remember

I dreamed.  You were there.  I haven't dreamed a dream like that for a while.

I remembered when I awoke.  I haven't remembered like that for a while.

the smile

I don't often get angry enough to rant.  The occasional outburst, 140 characters of blast and then it's all over.  But then there are other things that deserve a more elloquant approach.

Do you know anyone who's a bit sad today?  Someone who's feeling down?  A little miserable?  Bet you've said to them, with a grin, "Cheer up, it might never happen".  I'd bet you've said that a dozen times this year, maybe in two years but you've said it, haven't you?

What if it has happened?  What if the unthinkable is happening in their life, right now, and you've just stamped all over it in your size 10 boots (or even in your expensive designer heels) and made their grief, their sadness, their misery, into nothing?

Why do you presume to believe that being sad is a choice?  What if they're not actually sad, what if they're suffering from a deep, lifelong depression that they're too proud to go to the GP to ask for help with?  You firmly believe that they have a choice as to whether they wake up in the morning full of the joys of spring or whether they want to roll over and die?

Believe me, they want that choice.  They want to choose to smile, laugh, guffaw even, at your ridiculous jokes and stories.  But it's just not funny in their miserable life.  In their deep felt sadness, a one legged Leprechaun could come dancing out from behind the car with a kazoo and a bottle of tequila and it would barely raise a grin.

Misery is a heavy burden to carry.  It's an uneven load and it makes our gait uneven and our lives less like yours and more like a struggle, even to get out of bed when this weight is continuously upon us.  It doesn't go away with coffee.  It doesn't go away with alcohol or sleep or wakefulness.  It remains.  It hovers, a constant in our lives that throws a shadow over everything we do. 

And, of course, if feeds from our sadness; grows bigger and stronger when we turn away from your jokes and feed it our grim reality.  Then, it smiles back at us and says thank you.

And the only way to make it go away, the only way for it to stop, is when we do.

Things of note or things that are not

The roller coaster continues to roll.  It wends and weaves its way along the rails, faster, slower, up and down but I get the impression that someone is building the rails ahead of me and changing direction far faster than can be mapped out or viewed.

Life changes.  Life goes on.  Accidents happen or, perhaps, they're not accidents but you still have to stop, mop up the mess and move along.

There was a plan.  There were ideas and challenges and, ultimately, a plan.  And yet that plan has been changed.  Not by me, not by us but by business and I find myself with far too much time on my hands and nothing formulated to fill it other than writing about the time stretching ahead and the efforts I'm going to in order to find something permanent to fill the void.

Work has been a constant for nearly 30 years.  I don't know how to not work.  I don't know how to sit around and fill time, except for the odd weekend or holiday when time had an end and wasting a few hours here or there is nothing to worry about.

It's the ability to waste it now that is my biggest worry.

Doppelgänger

I saw you. You were on the train when I stepped through the door. Your face was turned away, but it was you.

Should I say hello, catch your eye or, perhaps, wait for the next train?

The doors closed, too late to make a decision. You moved, stretched, turned toward me.

It wasn't you. It was almost you.

I think I was disappointed.

Rocking to the end

The bottom has been reached.

Always that little bit closer than you'd like to imagine it could ever be but, nevertheless, there it is, patiently waiting for you to touch down.

It embraces you warmly, holds you tightly, welcoming as an old, if unwelcome friend.

We will spend some time together, him and me. Then I will reach up to the light and climb the stairs away from his company. For a while.

The bottom is less rocky than you imagine. It's just getting here that's so painful.

Rollercoaster

Up, down, around, spin, turn.  I feel sick.  I want to cry.  I should be the happiest a girl can ever be.  Instead another huge roadblock is thrown up in front and I'm left floating and flapping waiting for something to happen.


It will probably mean a huge hit on my finances, more delays and a total lack of ability to make any decisions other than when I can cry and not make a total fool of myself.


Who'd move house, hey?

Just when it was safe to go back in the water

There are days when it's all so utterly pointless.

And says when you have the bit between your teeth and god help anyone in your way.

Which was yours?

Today

It's all end of the weekend-ish. Sad, fighting, wishing tomorrow wasn't just another day.

Another day, another mortgage

Ding ding, seconds out, round whatever the hell it is we're up to now.

The question of whether we're doing the right thing seems to have become moot.

We're doing this thing and to hell with the consequences, perhaps?

I'm doing this. The kids are doing this. At least three of us are apparently looking forward to it.

And now the house has seemingly become houses. The first one is now tantalisingly within reach but remains imperfect. The 2nd is moving forwards but, is it 'the one'?

