Lovely sleep. Does make a difference not having to go off to the loo in the night for a pee. Turned on the electric blanket to max - really nice. Woke up at 6.30 - a really hard frost. Glad I don't have to leave until 8 to catch my train.
Really odd - just published yesterday's entry, and it has already had one view. Maybe that's what happens if someone is following me - it gets sent to them straightaway. So maybe no-one is actually reading this, just being sent links by google . . . o dear
Pol and OJ. She has 2 litres of OJ in her fridge for guests - as in she's finally noticed that not everyone likes apple juice for breakfast, but in the 10 years we lived together she never bought OJ and never stopped offering me apple juice, although I refused it every time. Go figure.
She asked two questions:
And why, every time I stay (to fix her summerhouse, take her to hospital, whatever,) does she put me in the smallest room, about which I have moaned more than once, in a mild way, because the floor is so uneven the bed makes me feel like I'm being thrown out of it, but if anyone else stays they always seem to get put in the big room.
Why wouldn't / couldn't I stop drinking when we were together?
I did, or tried to, several times, but each time with less and less success. Because I was doing it for her, for us, but really not for me. Because I could not carry on living with her and not drink. Which is not to say it was her fault, just that only drink seemed to make life with her tolerable for me. And when she liberated me / us, it took me a long time to understand that I could not carry on living and drinking, or rather, and better, than I did not want to carry on drinking. It has boiled down to either drink and death, or life. I choose life, for myself, for my own sake, for its own sake. And consciousness. If I only have a few days / months / years left to me, I'd rather remember them than lose half of them in alcoholic blackouts. Once or twice is funny, once or twice a week is just a waste.
Oh, and not drinking does not make me a better or nicer person. I would probably have been really horrid to her had I stopped while we were still together. Most of the time I was a saint, whatever she might think. And my not drinking (which I did do for a few weeks on three occasions) made absolutely no difference to her behaviour. I just noticed how terrible it was.
Why did we get married?
I should not have asked. She should not have said yes. I should have had the courage to say, while we were engaged and I was having the screaming ab dabs about it, this is a mistake. Perhaps her too. On the other hand, perhaps we both, for our different reasons, needed to make that mistake. To understand that another person, a relationship, was not the answer for us. It might have worked, if one or both of us had been different, in quite small ways, but I'm not sure this isn't the better outcome. I am sure this is the better outcome. I do not regret a moment spent with her.
Spoke to H - Day 7 tomorrow. Go girl.
No hassle trip back to Wickham Market on the train (1st Class to Ipswich! I upgraded myself, the bike van was at the wrong end of the train), and cycle ride to Framlingham. Lovely sunny morning, but very cold, leafletting for Labour in Market Square. Got home about 1:30. Diana seems to be in a mega-puss. Andrew says she's ill. Wish she'd stay in bed. Radiating a black cloud of unpleasantness you could cut with a knife. Made myself a nice early supper (more Yorkshire high tea) and am just lazing in my room (which at least is nice and warm, unlike the bloody kitchen, with its oven, because no-one will shut the fucking doors, although they complain about the electricity bill. Have I mentioned this before?)
I have cycled 40 odd miles in the last couple of days, all of it merst enchoiple. And ticked the exercise box. And eaten well. And been very social, and completely sober. And had a lovely time, everywhere, with everyone.
Lunch with the Simpsons' tomorrow. Is that apostrophe really necessary, or in the right place?
Going to watch Ex Machina at 9pm. Or read one of my 6 books (all ordered from the library, all turned up within a day or two of asking).
I've just noticed / realised, it's day 50. I'm supposed to have a celebratory treat. Time for a choc ice and my last fake beer. Whoopee!!!
Really odd - just published yesterday's entry, and it has already had one view. Maybe that's what happens if someone is following me - it gets sent to them straightaway. So maybe no-one is actually reading this, just being sent links by google . . . o dear
Pol and OJ. She has 2 litres of OJ in her fridge for guests - as in she's finally noticed that not everyone likes apple juice for breakfast, but in the 10 years we lived together she never bought OJ and never stopped offering me apple juice, although I refused it every time. Go figure.
She asked two questions:
- on me not drinking "why didn't you give up when we were married?"
- on divorce - "we shouldn't have got married" - it was a sort of interrogative statement, not exactly a question. She often says this, or something like it, as if she wants to talk about it, or is as confused as I am about why we got married, whether we should have done, was it just a mistake. But somehow the statement is never open enough, to start a real conversation about it, or maybe it just feels too painful and / or dangerous for both of us.
