yes, and I am very glad that I did, even if it did leave me completely shattered by the time I got home.  Gentle reader, S is intelligent, funny, kind and I think he likes me.  I'm not good at reading signs but he said "Illanare, I really like you" so that was my first clue.  Second clue was asking if I would like to see him again, because he really wanted to see me again. So we have agreed on a date next Monday as I am on annual leave next week (and I am now casting my eyes up to the universe and asking the dating gods to pretty please make me recovered fully by Monday).

7.  I appear to be dating again.  It is very, very strange.

8.  I am now going to find another cookery show online and try to stop obsessing about what to wear on Monday...

frowned upon

The dating gods are frowning upon me.  I was meant to have my second date with S on Thursday (drinks then dinner at one of my favourite Greek places in London) but I was Struck Down with what I thought was a heavy cold.  S, who seems so far to be rather a nice man, obligingly agreed to shift our plans to Saturday night (drinks then dinner at one of his favourite French places in London).

However, it soon became clear that a fever of 40 degrees (Celcius, American readers), chest pain, shortness of breath, the inability to swallow more than the teeniest sips of warm tea, tremendous ear-ache and the inability to breath unless sitting bolt upright indicated something more than a cold.  On Friday night I sent a text to apologise profusely and then sank back exhausted on my bank of 7 pillows, thinking I would probably never hear from him again.  At this point you are probably wondering why I didn't go and see my GP.  Well, I had a very good reason - I had completely, but completely, lost my voice and couldn't phone to make an appointment.

By Sunday I had regained enough of a croak to call the emergency doctor who, after a couple of questions, suggested somewhat forcefully that I pack myself into a cab and present myself at the emergency clinic immediately.  I did so, he diagnosed a good going chest infection, loaded me up with antibiotics and sent me home.  I called my mummy, she came over with chicken soup and a light in her eye as she saw this as a chance to clean out my kitchen cupboards and arrange them as she thinks best and I was too weak to protest. (I looked at them this morning in awe, they sparkle and I think are organised alphabetically.  I'll protest later as a matter of form, of course, but they really do sparkle).

Yesterday I had to go to my usual GP for a certificate for work.  It is a long, uphill climb and by the time I got there all I wanted to do was lie down in the car park and quietly expire.  My GP, on hearing that I couldn't hear on my right side, peered into ears.  "That's quite the infection you have there" she said, moving tactfully to my left.  "Good job you're already on amoxycillin.  Go home and stay there until Friday when I want to see you again to decide whether you can go back to work on Monday."  I croaked my thanks and crawled back down the hill and into my bed.  And here I stay, coughing up bits of lung and feeling very meh.  Even my darling little cat has had enough of me and has abandoned me, prefering to gibber at birds from the safety of the sun-warmed balcony.

As for S, he says we can re-arrange when I am better but I think I detect a certain cooling of enthusiasm on his part.  We shall see...

dipping a toe

It all started about a month ago, with an awful day at work.  I came home, kicked off my shoes, fed my darling little cat and poured myself a shot of vodka all in one smooth movement.  The plan was to hunch morosely on the sofa and watch bad tv, but then the phone rang and life changed direction slightly.

It was my cousin; I think I have mentioned her before in passing.  She broke up with her boyfriend a month or so before A and I parted, and she has not done very well since.  For a while she really worried us and an attempted overdose put us all on a "suicide watch" rota.  I have always been close to my cousin and she finds me easy to talk to, increasingly so as the months go past since her break-up and she is still more often than not mired in grief.  She tells me that I am the only person who is not telling her that she should "just get over it" or that it's "time you moved on".  I guess that's another side effect of infertility and babyloss - I know about unacknowledged grief.

Anyway, I digress.  My cousin rang, and she was a little drunk and a lot punchy.  She'd decided that she was going to marshall her inner vamp and start online dating. I applauded her decision.  She was going to start right now, this minute.  I suggested caution, reminding her that she'd had a bit to drink and maybe wasn't going to be able to do herself justice on her profile.  She suddenly sunk to the depths of despair, saying that she was being stupid, what did she have to offer anyway and even if the sky fell in and someone contacted her, she'd never have the nerve to do anything about it.  I tried encouragment, regretting my earlier caution.  This went on for a while, during which time I partook of another vodka shot (I should point out here that I had yet to eat anything at all that day).

Finally, cousin decided that she'd had enough of moping and she was going to really do something about it but I had to hold her hand and do it too.  I thought not, cousin pleaded, I sank another vodka shot and thought "oh what the fcuk" and booted up my laptop.  Half an hour later, cousin was gracing the pages of one website and I had signed up to a different one (my cousin and I look alike, are the same age, and have similar interests - using the same site could have opened up a whole new world of problems).

I honestly thought nothing more of it.  I signed up for the minimum length of time (30 days) and set a reminder in my phone to cancel my membership on day 29 and went to bed and forgot about it for two days.  It was my cousin emailing me about one of her matches which prompted me to log back on and I found a host of "matches" (I used inverted commas there because I don't think that, while I am sure he is charming, a 65-year-old man living in Arizona is an ideal potential match for me, especially as we both ticked the "not willing to move countries" box).

