Life beyond adultery

Mr Mechanic had a little 'chat' with his boys.

'How would you feel if daddy married Lu?' He asked in the car, on the long journey to come over to us. Nowadays we spend the weekends together, and have synchronised the 'having the children' rota.

'That means that Pest n.1 and Pest n.2 would become our brothers?'

'Yes.'

'Ye-ey! Great!'

Mr Mechanic's first born, after a pause: 'I think you should live together for a while, and then decide.'

He is not nine yet.

Obviously he goes to a school which does not teach number tables, but certainly equips for the ways of life.

Mr Mechanic laughed. I was not amused when I heard the story.

'Why did you put the question like that?' We are not getting married.'

'Oh, it was to make the question easier for them to understand. It does not stop here.'

'No?'

'No. I then asked whether they thought mummy would marry her beau. They said they did not think so.'

'Why not?'

'Because they said that mummy and the beau argue all the time about THE OTHER GIRLFRIEND.'

'What other girlfriend?'

'I don't know. I think he is married already.'

Last year I thought that family cobwebs were a million light-years from me. Nowadays I am not too sure.

And I have not even started weaving in Mr Mechanic's OTHER ex-wife's story. Or the story pertaining the mother of his third child.

Mr Mechanic's first child - let's call him Mechanino - is wrong, of course. I reckon that the only way is not even living together... it is to live as far away as possible.

Stolen from Miramaze. A meme about sex. Oh yes. Talking about me and talking about sex, all wrapped into one. My idea of heaven.

1. Is there anyone of your friends that you would ever consider having sex with?
NO. Friends are sexless.

2. Sex in the morning, afternoon or night?
Afternoon, ideally. But "beggars" and "Choosers" spring to mind...

3. What side of the bed do you sleep on?
Wherever he is.

4. Have you ever taken your clothes off for money?
Of course. It's called being a wife.

5. Have you ever had sex in the shower or the bath?
Does the Mediterranean sea count?

6. Do you watch/read pornography?
Thank God I do not.

7. Do you want someone aggressive or passive in bed?
Why is aggressive the opposite of passive? Should that not be "active"? And no, I don't like "passive".

8. Do you love someone on your blogroll?
I used to. Now I am fond of my blog-friends.

9. Would you choose love or money?
Erm... I am the living proof that poverty can be very romantic.

10. Your top three favourite kinks in bed?
A little strangulation, being held down, and having my hair pulled.

11. Has anyone ever gone beyond your personal line of respect sexually?
Yes. Not pretty.

12. Where is the most romantic place you have had sex?
Wherever I have been 'THERE'. With him. Right 'THERE' where our souls join.

13. Where is the weirdest place you have had sex?
On a cross.

14. Have you ever been caught having sex?
Yes. Very embarrassing. My partner was black, the catch-er was white South African.

15. Ever been to a bar just to get sex?
I think it was a pub.

16. Ever been picked up in a bar?
Wasn't that the idea?

17. Have you ever kissed or had sex with someone of the same sex?
NEVER.

18. Had sex in a movie theatre?
Theatre... exploring... in the dark.

20. Had sex in a bathroom?
Yes, not impressed.

21. Have you ever had sex at work?
Yes.

22. Bought something from an adult store?
Been bought.

23. Do you own any sex toys?
Left it all behind. Nowadays I have a little spider massager.

24. Does anyone have naughty pics of you or are you on film?
Yes. Oh yes.

25. Have you ever had sex with someone and called them the wrong name?
I think "darling" covers a multitude of names.

26. Do you think oral sex constitutes as a form of intercourse?
It's a form, that's for sure.

27. What's your favourite sexual position?
The one which unfolds me from the inside.

28. What's your favourite sex act?
I have a huge range, and add to it as I go along.

29. Have you ever had sex with more than one person at a time?
In my dreams, very often.

30. How many bloggers do you think will post this meme this week?
No idea.

I went to a place which used to make me feel great. Full of people, full of sin. Full of voices and full of silence.

Mr Mechanic insisted. I did not know whether it would be suitable with four children in tow.

Our children argue and play very loudly. My boys' minds work fast and love an audience. Their naughtiness is never a private affair. His children are fragile and, usually, less stimulated. A heady, explosive combination.

We all went to this place although I had my misgivings. I was tired, the weekend trickles in a blur when there is no time for oneself, only for the others. I feared that this place might be inappropriate, although for whom... I did not quite know.

I should not have worried. We sat separately, he with his, me with mine. There was silence, and there were voices. Singing, mostly. And voices from the past, from the dead. From almost a hundred years ago, from last year. From little villages and from afar. From the young and from the old.

I could not see what his children when doing, but heard them answer a question put out to the congregation. I wa impressed. I looked at mine, completely still and listening to those voices. Singing along. Following the lines.

I should not have worried. Yes, I cried. But I felt as if I were back home. Comforted and soothed.

I have been away, I whispered. You know why I have been away.

Mr Mechanic was right.

It was the right place to go to.

On to the MHP Motor Show.

Train, tube. There and back.

With four boys under nine.

Now the fireworks.

I have more energy now than I did when I was eighteen.

And so much more love.

I have a childminder for Pest n.1 and n.2.

Pest n.2 spends an inordinate amount of time with her. Let's call her Rosie. Pest n.1 gets occasionally picked up from the bus stop, and spends an hour or so doing his homework at Rosie's house.

Rosie is an unusual childminder. For a start, she is not overweight, slovenly, oldish or grumpy. She is not ugly, she does not hold a yearly membership at Mcdonald's. She does not shout or punish.

Hell, my childminder actually LIKES children.