Does it even matter?

The wheels continue to turn and we shall move onwards and see where we end up.

Slipping through my fingers

It's quite possibly just some melodramatic responses to a tough situation. If he chooses me and they leave, it'll always be my fault. Whatever his protestations, his declarations that he's not being held to ransom, underneath it all, it will be my fault. If they stay and he chooses them, well, that'll be a fine life for us all. I'm trying to resign myself to this new life being for three and not the six we'd been planning. That way, when I'm disappointed it'll just be a minor blip instead of my guts being ripped out. And if I'M, wrong, well it'll be a nice surprise and I won't end up with my entrails on display for all to see. Who said the course of love never runs smooth? They should be slapped for understatement. This almost constant feeling of nausea is, at least, helping me lose weight for the wedding that may never go ahead. Lucky me.

The good old days

If I was living a couple of hundred years ago, I could stand and look out of windows onto meadows of corn being moved by the wind.

I could look melancholy and no one would think me bad for it; they would probably just consider that I was an artist or a writer, someone with a tortured soul or an evil step-mother.

On the other hand, they may consider me a witch and burn me at the stake perhaps?

Do you have a plan? A vague notion at least of where your life is heading?

I had a plan; a draft outline with accompanying maps, arrows and a compass at the ready.

But it was not to be.

My map is in shreds, my plan in tatters and my life has rewound 4 or 5 years to where I was before, just older and quite possibly less wise than I was then.

The best laid plans of mice and me are a moveable feast it would seem; I wish I could keep up.

broken wings

She isn't involved in my life but I'm involved in hers.  She stepped away, moved out, decided that her family and life weren't for her, but she won't let go.

And it's screwing up the good thing we have.

I worry they will start to think that me coming into their lives is what made it go bad and provoked her latest (and ongoing) outbursts.

And then everything will change.

I should write more.  I should write again.

I've lost my thread.  It was here and now it's wended its way to someone elses' mind for them to figure out something interesting or important to write.

Perhaps I need to go undercover again where I can write the things that are in my head and not the things that can only be uttered out loud.

I adrift

Is it that we (or I perhaps) only have things worth recounting during times of trouble?

I feel bereft of words, adrift in a world of apparently meaningless communications.

I used to write.  I had words that flowed and trickled and poured from my mind and fell upon the pages to be shared and read and now, I have little of nothing, nothing of note or no words spare to determine how they should be ordered.

I should spend time alone with my words, with my thoughts, with my pen.  I should get to know them once more, to make them my friends and see what relationships we can build.

Super man lives

So it would seem that, upon further investigation and the reading of multiple profiles, that men feel they have something to prove.

Hobbies and past times vary between white water rafting, yeti wrestling and great white shark baiting.


It seems to me to be very dull to be interested in a man that likes to watch a movie with a bottle of wine and a bucket of popcorn or go for a walk in the woods, kicking the leaves as you go. 


Quite obviously, that is just not exciting enough for most women and I will find myself turning (even more) into the mad old cat lady.


When did 'ordinary' become a dirty word?

Step 1, you find a girl/boy to love

I am coming to the rapid and unpleasant realisation that I'm getting old.

Having done the deed, taken the first step and actually signed up with a dating site, my age has moved into the next bracket.  The men that I might actually be interested in are in that bracket, or worse, the one above it.


When did I get to the stage of planning dates with someone my dad's age?  Ok, so he's not really 10 years old than me, but surely I'm too young to even be considering men of 50 as suitable/possible/potential options for dinner, drinks and we'll see what happens next?


It's not so much depressing as worrying that I'm running out of time, the buzzer is about to sound and I'll be put out to pasture as being past my prime, unsaleable or, worse, unwanted.


I have even sent out some mails, pinged a few pictures and shuddered at others.  I don't know what I was expected just 3 days in, but more than this was definitely on that list.  


Do people really expect to gain interest from potential partners when they've cropped a picture of themselves with their latest ex, or with a post coital cigarette hanging out of the side of their mouths?


Am I missing something important about basic good manners, or do I just want the unachievable dream?

Liar, liar, pants on fire

It would appear that Hollywood has been lying ot us all these years.

Men do not hang around on street corners or in libraries or coffee shops, randomly waiting to meet the girl of their dreams.


Apparently you have to work at it.  You have to make an effort and go out there stand in front of people, either face to face or on the interweb, looking for emale order men.  


Internet dating has, of course, lost much of its sordid and hushly spoken reputation of a few years ago, but it does still seem like a last resort of the lonely, pathetic and vaguely miserable.


