Episode 29 – There Are Nine Million Bicycles In This City and None Of Them Will Get Out Of My Way

Well today has been a humdinger.

Where the hell did this come from? Could it be the four (five?) Bombay Sapphires and tonics I drank last night on yet another date? That was fun date. A very fun date. Not in a get-your-clothes-off-right-now kind of way but in a tall, bearded, non-stop banter, great clothes, strong arms, good ass, have-the-craic kind of way. I strated chatting to him yesterday and before I knew it we were snogging outside my door on a schoolnight. Not that I’m in school. Shit, I shouldn’t have been out, I shouldn’t have been enjoying myself. Guilt. The ever present guilt.

Why is it that I can do this? Or what am I trying to achieve by dating at the moment? It’s like a release, an interlude from torment. It’s company, it’s distraction. Or is it reckless? Which is apparently a symptom of my “condition”.There was another guy last week, French, two days after a I got dumped. Actually I met him for an innocent coffee (I had tea) two days before I got dumped but then by Thursday I was no longer obliged to be a good girl…

I’m not promiscuous, I never have been. Of course I feel the need to justify myself. But I’m definitely playing the field a bit now. Is this what I was meant to do in my twenties while I was homemaking in vain or am I trying to fill a void? Probably both. And I’m still in need of validation from men, approval, worth.

This morning was gross. I was so tired and empty and liquid. I couldn’t stay awake. I had to go back to sleep on the sofa. I had got up with a spring in my calloused step and tidied and checked my to-do list and then it all fell apart, one bullet point at a time. I had arranged to go visit The Rose of Tralee: I had the phone in my hand to cancel but I made myself go. I DID NOT SUBMIT! After being stuck in techie hipster-induced traffic (the Web Summit is in town, what the fuck is a Web Summit anyway?) and screaming at few self righteous cyclists (don’t get me started on cyclists – red lights apply to you too even though you’re saving the fucking world one Bike-to-Work Scheme at a time). But I got there without running over any Toms (with no socks – in NOVEMBER!) and we had a superfood lunch and I had a cuddle of the baby.

Then I came home, quickly took the dogs out for a wee and boom, boom shake the room, here’s DOOOOOOOOTTTTTTYYYYY!!!!!! Back to bed. Sleep for an hour and a half. And feel seventeen times worse.

But… I got my shit together and went for a walk with the dogs and ElsaDaughetr who was on the receiving end of my barks in addition to Anna Puppy’s who is the boldest, yappiest and neediest dog I’ve ever met. But we even managed to run a bit so I felt marginally better when I got home and so I cooked a Boeuf Bourgingnon (I have no idea if it is actually a Boeuf Bourgignon but we like it and it sounds good – like I’m being a proper mother) and we watched The Apprentice. Gobshites.

I miss my American Mom today.I had a moment of wanting desperately to be with my family in America. Preferably in the pantry with the cookies.

John Knox hasn’t been feeling well. He called me as soon as I left the psychiatrist’s office yesterday – he didn’t know I was there and I didn’t know he was at his hospital, a kilometer away, for a check. What a pair of crocks. He started banging on about sick pay and life business I need to take care of. I know I need to, I just can’t process anything more substantial than a Boeuf Bougignon which actually consists mostly of bay leaves and red wine so it’s not much to process.

On Saturday night, I ended up drinking gin (shit, is this becoming a problem?) at a (new) friend’s house. I say new even though I’ve known this lovely lady, Marilyn Monroe – she is actually that glamorous and that sexy and that blonde – for about… well forever but we’ve never hung out. It was a surprise but my god, she’s a powerhouse. To say that she inspired me is an understatement. Just as The Rose of Tralee has the best one liners ever, Marilyn has a way of looking at things, especially the shitty things, that make you go “Why didn’t I think of that?” Her attitude to men is the most refreshing, optimistic and sensible one I’ve come across. I want her to write a dating blog because I swear she’s opened my eyes. Line them up. I never fail to be astounded at the strength of women, even when they’ve been fucked over in the most fucked up way possible.

It’s funny how opening up with a blog like this brings great new people into your life. And reconnects you with the lost friends. It’s a top five cliché but you sure do find out who’s truly there for you. I know everyone has their shit to deal with but my eyes have been opened. Those who I thought would always be there for me, who were a constant presence, always on the other end of the phone, fucked off or haven’t been heard from. Words are empty. At least I know now not to expend energy on them. Include only high value people in your life, says Marilyn, you’re dead right, says I.

I Miss My Lady, the Queen’s Mother. We are back in our own little place and it’s lovely to feel ownership of a space, to be reminded that I built this home for us on practically nothing. Not actually built it, it’s about a a hundred years old. And I never tried bricklaying.

I was able to pay Quarter Pounder three months of the loan I owe him. That’s him out of the way till February. Of course, then I was drunk and I messaged him. Morto. Why? I have no idea. I don’t even miss him. I had a good night so I felt guilty and when I feel guilty I want to hurt myself and his number was there nearest weapon I could find. But he ignored me, phew.

At Pieta on Monday, I was shocked to hear how I feel about myself. It made me sad to hear this voice, my own voice say what I said. If it were anyone else, I’d hug them. Why do I feel I inflict my body’s presence, my voice, my words. my face, my being on everyone I come across? Why do I feel I have no right to go into a shop? Why do I feel like I poison the air for the proper, real life woman behind me in the queue at the butcher’s? Why do I think I should be kept hidden and silent from the rightful residents of the city? This guilt for being has to stop.

I’m back at Pieta tomorrow. Dread. What venom will regurgiitate itself into my melting mouth?

But then I’m having my hair and my eyebrows done. Priorities and all.

In addition to paying bills today I also had my smear test done. Why do they need to drill half way up your abdomen to get the sample? For fuck’s sake, I thought she was mining my eggs she twisted and turned that “mini toliet brush” as Posh put it.

So it’s all been busy in DottyTown. I’ve actually done stuff but it’s felt like I’m on holiday, apart from today when I felt like I’d just got off a twenty four hour flight and disgusting, skin crawling, gunky jetlag had overwhelmed my senses. I’ve had (almost) a week in the winter sun out of my grey brain, everything on hold. All the crap churning away like sour milk at home, out of sight but waiting. Waiting patiently for me to walk through that door and greet me with the stench of decay.

But on the bright side, I’m having my hair done tomorrow. And there are more dates lined up.

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