I have never, ever called her with an emergency only to be turned down. Rosie does not let down, nor does she charge by the minute. I am always late, but she does not look at the clock. She feeds my child without being asked, or indeed without working an extra charge into the fees. She cooks home-made meals, and loves animals.

It takes me an hour to drop Pest N.2 off and then go to work - she lives in the opposite direction. She cannot help a lot with Pest n.1's homework because, frankly, her spelling, English and general knowledge are not that brilliant.

Her accent is also not particularly Sloany.

Tonight, as I collected Pest n.2 and asked her AGAIN to let me have the bill for this month (she cares so little for the money, although she earns a pittance, that she won't even work out the monies until I force her) she proudly announced that today MY child did well at spelling, wrote beautifully, and read even better.

Pest n.2 is not... how can I put it... academically gifted. When I complained last month about my lack of time to follow his efforts and make sure he works as hard as he can, Rosie decided to take it upon herself to help him.

'So, what did you do last night?' I asked her. She has recently separated and has been going through a tough time. Last night was her 'night off', as the ex takes the children away for one day or so.

'I... went out...'

Her blond hair flicked as she turned her face away. She has pretty features, and young, sad eyes.

Rosie.

Actually.

Blushed.

At the end of 2009, when teenagers get pregnant with the same ease with which they eat an icecream, when little boys tell my eight-year-old all the swear words I only learnt when I was eighteen, when there is no God, no morality, no values and no hope, my 29-year-old fantastic, caring, pretty and lovely childminder actually blushed because....

....

'I went to the cinema with a man. It was... a date.' She whispered it as if it were a big dark secret.

I looked at her in awe. If she blushes about going out on an innocent date, and to the cinema, what would happen if this guy tried to kiss her?

I am a guilty mother. With little time, and little patience. I shout, and rush things. I feel guilty most of the time.

I try my utmost to give my boys the best, most loving structure around them to support the young years of their innocent lives.

I have made mistakes. Hell, I have survived my mistakes, and paid for them ten-fold.

But I have chosen the best nanny I could possibly have.

This is for you, Rosie. You will never read this post, but I shall make sure you always know how much I value you.

I retrieved a few photo albums from my ex-marital home.

Then I made the mistake of opening one. Then another. And another.

Most photos are of my boys. The camera has followed their arrival into the world, first smile, tooth, walk, play, friends, toys, places and family. The photos freeze young lives at the best moments. So far.

I am displaced. Rattled. Suddenly raw.

I thought only I held the memories, only I saved the smiles.

Arrogant bitch.

Only time does, and it leaves everything behind.

There are photos of a pretty me; of many years ago, of another life.

I barely know her. I barely ever did. Nowadays I make an effort to talk to the woman, not the ex-wife, or mother, or free spirit.

She still surprises me. More than people ever do.

I lean towards her and stretch my hand, but she won't take it. There she stands, in a light which never fades, in legs which will never grow old, sporting a face which will not lace with wrinkles.

If I could bottle my children, I would. If I could bottle their memories of me, I would.

But all I am left with is photos.

Arrogant bitch.

On holiday.

Time to re-focus, re-group and re-consider.

Time to gather and tie-up; re-assemble and shift around. I fold inside myself to look at life as it is now. I speak to people I have not spoken to in a long time, and meet others I did not know.

I have always been the one who organised the baby showers, who ran the Sunday classes at my church, who cooked for the Alfa Course, the needy and the sick. I have been the one to manage crises and clean toilets. To entertain when I wanted to sleep, to read aloud when I had no voice.

I got part of me back, now I need the portion which was never mine to hold, as it belongs to the others.

I still struggle. I still try to get out of a car which is moving, and shut out what I cannot cope with.

Nevertheless I like myself infinitely more than I did. My children like me more than they ever did. A holiday indeed.

Again, if you do not see your partner, and do not know what comes next - no matter what a good idea of that you may have - the anticipation of it holds you suspended.

Better than a slow strip-tease. If you can cope with fear.

For, however trusting you are, and sure that it is a game, there is something of the darkness in being completely enveloped in black and clueless about the pattern your actions in bed will take.

Is making love 'give and take'? What is my 'taking' then, as the creature reduced to object? I can't pout, I can't tease. I cannot whisper naughty or sweet nothings.

But I can...

...

Trust.

Obey.

And wait.

I listen to my body in a way which is usually denied to me when my full senses are allowed. When only body positions and the weighty touch of a man's hands are the language I can understand, what is there to listen to but his power to own and the thrill of surprise?

You will push me down and guide my mouth where your pleasure resides. The darkness around me will focus my mind on the task in hand, as I shall perform as the only actor in the eternal theatre our bedroom is.

I am unique in my anonymity.

I am the sole instrument of your enjoyment.

You will take me and I shall not know whether I am reclined on my back or forward on my front, for the only sensation I feel is your eager visit, the only exchange of flesh your parting and entering.

I soak in and out.

You can touch me and possess me, but I am still in my own universe, where senses speak to a mind as bright and alert as the eyes convey utter emptiness. Will you enter it as you enter me?

Not for the faint-hearted, and not for cheap thrills.

You need love to join, and trust to love.

I feel his release trickle between my legs, and it is only in my mind again. For I am still wrapped in black plastic, and my own flesh should have no messages for my brain.

It is when the scissors come out to tear through the sheets that I shiver and come back to reality.

The blades caress my skin, moist with perspiration.

To allow the closeness of that cut, I must love you beyond repair.

He starts with my head. It gets covered by black, thin sheets of plastic. Secured with tape. I only have small, discreet holes to breathe, and none to see.

One by one, my limbs get covered and taped. Enough to hide every inch of my flesh, but not so tight that I cannot flex my muscles.

Next, my body. Strategic, narrow areas are left exposed.

I am sure that if I could look at me, all I could see is a black mummy.