There are multiple tales of success.  Most sites proclaim on their home pages how they lose customers every day, becaase they've found love.  Peddling the dream that love is out there for all, but these days it's a direct cost that's lining someone's deep pockets.


I know people around me who are happy and relaxed and have made achieved the twin goals of marriage AND children.


I just want a nice man, which is harder to locate than the eponymous needle, it would seem.

Doctor heal myself

So, it’s got really bad over the past few days (ok, weeks, who am I kidding?) to the extent that walking up stairs was wiping me out.  Having a conversation was a joke because not only could I not really concentrate; I’d be out of breath just saying hello.

I haven’t run for 10 days and can’t see a point at which I’ll start again – worrying and upsetting in equal measure.

I took myself off to see the Doc this morning for a formal diagnosis; please tell me it isn’t sinister and I can still dive on holiday? Is it asthma, hay fever, an allergy to something else, too much coffee (unlikely as I’m all but caffeine free these days)?

Of course, because I like to be consistent, it’s stress. My peak flow is ‘respectable for someone my age’ (way to make a girl feel good Doc) which rules out asthma. A lack of other symptoms suggests it isn’t an allergy or hayfever, so let’s just go back to that old chestnut, stress.

This was a new Doc, an older guy but full of bright ideas.  Doc Smith, where have you been all my life?

Slow down, smell the roses, breathe in and out – quite literally as it happens.  Six breaths in, six out; Count them.  Enjoy them.  Feel them.  Then start again.

If you get to 13 you’re not concentrating on breathing and your mind is off with the fairies or work or stuff, as usual.

I’ve been told to slow down, do one thing at a time. But if I had time to do one thing at a time I wouldn’t need to be on a conference call, running reports and typing this at the same time!

Have you ever tried it, to stop in the middle of an email or reading a document, preparing a presentation and breathe?  Six breaths in, six breaths out, six in, six out.

But it works.  Amazingly just one six in, on six out (I managed to concentrate for a whole 30 seconds or so!), and my heart has slowed, my breathing easier and my mind, if only just a little, is slower.

That and a long cuddle with the new puppy.

Therapy in one wiggly bundle.

Off the beaten track

Apart from the obvious physical and mental health benefits of running, or any type of exercise for that matter, there are many, many other ways that it can improve your life.

Last year I travelled to Brussels for work, a week of hotel living, back to back meetings and evening dinners with barely an hour or so between the end of the day and the start of the evening social activities.

Instead of laying on my bed or staring at the TV, I ran.  The hotel gave me a tourist map and a bemused look and I headed out.

There was the major benefit that the weather was great and the sun shone late and bright, but it gave me the opportunity to see, albeit briefly, parts of the city that would encourage me to at least plan to head back one day.

I ran through the city, past the parliament buildings, past the seats of power, through the valleys of buildings, along the impeccably clean streets, through parks and to historic landmarks.

I briefly sat in the sun under the trees that were beginning to turn to autumn; I breathed the air that wasn’t air conditioned and I relaxed.

This past weekend I was in Cardiff, a girlie weekend with shopping and eating.  And running.  I found the castle and the park and the trees and the time, again, to breathe.

Runners and writers

I’m still not in 100% good health; it would seem that the last bout of lung related nonsense has reinvigorated my childhood asthma, alleviated only by sucking on sabutamol at semi-regular intervals.

Checking NHS Direct for possible causes of my dry, hacking cough symptoms, I might have hayfever, a cold or possibly HIV or lung cancer.

Anyhow, feeling that sitting back and doing nothing for the next 3 weeks, is really not an option and particularly as the weather has been so fanastic, I pulled out my kit and got back to running.

It was a gentle, 2 mile start on Saturday which has risen to daily 2.5/3 mile jaunts around the village, during which time I don’t cough, wheeze or otherwise feel debilitated by my lung problems, except when I can’t get the breath down to my diaphragm and have to stop to stretch.

It’s just that I can’t seem to keep my pace down.

Prior to getting sick (this time at least…), I was pacing at around 10:15 – 10:30 minute miles, but even though I am making a genuine effort to keep my pace slow and steady, my widget is now showing me as pacing at sub 10:15. Which is weird; either my widget is badly calibrated or I need to change the way I judge my speed.

What I have noticed is that, since I was ill and unable to run, I have had absolutely no desire whatsoever to write, to notate the minutiae of my daily existence.

But now, even though I’m still under the weather, my brain seems inspired to write.

Maybe there’s more to this running thing that meets the eye?