Sorry, I'm digressing again.  One of the other matches had sent me a message and his profile made me smile so I sent him a message back. This went on for a couple of days and then we moved to real-world email, and after a couple of weeks we met for lunch. This was my first first date since 2006 and it is no exaggeration to say that I was a wreck beforehand.  For the whole morning my throat was so dry I could barely swallow, my stomach was cramping and, as I walked from my office to where we were meeting, my legs were shaking so badly the 5-minute walk took 10 minutes.  I was embarrassed to shake his hand when he arrived because mine was trembling so much.  We had a very nice hour though, and guess what?  Turned out that he was nervous as well because he thought that my emails were funny and fascinating and he was worried that he wouldn't make a good enough impression.  You have no idea how strange it was to hear that.

Since then we've exchanged daily emails but haven't met again yet as I was busy and then he went on holiday.  We have our second date (an evening one this time) this week and I am really looking forward to it.  He (let's call him S) is funny and kind and intelligent, he says nice things in his emails and seems to like me, even the bits of crazy I've let slip.

I'm keeping it quiet IRL (sorry Rach and BFG - you both seem always to be the unwitting recipients of secrets!), until I know what, if anything, will come of it, but I've dipped a toe in the dating waters and, so far, I sort of like it.

the one with the rant

Last week was my work's Christmas party and as usual I was pressed into service as our unofficial photographer.  I put the photos on my department's shared drive but my friend Goth Girl asked me to post a couple of photos of her onto her FB page so that her friend overseas could see.  Goth Girl has disabled her "Wall" so I had to post the photos onto my own page and tag Goth Girl - which of course meant that my friends could see the photos too.  One of them also had me in it and it gave rise to a few comments (thank you, Rach!).  It also prompted another "friend" to send me a private message, congratulating me on still looking so young for my age, and expressing her admiration of my "expensive" dress and shoes and my opportunity to drink vodka martinis in the middle of the week.  She ended her message with "I guess that you can do that when you are single and don't have to get kids up in the morning, eh?! Lol! :-)"

I know that message came from her being stressed and perhaps yes, a little envious that I was drinking martinis in a little black dress (incidentally $22 from F0rever 21 in Atlanta) and satin sling-backs with diamante clasps (admittedly not $22) on a Wednesday night.  However, I am suddenly in no mood to forgive this, or even give her any leeway.  She knew I lost Starchild and Tilly, although she didn't know about the IVF and subsequent loss of the Little Stars.  She knew how much I wanted children and she knew how my life almost crumbled into dust after A left.

I know how lucky I am; I don't get paid a whole lot (I work for the NHS after all), but I do okay.  I can keep a roof over my head, pay my bills, go on holiday, buy a new pair of slightly expensive boots every winter because I want them even if I don't need them, and dammit I can afford vodka martinis in a central London bar.  I can also stay out until 2am and not have to account to anyone and I can spend the weekends in bed with a book and my cat if I want to. Sometimes there's nothing in the flat to eat except a tub of ice cream and a jar of olives, and I have glass ornaments which won't get broken on my Christmas tree.

But the little red and white backpacks stuffed with toys under my tree are for my niece and nephews.  The glass ornaments are four glass hearts, one for each of my children. And there is no-one to phone and tell not to worry that I will be home at 2am.

My life doesn't suck, in fact I'm pretty happy right now. Nonetheless, as Ms Bradshaw once said "It's really hard to walk in a single woman's shoes.  That's why you sometimes need really special shoes"

Bob

I couldn't think what to call this post, so I resorted to what I've been calling anything I can't remember the name of / for since the 80s after seeing this episode of "Black@dder":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BLTR8qYWJbQ

Anyway, it's not only handy as a post title but also as a pseudonym for someone who is going to feature in the post itself.

So, I met "Bob" about eight years ago when he was a junior academic working with one of my bosses.  We were thrown together for a small project and got to know each other a little over the weeks when we had to stay late or go in early so that we could meet a deadline.  He is a year or so older than I am, and at that time had been married for about two years to a fellow academic. After the project was done, he went back to his academic institution in the north of England and a year after that, he got a grant to set up a research study in Africa. We kept in sporadic touch via email, mainly for work purposes, and we'd always go out for a drink and a gossip when he came to London to keep my boss up-to-date on the African study.  Around the time that A and I split up, Bob and his wife seperated, his research study came to an end and he temporarily went back to his old post in the north of England.  Six months ago I heard through the grapevine (doctors are terrible gossips) that Bob's divorce was final and that he'd got another grant to replicate his study in another African country starting next year.

Which brings us to a month ago.  A few days after I wrote this post, Bob came to London for a meeting and a bunch of us went out for a drink afterwards.  Those with partners and children to go home to sloped off early on and Bob and I went for dinner in Soho, which was followed by more drinks, the sudden realisation that Bob's train had left without him (how cliched was that?) just five minutes before we realised the time and me offering him my spare room.  By the time we'd lurched up to my flat, though, the thought of making up the spare bed was too daunting so we both fell into mine and were out like lights instantly and chastely.