Now I could be anybody. Gone the red, long hair.

Gone my features, my long fingernails. My clothes. The tone of my skin.

All that is left is the shape of my body.

I.

Do.

Not.

Exist.

As Lucrezia.

I am reduced, regressed, and compacted. Cannot speak, cannot decide. Do not know where he is, and what he is going to do next.

Altogether frightening.

Altogether...

Rather exciting.

Without the 'ego' in one, one can do, feel and be more. Or less. Tied up but free.

I am so wrapped up in the complete silence of my black plastic universe, that I must make an effort, pay attention to what is going to happen to me.

My senses are kidnapped and yet heightened.

The paradox of sex games.

Do you have a person in your life whom you cannot get away from, and who draws all the (little) happiness you may have out of you?

The 'dementor' effect, Mr Mechanic calls it.

He has one.

I have one or two.

You start well, and life looks reasonable. You have pep-talked yourself into having a good day.

The 'dementor' walks in, or emails, or calls.

You are left feeling empty and sad.

Does anybody else have one of those?

He arrives with children, and bags full of shopping, and Hallowe'en stuff. We shall be having an early Hallowe'en evening with the children, as next week it is not our turn to be parents.

My boys have written clues and his boys will go on a treasure hunt. Sweeties, and a midnight feast.

He has brought pancakes and five pumpkins. Sleeping bags and a huge tent for four hyperactive boys to hide and argue in.

He sets it up in the empty room (no money to furnish it yet) and involves the children, makes it fun.

Back in the kitchen, he will carve the pumpkins following the pattern the boys have drawn on each of them.

He is clumsy and holds the knife in a way that worries me.

His socks have holes in them, but I have none in my soul. Only a darned rip: sometimes I pass my finger on it to feel the ridge. Sometimes I lick its harder edges. It is darned but sore.

It would be wise to stay away from those who hold the scissors.

'Who do you love the most, daddy? Me or Lu?' one of the boys asks, from the back of the car.

'It's two completely different kinds of love', Mr Mechanic says.

The question implicitly implies love. The answer explicitly admits it.

It would be wise to stay away from those who hold the scissors, but sometimes I am so scared of them I wield the scissors myself.

How do you relinquish all control during intimacy?

Could you... strip yourself free of your own identity?

Could you... 'decide' to be an object of pleasure, for half an hour or so?

And if you both agreed to that, would your decision, taken out of free will, not empower you further?

By deciding to be a non-you, do you articulate your control anyway?

'Don't ask questions', he said. And he threw masking tape roll on the bed. Red sheets. Lots of pillows.

'Exactly how claustrophobic are you?'

He asked.

'Rather a lot,' I replied.

'That'll be a challenge.'

'I'll bite you.' I said.

'You won't be able to, honey.'

I always thought that a nice, sexy, raunchy set of naughty underwear MIGHT be used to strip a woman of her active role in love-making, and make her look, feel and... well..., just BE a sex object. Within the remit of her own will, of course.

As far as I am concerned, and I may be in the minority here, relinquishing control and sinking into the 'I am an object, enjoy me' passive role is a big 'turn-on'. Not all the time, and not even regularly, but often enough to satisfy my need to let go and give pleasure.

There is something, however, which - if that's what you want to achieve - works even better than raunchy underwear.

For that, you will need a few black bin bags, very black and very thin. Some clear tape.

And a naked female body.

Do I continue fantasising, or do I stop here?

I have not felt anger for years.

Meet the dark lady.

She owns me completely.

We played the usual game today. It's called 'the Kissing Monster'.

I find Pest n.1 and Pest n.2, who have been duly hiding in the cupboard or the wardrobe. If and when I find one or both, I am allowed to force a kiss onto their red, excited cheeks.

Whenever I am fighting little hands off my mouth with one of them, the other screams and jumps on me from a great height, simultaneously protecting his brother and stopping the Kissing Monster from scoring.

Things have, however, changed.

Today, as I was struggling to subdue Pest n.2, and plant a wet kiss on his cheek, it occurred to me that he was so strong I was about to lose. No matter how hard I tried, I could not get close to his face.

That was BEFORE Pest n.1 threw his eight years and full 27 kilos onto my ribs, squashing my back and knocking my breath out.

'Run, F, run!' he shouted. His little brother wiggled out of my arms, slid from under my body and disappeared into yet another hiding hole.

'It's my turn to be a Kissing Monster,' he said then, threateningly.

And boy, he managed.

Either they are getting too strong, or I should start eating better.

When we arrived at his place, late and tired, Mr Mechanic was beaming. His children were ready to play with mine, Nintendoes at the ready too.

The place was clean; the bucket and mop outside, drying.

Where once was his dining table and a lot of rubbish, stood a magnificent yellow tent. Inside, an inflatable double mattress and the sleeping bags.

In the fridge, pancakes for my younger son.

My boys LOVED camping overnight.

I loved him.

The bus driver motioned me to come closer.

It was very late; the sun had gone down. The late bus takes the last stray children to their harrassed mothers, strained homework and late suppers.

'Is your son ill? Diabetes? Low blood sugar levels?'

Odd question.

'No.... why?'

My son stepped out of the bus, looking as if in a daze.

'He fell asleep on the bus and we had to try for a long time to wake him up. He just wouldn't. We thought he'd slipped into a coma.'

Ah.

My son is so tired that he falls asleep on a late bus which usually carries children twice his age.

And he is too tired to wake up.

Bad mother.

Bad, bad mother.

I had a small operation last night. It had been booked, was not an emergency, and was of the invasive variety.

I took some medication beforehand. I practised meditation. I had a hot bath. I told myself not to worry.

I also told Mr Mechanic not to worry. He still insisted that a two-hundred-mile drive was nothing really, and came up anyway.