And why, every time I stay (to fix her summerhouse, take her to hospital, whatever,) does she put me in the smallest room, about which I have moaned more than once, in a mild way, because the floor is so uneven the bed makes me feel like I'm being thrown out of it, but if anyone else stays they always seem to get put in the big room.
She's frightened of Alzheimers (but wouldn't do a test to check for it, or talk to her doctor) and really didn't like me talking about giving my body to the hospital. Which surprised me a bit. Diana has perhaps hardened me to the subject of death and corpses. I suppose we were drinking bean soup at the time.
I am actually quite cheesed off with the London Anatomy Office, who handle the bodies for the teaching hospitals (it sounds like something out of a Philip Pullman novel, or 1984) - they have exclusions e.g. if you die abroad, or you are obese; they charge you for things (like confirming by post that they have received your form) and they don't cover the cost of for example storing your body until they can collect it. And then at the end they ask you to offer to pay for everything. So I could fill in, sign and get the forms witnessed and think that's all taken care of, and then I pop my clogs and they come up with some reason why they don't want me, and the children get stuck with the bill for my funeral anyway. Seems a bit of a one sided arrangement really.
I am actually quite cheesed off with the London Anatomy Office, who handle the bodies for the teaching hospitals (it sounds like something out of a Philip Pullman novel, or 1984) - they have exclusions e.g. if you die abroad, or you are obese; they charge you for things (like confirming by post that they have received your form) and they don't cover the cost of for example storing your body until they can collect it. And then at the end they ask you to offer to pay for everything. So I could fill in, sign and get the forms witnessed and think that's all taken care of, and then I pop my clogs and they come up with some reason why they don't want me, and the children get stuck with the bill for my funeral anyway. Seems a bit of a one sided arrangement really.
Why wouldn't / couldn't I stop drinking when we were together?
I did, or tried to, several times, but each time with less and less success. Because I was doing it for her, for us, but really not for me. Because I could not carry on living with her and not drink. Which is not to say it was her fault, just that only drink seemed to make life with her tolerable for me. And when she liberated me / us, it took me a long time to understand that I could not carry on living and drinking, or rather, and better, than I did not want to carry on drinking. It has boiled down to either drink and death, or life. I choose life, for myself, for my own sake, for its own sake. And consciousness. If I only have a few days / months / years left to me, I'd rather remember them than lose half of them in alcoholic blackouts. Once or twice is funny, once or twice a week is just a waste.
Oh, and not drinking does not make me a better or nicer person. I would probably have been really horrid to her had I stopped while we were still together. Most of the time I was a saint, whatever she might think. And my not drinking (which I did do for a few weeks on three occasions) made absolutely no difference to her behaviour. I just noticed how terrible it was.
Why did we get married?
I should not have asked. She should not have said yes. I should have had the courage to say, while we were engaged and I was having the screaming ab dabs about it, this is a mistake. Perhaps her too. On the other hand, perhaps we both, for our different reasons, needed to make that mistake. To understand that another person, a relationship, was not the answer for us. It might have worked, if one or both of us had been different, in quite small ways, but I'm not sure this isn't the better outcome. I am sure this is the better outcome. I do not regret a moment spent with her.
Spoke to H - Day 7 tomorrow. Go girl.
No hassle trip back to Wickham Market on the train (1st Class to Ipswich! I upgraded myself, the bike van was at the wrong end of the train), and cycle ride to Framlingham. Lovely sunny morning, but very cold, leafletting for Labour in Market Square. Got home about 1:30. Diana seems to be in a mega-puss. Andrew says she's ill. Wish she'd stay in bed. Radiating a black cloud of unpleasantness you could cut with a knife. Made myself a nice early supper (more Yorkshire high tea) and am just lazing in my room (which at least is nice and warm, unlike the bloody kitchen, with its oven, because no-one will shut the fucking doors, although they complain about the electricity bill. Have I mentioned this before?)
I have cycled 40 odd miles in the last couple of days, all of it merst enchoiple. And ticked the exercise box. And eaten well. And been very social, and completely sober. And had a lovely time, everywhere, with everyone.
Lunch with the Simpsons' tomorrow. Is that apostrophe really necessary, or in the right place?
Going to watch Ex Machina at 9pm. Or read one of my 6 books (all ordered from the library, all turned up within a day or two of asking).
I've just noticed / realised, it's day 50. I'm supposed to have a celebratory treat. Time for a choc ice and my last fake beer. Whoopee!!!
Thanks for that quite intimate and open entry.
ReplyDeleteGlad you had such a good ‘adventure’ in London.