The following morning was not so chaste.

Afterwards we talked about it, decided that it was just what we both needed to salve wounds and boost shattered self-esteem following our respective relationship breakdowns.  We realised that neither one of us were ready for a relationship, even though we are fond of each other, and anyway Bob is going back overseas after Christmas.  We also decided not to tell anyone about what happened (this was my request to which Bob readily agreed because as I've already said - doctors are terrible gossips, and ours is a very small community... BFG and Rach, you are the only people IRL who will ever know!) We kept in slightly less sporadic email contact and then Bob came back down to London the weekend before I went to America.  Definitely not chaste this time either :-)

And this time we are sticking with the "one-time, no sorry, two-time only" thing.  Neither one of us wants to be a long-distance booty call during Bob's remaining weeks in England, and while we are fond of each other and clearly find each other attractive, we both know that there's nothing long-term between us.

So those are the facts, now for the feelings.  I feel great! Before A left in April 2011, we hadn't had sex since January 2010 because this was the (ironic when you think about even a little bit) equation in A's head: sex+Illanare=dead babies. Someone saying that sex with you is synonymous with heartbreak is quite shattering to the soul.  Infertility and loss had already made me think destructive things about my body, the fertility treatments and subsequent comfort eating had piled on the pounds, A's rejection compounded all the feelings I had of not being a real woman, much less a desirable one. Bob made me feel pretty, and desirable.  Womanly, in fact.  Bob said that I made him feel attractive, wanted and powerful, which was so lovely to hear.

I really and truly aten't ded!

I aten't ded

Last week I briefly met a man at a work thing.  It was just a quick "hello, nice meeting you", hand-shake and move on type of thing and I am never likely to meet him again.  In fact, I can't be sure I remember his name correctly as I met a lot of people at this event, in a short space of time.  I just mention it because for the first time since A left, I looked at someone and thought "gosh" and felt a teeny, tiny flutter of interest.

It's nice to know that I'm still alive under the layers of hurt, confusion, fat and unflattering clothing I've been covered with for the last 18 months.

weekend double whammy

Some friends of mine have invited me to lunch on Saturday.  It's a sort of house-warming+his 45th birthday combined event.  Three married couples and single me.

And on Sunday I have a Big Family Do where cousins with children, pregnant cousins and bursting with pride grandparents will abound.  Because I have to drive there (I'm taking three desserts) I won't be able to have a glass of wine to take the edge off.

Meh.

this and that

I've been a bit slack at posting this month but a couple of things have happened.  In bullet points:

• I "passed" my archery course, got a certificate and everything!  It means that I can now shoot at any club in England, but I think I will go to the one run by the people who ran the course.  My next free Saturday, I'm going down to an archery shop to get myself a bow and some arrows :-)
• I got taken to watch England play Australia at Lord's yesterday. Wonderful seats in the covered part (kept dry), picnic lunch complete with champagne, England won.  Who could ask for anything more?!
• I went away for 6 days the week before last, to Norway.  This bullet point deserves a post to itself, and it's going to get one.
• I fell down the stairs a couple of weeks ago, somehow managing to do so on my bottom instead of on my head.  Apart from being a bit shaken, I was completely fine. One of the advantages of having an arse the size and texture of a sofa I guess. Anyway, I mention it because, as I was bouncing bottom-first down the stairs, it flitted through my mind that if I broke a leg during that little mishap, I would have to go and stay with my parents. One of those "you're single and you live alone" moments that come out of the blue and sucker-punch me, just as much as those "you're childless and always will be" do. Meh.

five

Today would have been A's and my 5-year anniversary.
Meh.

good things

Good things about the single life:
sleeping in the middle of the bed
playing music whenever I want
singing (well, droning tunelessly) in the car
Sunday mornings with a pot of coffee, a book and still in pyjamas at midday

whinge

I promise I will stop whinging soon, but will you indulge me in one more self pity-fest?  Thank you.

After A left I remembered fairly quickly Scenes From A Single Life.  You know the kind of thing - responsible for 100% of everything, less money, more space, having to get the step ladder out to reach the top shelf in the kitchen, coming home late to a dark flat, cooking 1/4 of what I cooked before.  It was saddening, but I seemed to step back into it all as if it hadn't been four-and-a-half years.  I even cleared out the guttering with barely a scream when I discovered a spider among the leaves.

But then, on Saturday I was getting ready to go out and hauled an old dress out of the back of my wardrobe for the occasion.  A dress with a zip in the back.  I couldn't quite bend or twist or reach far enough to do it up, and instead of wearing something else instead, I dissolved into a sobbing mess at the end of the bed.  It took me almost an hour to get a grip on myself, thread a ribbon through the zip and do it up that way.  I guess you never know how or when grief is going to hit you.