We sat there in the waiting room full of couples and single people, running children and the depressing leaflets stuck to the walls of the ugly building from the 50s.

He told me a few jokes. I thought of surgical instruments and white gowns.

When my name was called, I shook my head and sunk into the plastic chair.

'I'll take you, come,' he whispered, holding my hand.

That convinced me very quickly. 'No,' I said. I did not want anybody there.

The female doctor was very understanding. I had had a bad experience before and my body had frozen into a state of induced coma.

We negotiated positions and agreed order of procedure. I looked at her friendly face suspiciously.

'I shall be here too,' chirped the nurse happily.

'Oh great. Now I have to make small talk as someone else pokes me inside as if I were a casserole in need of a stir,' I thought.

I did manage. An hour went by.

'Very brave, Lucrezia,' said the doctor. I saw in her eyes that she meant it.

'Really? I don't think so,' I muttered.

'Well... considering the abuse I get, how often I am shouted at, how much fuss other patients conjure up, and the fact that two months ago I was kicked by one of them in the ribs and was bruised for a week, I think you have done really well.'

It's all relative.

I saw Mr Mechanic waiting there for me, and was glad not to be alone.

Relatively speaking, I was alone in the doctor's room. But not in my life.

Other times, I have been with people in the same room, but have been completely alone.

I have been receiving romantic emails for months.

Each of them is movingly sweet and terribly decadent. It is his style, and it never rings hollow. Not even when I have been in bad, bad places with no light or hope.

I was rather wondering what else he could write that he had not written before, when the 'you've got mail' flashed up again.

"I have run out of words, but not of feelings."

I made a steak and kidney pie for the first time in my life.

What would love make you do?

It wasn't the fact that I made the pie.

Love made me eat some.

Mr Mechanic is borrowing this space to write his own post. He dictates, I write (it avoids spelling mistakes).

"This evening Lucrezia and I went to a local pub, where she was convinced that the locals were staring due to the fact that we were considered 'non-locals'.

This was an error because they were staring at a short skirt and incredibly long, slender legs.

Halfway through the evening, Lucrezia informed me that ten minutes earlier one of the locals had amorously rubbed himself on her thigh. I was a little shocked by this as I had not noticed, especially as she was standing next to me, and asked her to indicate the perpetrator, who was indeed standing next to his girlfriend.

I felt a sense of anger that in modern society it would be unreasonable if I would take my large club and whipped and beat him round the head. However, the singing from the curly-head dumpy wobbler pacified my savage inclinations.

The aforementioned wobbler was actually very good but due to Simon Cowell's hatred of any women larger than a size zero she would have no chance on X-factor, despite her obvious talent.

We left the pub far earlier than closing time to partake with Lucrezia's erogenous tiramisu, which went 'down' very nicely, thank you.

It is now eleven thirty and you ask yourself 'what the hell am I doing here at this time of the night?' especially as it is full moon."

The mucky Mechanic

1 Is there anybody you just wish would fall off the planet?
No

2. How do you flush the toilet in public?
Is there a toilet so public that you do it in public?

3. Do you wear your seatbelt in the car?
Only when the children are with me

4. Do you have a crush on someone?
Yes

5. Name one thing you worry about running out of.
Hope

6. What famous person do you (or other people) think you resemble?
Sophie Marceau

7. What is your favorite pizza topping?
Mozzarella, rocket and parmesan

8. Do you crack your knuckles?
That's not very feminine, is it?

9. What song do you hate the most?
Richard Marx 'Everything I do, I do it for you'

10. Did just mentioning that song make it get stuck in your head?
I hope not

11.What are your super powers?
Potions and charms

12 Peppermint or spearmint?
Chocolate

13.Where are your car keys?
I wish I knew. They get lost in the bag

14. Last song you listened to?
Abba 'Mamma mia'

15. What's your most annoying habit?
Having opinions

16 Where did you last go on vacation?
So long ago it doesn't matter

17. What is your best physical feature?
Legs

18. What CD is closest to you right now?
Radio, no CD

19.What 3 things can always be found in your refrigerator?
Milk, fruit, vegs

20 What superstition do you believe/practice?
All of them

21. What color are your bed sheets?
Sexy purple

22. Would you rather be a fish or a bird?
I AM a bird!

23. Last thing you broke?
My heart

24 What are you having to eat tonight?
Tiramisu

25. What color shirt are you wearing?
A little mini black dress

26. If you could be doing anything else today, what would you rather be doing?
I am very happy with what I AM DOING

27. Do security cameras make you nervious?
Only when I am not wearing makeup

28. If you wrote a book about your life, what would the title be?
Slices of Mediterranean Salame (yes, it is spelt 'salame', not 'salami')

29. Last time you went to a cemetery?
Four days ago

30. Last concert you went to?
R.E.M.

31. Favorite musician(s)/bands you've seen in concert?
R.E.M.

32. Next concert you're planning to attend?
My girlfriend's partner's

33. Do you talk to yourself?
All the time. I argue with her

34. Have you ever adopted or purchased a pet?
Yes, two rabbits, Twin Spark and Tazio

35. Have you ever been present when an animal is being born?
Yes.

It has been, so far, such an odd year.

Challenging and difficult, hairy and breathlessly fast. Desperately slow and worryingly complicated.

I have let go and I have held. I have been disappointed and I have disappointed. Built and destroyed.

I have earned focus and direction. I have lost stability and doubts.

People weave in and out of our lives, and make the fabric of our emotions. I have never been good at being self-contained.

I have learnt that drama does not, as I have always been accused of, colour my life and attract me to its flickering light. It was not drama. It was simple mismatching. I mismatched my existence in a way that could not be mended. It could only be erased.

