Life beyond adultery

I shatter and can hear the pieces crunching under my feet.

I am a basket of strawberries

You cannot choose

Mostly, soft and sweet against your palate

But dark and bruised commas in between

The entire story

Will make a mess

But it colours your fingers

A live red

I have a very small suspicion. One of those which grow in your head, sprout legs and run away. One of those which will eventually keep you awake at night, and gnaw at your heart until it bleeds and never stems.

I went to my son's prize-giving ceremony. Well. Let me rephrase that. I went to the school's prize-giving ceremony. He did not win a sausage. Unless there is a category for living up there with the fairies, annoying one's little brother, forgetting one's only clean shirt at the school (don't ask), my son will NEVER win anything.

I walked across the playground with him and a cluster of much, much older boys started to shout from a far away corner. His name. His little face stiffened.

'Who are those, sweetie?' I asked. 'Are they your friends?'

It did not occur to me that they were not 'greeting' him, they were... almost taunting him. It was only when I saw his reaction that I was not happy anymore. A cloud descended on me.

'Are they annoying you?'

'Sometimes. They are on my bus.'

I couldn't walk to the group of boys twice my son's age and tell them off for calling his name. They would have said that they were only saying hello. The beauty of subtle teasing. Even mothers cannot protest. Besides, I am three times their age.

What to do?

'You have to stand up for yourself, sweetie,' I say firmly. 'It's four of them and only one of you. You are much younger. Say it. Say to them that it is very brave to tease when there is so many of them and so little of you. Make them feel bad. And do not ignore or cave in. Never show fear.'

'I am ok.'

Other incidents have emerged today. More teasing.

'Why won't you tell the teacher?'

'I don't like telling.'

I do. I like telling. I like telling my son's teacher that he is too silly to explain what annoys him. Too stubborn to ask for support.

I can't find the teacher's email address. So it's another night of worrying. Of gnawing. It may be nothing. And this is the last week at school. My son says he is fine.

I may be nothing and I may be sensitive, fragile and worrying about ghosts.

I also think that children should be exposed to mild teasing and taunting - after all, this is real life.

And yet... my entire being wants to go and find the little pests, and tell them where to go and tease boys their own size.

Grrrrr.

I never saw the groom's parents without a small grandchild in their arms.

The entire reception was a big, long affair held together by a family's love. An extended family's love.

Brothers supported brothers, aunties looked after straying children, sisters and sisters-in-law wiped mucky little faces and changed nappies.

And all the time, the girls looked stunning and slim, dangling infants whilst tottering on their impossibly high stiletto heels.

An Italian wedding. Colours, words, food and love. All in copious quantities.

I was made feel welcome; embraced by old laces and wobbly earlobes, the previous generation having flown all the way from Italy to see the latest young boy getting married to his sweetheart.

The newer generation threw paper balls at each other from one table to the next, sultry, smoky eyes with lashings of mascara and freshly cooked hair set in soft waves.

'We are so pleased about S', the red lipstick murmured into my ear.

'What about?' I said.

'You look lovely and make a great couple.'

'No.... we are just friends', I say, darting an accusing eye at him.

S is singing a couple of Italian songs, as he is a professional singer.

'Vedi Napoli e poi muori....' he is bellowing.

'Oh!' They look very disappointed.

'Oi, mate,' a calling voice from a table in the back, as he walks past. 'She is the best looking one we've ever seen you with!'

Only the Italians would consider a woman wearing a dress the size of a handkerchief with slits up to one's own private parts a suitable companion for the only single bachelor in the room.

'Do you own your house?' asks the matriarcal grandmother. In Italian.

'Ermm.. no...' I say, trying to sound very ashamed of it.

'Tut tut', she says. 'No house! How old are you?'

Now we are into child-bearing territory.

'I am not going out with S!' I say.

'He is very nice and generous,' the women tell me, the older ones nodding in unison.

The bride looks splendid and has a smile the size of Iceland. As white too.

As we rise to toast, the groom mentions the dead. People recently departed, taken away by illness or fate. He is very young and chokes on his words. A sweet tear rolls down.

The best man blushes when he is thanked for his help.

In the car on the way back, S makes a speech which must have been rehearsed in his room. How he would look after me, how the family is strong and supportive, how much I need someone to make me secure and self-confident again. How love is all one needs. How all is mended by a caring heart.

'I don't want to go out with you, S' I say, as gently as I can.

The same as I have said a few times in the last few weeks, to a few different people.

I am not confused. I loved the wedding, and was moved by it. I wish the young couple all the best, and I enjoyed the admiring glances by the men. The women did not mind me, and I felt accepted unconditionally.

I just don't want to be part of that.

I think I belong somewhere else.

Wedding diary will follow. And you were all right, of course. I did wear the cream dress.

The petrol station attendant left his tongue stuck on the window as he looked at me from his post at the till, I spotted him waving at me when I left in my car - I don't suppose you have floaty dresses with obscene splits walking about petrol stations often enough.

No, I do not seek cheap reassurance of my self-worth by wearing sexy dresses and smiling at petrol station attendants young enough to be my son (although I would have started a family very early for that to be biologically possible). Yes, that's an accusation which has been levelled at me.

It's harmlessly pleasant. If I wanted to flirt, I would choose a better target and a much more subtle game.

Photos will follow too.

I had a great time.

Quick!

I have half an hour to decide!!!

Lemon yellow sock-style tight and short dress, or...

Long, floating but figure-hugging cream dress with criss-cross silk ribbon down the front, straps and TWO slits, slashing dress from the rim (near the floor) to my hips.