One could even say that I deserve the life I live now. The excitement of not knowing whether I shall make ends meet this month; the despair at yet another bill from my old, rattling and impossibly decadent Alfa Romeo; the complete ignorance as to what will be of me in a year's time; the car boot sales and broken ceiling lamps; the second-hand toys and clothes; the holding hands across MacDonald's tables; the complete absence of a holiday or indeed its prospect.

There was a time in my previous life when I would have a professional electrician to fix lights and a chippy to put up shelves. Today Mr Mechanic had a go at being electrocuted, and fell through the cheap stool he was using to stand on, damaging his hand and destroying said stool. The ceiling lamp was nevertheless attached and it works.

I have the clumsy life I was too clumsy to seek.

And now it is tidier than it ever was.

The problem with artificial help is that you feel an artificial calm.

A plastic serenity.

A lycra elasticity of spirit.

I am a remote controlled car and no longer a raucous, bedraggled and ferocious Lamborghini.

All my ESPs are switched on. Traction control rules.

What's the point of going round the track safely if one does not do so sideways?

Do you potter about, or do you swing by the hair?

I never thought I would prefer to fight with Pest n.2 to persuade him to do his homework (did I mention that he is not particularly academic?) or with Pest n.1 and his uncanning ability to reason me out... that I would prefer the bath wars and the silly tiffs to tonight's silence.

There is silence in my head too.

The Princess looked for a tall, clever, handsome and fair man.

Many queued up for the job. Some were tall, and some were clever. Some were very handsome. Some were even clever and tall and handsome. But not fair.

Some seemed to tick all the boxes, but they were just in the wrong queue. So what's fair for another Princess is not fair for me.

Dear Mira, this is the story you asked me to write.

There was a man in the queue who was clearly not that fair. The Princess liked his voice and how he jumped up and down to get her attention. When she got closer, she realised that he was all mucky, hair matted and dirty fingernails.

'You are not really fair, are you?' she asked.

And he replied....

'I am stuck miles away, and very late, sorry. I know I must have messed up your day. Do you still want me to come?'

My best friend.

'Please.'

She knows me too well. It was an odd reply by my standards, and she commented on it when she arrived in her little battered car, after searching her way to my place across two counties.

'You are thin. Are you ill?'

It was the great big hug I got. She felt the ribs and whispered that in my ear. She took over the house, the boys and me.

We sat and smoked. Something I don't usually do.

She brought cakes and left cigarettes. And wise words.

I still have the cakes, but only one cigarette left. It'll go well with my drink.

'I love you' she texted when she got home, two hours later. In Italian.

Just as well.

An old voucher, unused. A quad-bike experience for Pest n.1 and one adult.

So we went.

Fields and freshly turned turf; the smell of earth and autumn coming. My thoughts drifted like the fat wheels of Pest n.1 baby-quad.

'Faster, faster!' I shouted from under the helmet. His shoulders small and thin under his too-big helmet and the massive machine under his buttocks. Stubbornly, he refused to push the quad hard, conscious of his own comfort zone. He shook his blond head, but kept going.

I did. I stood on mine and weaved in and out of holes and bends, my legs turned into new shock-absorbers. The instructor started discussing the merits of the newest models with me. Pest n.1 teetered over the edge of a little hill, and braked. The quad stood suspended between the crumbling earth of the woods' undergrowth and the slope beneath. I dismounted from mine and pulled him out.

I do like a little drama peppering my boring life, every now and then.

Our hair smelt of a thousand sweats, the history of a muddy helmet and jacket lingering long after we had finished.

It was on our way back, whilst I was driving my car - no less fast - that I realised my thoughts had grown legs and ran away. Much faster than my car, way too fast for my son's quad-bike.

I stare at the private messages, and the notes. More, today. From a woman I do not know.

Sometimes we only kid ourselves.

Sometimes the truth really is complicated and dirty.

I shower off memories and words. They gurgle into the plughole.

No... I shan't say 'hello' to her, much as she is suggesting.

I have just said goodbye. Surely that's enough.

I am adjusting to a reality I have known, so far, only in theory.

In theory, people make room for each other in their self-contained lives.

In theory, negotiating happens at home as much as at boardroom level.

In theory, changing a few elements in one's world has no long-term effect on the values one may hold dear.

I'm new to compromises, and rigid at the prospect.

Thank God I am a woman: women achieve so much just by talking things through. Or do we?

We sat at the little pub where he used to go, as a little boy, with his grandfather. And memories of him sat with us.

I cannot remember what we spoke about, but I know we talked a lot, as ever. The past touched our faces gently, glad to be allowed a breath of present.

To me, the present does not mean much. It is either the future's older skin, or the past's new feet.

We discussed the future too.

The meal was one of the best I have ever had. That, too, will become part of our past.

One to treasure.

I collect memories, and thread them through for tomorrow's necklace.

"You look as if you should be famous."

And he treated me as if I were.

Mr Mechanic is impossibly romantic.

I guess I might have to find a suitable recipient for my present.

Not all presents are for all people.

My darling,
I guard my mouth and weigh my words
But inside I wrap my fantasies
In shiny paper
And hold the parcel
By its tenuous string
hooked on my finger

Do you want a present?

'What did you have at school for lunch?' I ask my elder son.

We are all exhausted. I come back from work as early as I can, but the raising at dawn every day takes its toll on the boys. The bus ride is tiring, especially as Pest n.1 is confined to the 'late' run. The homework needs to be done. Dinner. A little playtime. Bath. The schedule of a busy life I chose when I left the cocooned trophy wife standards behind.

I look at my children's tired faces and see, etched there, my guilt.

'A baguette.'

'A baguette!' I remark. 'Do you know that we pay quite a lot of money for your canteen?'

Silence. I am about to apologise for my outburst. He has bathed, done his homework and set the table, all by himself. Not fair to complain about what should be entirely his choice. I have been bullied about my choices, whether about food, clothes or friends, throughout my childhood. I shan't do the same to Pest n.1.

Then he speaks.

'Shall I have TWO baguettes then?'

I laugh and throw my kitchen cloth at him.

I learn from my boys every day. I try my best, and make of my life what I can. The life I chose.

I should have TWO baguettes of life too. Or one, if I want.

It's entirely up to me.

'You are not alone,' he writes.

That depends on whether you look at it from the inside, or the outside.

Loneliness has rarely anything to do with the outside.

The trick is to reach out and INTO the inside.

I have been good at reaching out into people's inside. As for my own, I usually coat it with Teflon.

'Ouch ouch ouch,' chanted Pest n.2 on his way downstairs.

'What's wrong?' I sighed. I am permanently weary, and not just physically, at the moment.

'My foot,' he replied.

'What's wrong with it?'

'It's got a headache.'

It made perfect sense. I have a soul with a headache too.

I feel lost
Between the pages
Of a torn book
The ones
I have yet to read

Write them with me
Or should I...
Print with my own ink

Blood

Turn them backwards
And tell me
You have seen the story
And it all ends well

On Sunday morning, I took my boys to rugby training. I am determined, this year, to be religious in my attendance, as last year their presence was, at best, patchy. It is also a social affair: they get to kick and tackle their friends, and I get ignored by the local community of rightful couples.

My boys were training at the opposite sides of the training fields. It was impossible for me, unless I possessed the gift of ubiquity, to be in two places at the same time.

Mr Mechanic offered to watch Pest n.2, and I trotted off to cringe at Pest n.1's feeble attempts at getting an oval ball.

Later, when both Pest n.2 and Mr Mechanic had joined us, we all stood at the edge of the field, watching Pest n.1 marvelling at the sky and the surrounding countryside whilst the other boys were chasing, scrumming and tackling. I have given birth to a dreamer.

I remember looking at Mr Mechanic, holding my sons' bags, changing my little boys' shoes, and generally busying himself as if he were a local parent. I think I gave him a little friendly hug, possibly a light peck, in gratitude for being 'there'. It was an innocent gesture.

Today, I picked up Pest n.1 at the bus stop. He came into the car looking very pensive.

'Did you kiss M at rugby, on Sunday?' he asked, suddenly.

'Pardon?' I was preoccupied with some work matters.

'Did you kiss M at rugby on Sunday???' he repeated.

'No, I don't think so,' I replied.

'You did,' he said. There was a note of accusation in his voice.

'Mmmmmm, no... I did not.'

I let it drop then, and so did he. I saw his little worried face in my rearview mirror, and wondered. I remembered the hug, but I was not even sure about the peck. In any case, nothing I should be afraid of.

Later, in bed, I kissed him goodnight.

'Why did you ask me about the kiss, sweetie?' I asked.

'The H boys were on the bus, and they told me: your mother snogged that man.'

I got angry. The boys go to the same school as Pest n.1, and they are young, but older than he is. He is one, it's three of them. I did not "snog" anybody. I am not even sure all of them were there at the rugby pitch at the time, so there must have been some talk about it.

"Your mother snogged that man." It sounds nasty. My son did not even know what 'snogging' meant until they told him.

If boys cannot be friends, they could at least make an effort not to be foes.

'They are not happy pills', he says.

I look for a little sad face on each of them, but don't see any.

Then I realise I already wear one of those.

At least it's not an angry and twisted one.

You can shake me, and kick me. You can draw blood with those stumpy fingernails and hang me by my hair. You can make me stand, naked and powerless, in front of the leering crowd of your material supremacy.

But you can never dirt my passion, or touch my soul.

I break in many places, and bend in none.

It is not the high heels that hurt, woman: it's how tall one is without them.

It is not what I may talk about with people: it's the warmth I stir in them.

Beliefs. Don't you remember? People were burnt at the stake for them.

Or fired.

Go-kart.

Sweaty hands, adrenaline flowing. Can't feel my fingers. I am hoarse with crying out. The smell of petrol, the noise of the engines.

Sun beating down on the track. Waiting in the queue. Bumping, raving to go.

Faster. Faster. FASTER.

'You are very competitive,' I hear. A mother wispers in my ear, behind the fences, behind the tyres.

Yes, I am.

And that's only my son racing there, for the first time.

I screamed from the sidelines, I lived vicariously. I breathed the excitement.

I WANTED him to be faster, and better.

I did my races, and won my prizes. It's his turn, but I am no less competitive.

He came second.

Little face inside a huge helmet.Big toothless smile.

'Wonderful, wonderful, my darling,' I cooed.

But I thought.... NEXT TIME, next time. Next time you'll have to be first or I shall KILL you.

Almost the end of my two weeks off with the Pests.

I thought I would be driven bananas. That by the end of it I'd be looking forward to the start of the school term. That I would barely contain myself and stop just short of throttling the delinquents.

But no.

I have enjoyed every minute of it.

I shall cram as much as I can, and store it away.

Memories' builder. Remember? That's what a mother is.

The storm, the bike ride, wet clothes, water slide, Chinatown, trying sweetcorn for the first time, building models in Lego-Bloody-Land, reading together, drawing castles, swimming with mother-who-has-forgotten-swimming-costume, walking along the canal, shopping, running, laughing, arguing, three-D cinema, rubbish fast food, lovely home-made roast, go-kart birthday party, getting up decadently late....

I did it all. I also hid from them, wrote, refused to take sides, and was relieved to put them to bed. Just.

Last weekend. I have rediscovered my children.

So much so... that I am broody for a third one.

A little girl with red hair. Like Pippi Longstockings.

I should be so lucky.

We go to the optician 'en masse'. You know... mother and children.

I have moved four times since I became a client of this small outlet, and the distance between my home and said optician has stretched from a couple of miles to... let me see...about 45 miles, motorway or not.

I kept going there because when I call, and before I can tell them who I am, the receptionist will immediately say: 'Lucrezia! Hello! How are you, my dear?'

NOBODY calls me 'my dear', apart from Shelley. She is very old-fashioned, the receptionist. With enormous, motherly boobies, and middle-age yet low-cut blouses. A string of pearls. An eternal smile.

I kept going there because they have known me throughout all my jobs, my boyfriends, and my life. They know not to address me or write to me using my married name. They know my boys, and held them in their arms when they were infants.

I could never go anywhere else. Not for an amazing deal, amazing contact lenses or amazing sexy optician.

No.... there is NO sexy optician. I just like to keep your attention, that's all.

Today I was late. Distance means I get the full whack of traffic, accidents and roadworks.

They called me, not to tell me off, but out of worry that something might have happened to me. I was five minutes away when they did.

My boys had their yearly check-up first. They rolled off the letters from their young mouths, Pest n.1 confident and reading them out the 'big boy' way, Pest n.2 hesitant but soldiering on nevertheless.

'Good boys. Perfect eye-sight,' cooed Mrs Optician.

I told you, there is no sexy male optician.

'Now on to mummy.'

Mrs Optician is new. We usually see another lady, who knows my quirky fears and understands my odd behaviour.

'What are you doing now?' I ask. 'Not the stick with the dye, are you?'

'Well, yes. I need to enhance with colour potential damage to your eyes. Come here.'

She brandishes that stick like a sword. I panic.

'Erm... I don't like that. Give me some time to relax and cope with the idea that you are going to stick the pointy bit into my cornea,' I reply.

I swear my voice quivers.

'I am not going to stick it INTO your cornea. Now now, let's not be silly, Lucrezia.'

She says. Stick in hand.

The boys stare, transfixed. Mamma is behaving like a toddler.

I writhe and squirm in the high chair.

'Let go of my hand, Lucrezia, please. This is ridiculous!'

The boys are smiling.

'Let me go. I can't do this!' I scream.

She tries to hold me down on the chair. The boys are now laughing openly.

'Mamma is scared! Mamma is scared!' They chant. The little twits.

'Arghhhhh! You have stabbed me!' I shout.

The receptionist walks into the room. 'Is everything all right here?'

The boys are on the floor, holding their tummies. They are laughing so much they can't breathe.

'Help me hold Ms V here, Shelley', the evil optician says. 'I have put dye in one eye but she won't let me do the other.'

'I can't see! I can't see!' I wail, shaking my head this way and that way, trying to dodge the stick.

'Stop right now. You are being very difficult. Be sensible and stay still or I shall have to do this twice.'

The boys are, by now, hysterical. Pest n.2 is on the verge of wetting his trousers, myrth spilling over, bouncing about.

'There. It was not THAT bad, surely.'

Not THAT bad? She nearly killed me.

Maybe I shall look for another optician, after all. A sexy one, preferably tall and with ginger hair.

One can dream.

What can be more interesting than a day trip to Legoland? Three adults and four boys under 12...

I thought the excitement could barely be contained in the car trip itself, or the hours spent queueing. It is, after all, an amusing concept: I take some £60 of your money, and you, in exchange, give me two hours of your time to queue for ONE of my rides.

I know, I know.... My time is so special and expensive, that even I pay for it.

However.

My next-door neighbours, who had the kindness to suggest we all go to Hell Made of Bricks, obviously thought that the day itself could be further enhanced.

They had a SURPRISE in store for me.

I got up late. As usual. I had a discreet knock of the door, a door which I opened still wearing my purple dressing gown.

'We are all waiting for you,' their boys said.

Have you ever tried to brush your teeth and hair at the same time? Guess where the toothpaste ends up.

Anyway, I digress. When we came out, they were all bundled up in their huge Land Rover. I pushed Pest n.2, the smaller of the two, into the car. He was swallowed into the cavernous back, third row. Pest n.1 also disappeared. In the back. Third row.

Three children in the back. Two of mine, one belonging to my next-door neighbours.

Their elder son was to sit next to me. Second row. Three seats.

'Why can't one of the boys at the back sit with us in the second row?' I asked.

'They look squashed, three of them, AND THERE ARE ONLY TWO SETS OF SEATBELTS,' I reiterated.

Seven seats, seven seatbelts. I can be logical, sometimes.

I count the heads. One... two... three.. four... five... six... seven...

Eight.

It's four of them. And three of us. Why eight heads?

They. Have. Invited. THE single man in the village.

To come to Lego-bloody-Land.

He has a disability, which affects one side of his body. He does not walk straight, and has limited use of his left hand. Lucky it's not his right hand.

He also has a very good job. Equal opportunities etc.

Mr Village One-Hand only dates twenty-year-olds, I am told. Takes them out for dinner in expensive places.

I bet he does. In those places they probably wipe his mouth whilst he is using his good hand to eat. Handy that. Pun intended.

Maybe he can make an exception for me, as I am a well preserved single mother, tells me my next-door neighbour. I try to look suitably impressed at the chance.

Something like this: 'Oooooh. Who is the lucky girl then?'

For the duration of the outgoing trip, I am treated to Mr Village One-Hand's full attention. Thank God he hasn't got two hands to rely on. A small mercy.

And one of the boys is sitting between us, which also dampens the ardour.

I do my best to keep conversation to a polite minimum. You know how ungrateful I am: people try to match me up, and I turn my back on golden opportunities.

Mr Village One-hand is very good at hugging, despite his limited range of action. I can't even complain about the two-hour queue without him groping my shoulders to express his agreement.

I would like to point out to these kind people, who are just trying to find me a companion, that I have held back from cracking a few good eggs, in the last year; including Mr Mechanic, who has full use of several tools at his disposal, and would look after my chassis very well indeed.

Still, I suppose that if I am competing with pert twenty-year-olds in strappy vests and sleek hair (I did not brush mine, after the incident with the toothpaste), I am not faring too badly.

'I hate men,' I tell him, during the rare moment when he is not either staring at me from ten inches away (did I mention he must be short-sighted too?) or trying to prove that you can hold another body close to yours even with just one hand.

'Have you had a bad experience?' he asks, compassionately.

'No,' I reply. 'In fact, I took my ex-husband to the cleaners. He is living in emergency accommodation at the moment, whilst I sort out the last paperwork. Cardboard box under the bridge... you know the score. I got it all, including the car.'

I swear I see some worry in his eye - the one which is not pointing wildly somewhere above my head. He is slightly cross-eyed after all.

'Mine is not even adapted for motability,' he whinges.

'Oh dear,' I say. 'I have always wanted a nice Hyundai.'

Legoland looms.

I am really looking forward to walking a mile before getting to the paying booth, where a surly attendant will charge an amount of money raising expectations of outlandish landscapes of exotic drinks, palm trees, suave music and personal butlers.

It will therefore be an exciting surprise to face mile-long queues of screaming children high on e-numbers and burger additives. Tired rides and broken seats. Tables covered in half-eaten chips and plastic cups.

Still... I may entertain myself looking for the diamond in the chicken nuggets. Surely there must be one buried in one of the buggers (sorry, I meant burgers) as how would you otherwise explain the price of every single one of them?

God forbid you should get thirsty. Water comes straight from the High Heavens, on a Lego-built chute. At a cost, of course.

There will always be another ride to shuffle for, sandals full of dust, the family in front kicking one's children when you are not looking. And your children will kick them back when the other (tattooed) mother WILL look.

I really look forward to this. And the two-hour journey there. And the two-hour journey back.

I no longer have self-doubts and devastatingly corroding questions over whether I love my children enough, as a good mother.

I KNOW I ADORE THE LITTLE THUGLETS.

I must do. Why else would I do this tomorrow?

I live at the frayed edges of a forest. Post-separation, the house is rented, of course, and nasty-looking with its Seventies front. Inside, though, it is very warm, clean and cosy. Happy, in fact.

This will be the first year since I moved to England I shall not be cold in the winter. Sod the pretty appearances. At this stage in my life, all I need is comfort.

Being so close to the forest is a temptation for an active person like me. I managed to get the bikes from the marital home, and the children and I embarked on the adventure: a twelve-mile bike ride across the forest, around the cycle paths, and back home.

Helmets on. Whinging in check. Water in the bag.

The coffee shop in the middle of the forest is delightfully basic; we had lunch there, and fought wasps along the way.

It was on the way back that disaster struck. Those of you who know me well enough will remember that geography is not my strongest point. I get lost on my way to the bathroom at home.

So we got lost. All bridleways look the same. All paths are festooned with the same stinging nettle, as Pest n.2 found out to his cost.

Suddenly, the sun gave way to clouds. Thunder rumbled. In the distance. Then closer. Too close. Upon us.

Then came the rain. Pest n.1 pedalled faster on a bike much too tall for him. Pest n.2 struggled on a bike far, far, too big for him too, and gave in to panic.

He wailed all the way, some three miles of searching through the woods for our way back home. Drenched, mascara running, hair whipping my back, I could only shout like a boat captain, egging them on.

'I am falling to pieces!!!!!' screamed the six-year-old, wet trousers flapping in the wind. Tears blended with the rain. His blond hair was stuck to the wet collar of his second-hand t-shirt.

Bad, bad, BAD MOTHER.

We were disorientated, wet and blinded by the rain. On the main, fast road which cuts across the forest, cars did not stop although they slowed down.

When I spotted a familiar path, I pushed them on it like a deranged shepherd.

Back at home, we left a leap of drenched clothes and shoes on the floor and piled up in the small bath tub.

Pest n.2 laughed again. 'That was an adventure,' he said confidently, covered in bubble bath.

'Shall we go out again?' I asked.

They almost drowned me in the tub.

I guess that's a 'no'.

What happened to resilience?

It's Legoland tomorrow (we have a big discount voucher). Surely, that will be more of a nightmare and a challenge.

Won't it?

I sit at my kitchen table and do some serious editing; usually this kind of work carries me well into the night.

Editing my own words is usually interesting if not a little puzzling; a bit like trying to bite my own tail to make it smaller.

Editing someone else's words, and the very same which meant a great deal to me in the past... well... that is somewhat different.

Again, it is a bit like trying to bite my own tail. And succeeding. Until it is reduced to a bleeding stump.

It seems a lifetime ago. I go through those words, sentence by sentence, and wonder how on Earth I managed that: I once arose passion, and stirred a heart.

Was I prettier? More intelligent? Sexier?

Have you ever been envious of yourself?

I had no tail then. Nothing to bite, and nothing to waggle.

I am not sure that marriage makes a woman stronger. It may make her feel less lonely - although that's debatable. It may make her feel more financially secure - again, is that always the case? It may create the cocoon a girl has always wanted. But does it help with one's inner balance?

I may be the exception. I used to fumble my way around things, people and issues. Around life.

I am stronger, clearer and with an emotional solidity I never knew I possessed.

Maybe I never did. Until now.

Divorce.

Bring it on.