When I stand... I look like a well covered mermaid. When I walk... I look half naked. But at least there are no doubts as to whether I have legs or a fishtail.

*Scuttles away to do her hair*

Wedding, tomorrow.

Lemon yellow mini dress, as tight and short as a sock?

I chucked a sportscar around the track today. With a professional instructor.

Seven years of mumsy driving. An hour of touching 150mph and they disappeared.

Lap after lap, things got better, I got faster, and I got bolder.

He sat next to me, and said less and less. Instructions became compliments.

I remembered what I used to know, the way I used to drive. My job, and the life I once led. I felt the V10 engine behind me like an animal ready to pounce. My joy took my breath away. I made love to that car for two hours.

Then I pushed the extreme button, the butterfly opened and the gear change quickened, ratios shortened. Things got scarier. At every up-change I felt a kick up my loins; at every downchange, a surge into them.

I think I had an orgasm.

And now, to make things just a touch more interesting, as my life has been as dull as baby food....

I got a text message from a man who I politely rejected many months ago, and who occasionally will invite me for dinner nevertheless. He is Italian after all. Italian men do not take 'no' for an answer.

'I am invited to a wedding and I really do not want to go on my own. Please. Please.'

I have a morbid fascination with weddings. It is the fantastic atmosphere, and the romantic air. It's the people and the dresses, the church and the smell of confetti. It's the promise and the organ.

I shall NEVER marry again, but my wedding day was the best day of my life. I was bursting with happiness. My dress was spectacular. My vicar was caring. My vows were felt. My in-laws were lovely. My church, for which I had worked and given so much of my time, was positively groaning under the weight of the orange flowers, and the sun came through the coloured glass and split into a myriad of even more colours.

My husband was smiling for the first time in months. I was in love.

I digress, as usual.

Why not. I am brilliant as an arm-candy. I love dressing up and am an impossibly vibrant primadonna - after the bride, of course, and her parliament of girls.

'I shall come with you, on two conditions: one, that you DO NOT take my acceptance as evidence that you can ask me out again. This is strictly a one-off. And two: the minimum distance between you and I, regardless of levels of alcohol consumption, will always be enough for a small child to sit comfortably in the middle.'

Or words to that effect.

All was agreed within an hour. Being far away will also stop me from having the temptation to drive somewhere else.

Then Mr Friend texted who the wedding-ees were.

Oh fuck.

Best friends of Mr Single. I have just burnt all bridges with him.

Now he will think I rejected him because I had another man lined up.

What were the chances of that coincidental link? How many bleeping people live in Bedfordshire and Kent?

I am still going. I have just the killer dress for it and sod Mr Single.

I can't.

Sometimes the sweeties

Glitter

But I am tired

Of eating the wrappers

Regular readers of this blog will know that I live with one of my two boys during the week, and the other the following week. I have both at the weekend, every other weekend. It works for everyone, my estranged husband is fully involved with their care, they get a lot of individual attention, and everyone is happy.

It's like living with a partner, in a way. Only better.

My little boy's personal hygiene is impeccable. I taught him.

He will eat virtually anything, and compliment me regularly on my cooking. And I know he is not lying to please me.

He will wear what I wish him to wear (well, up to a point. I have not persuaded him that the Simpsons PJs are not really that cool).

He will not stamp his feet on the passenger well every time I am going too fast round the corner, or comment on my driving. There has been the occasional 'papa' says that you do not pay any attention to the road, other cars or your own', but that is second-hand behaviour and I take no notice.

He will go to bed and read only if I ask him to.

He will look at me in my purple dressing gown and glasses, smile and tell me I am beautiful.

We will discuss cars, and he will ASK for my opinion rather than dismissing it.

He makes me breakfast, at least occasionally. Not coffee yet, but then again boiling hot water, a kettle and a small child are not items to mix carelessly.

If we sleep together, either because he is feeling fragile, or because I am, he will never push me away, or kick me and hiss 'you are snoring'.

He will get off the table and kiss me for the hell of it. Chocolate sauce notwithstanding.

He will NEVER say he is tired.

He will be protective of me without embarrassing me.

He will make me paper airplanes called 'Mamma Force One'.

Mind you, I still wipe his bottom.

It's lovely to be needed, isn't it?

He cocks his head on one side, looking at me.

It always makes me feel nervous, as if he were judging me. Which he does, of course. Children always judge. Sometimes, they even forgive.

'You know what?'

'No. What?' I say, sighing. I point at the toothbrush and repeat, for the eighth time: 'you need to brush your teeth.'

'You are the best mamma in the world. Just a bit...'

Just a bit...I wait.

'Shout-ish.'

Shoutish.

I smile, and then laugh. I am shoutish.

The same way I am insecurish, mixed-upish, lowish, tenderish, etc...

But never loving-ish.

Always, always just 'loving'.

Breathless.

Heart beating so fast it becomes a long, uninterrupted thump.

Cold, cold hands. Can't feel my fingers.

I think it was a panic attack.

Brought on by nothing.

I puzzle myself.

We read, in bed. I kissed his little forehead.

'Did you have a nice weekend, sweetie?'

'mmmmmm'

'Did you?'

'Well, yes, I did. I suspect mine was better than yours.'

My boys spent yesterday with little friends. Today, we found a slice of afternoon with an avaricious sun pulling faces from behind the clouds; the water slide in the garden made them scream with both cold and delight.

Eight, next month. They do see so much.

When I was eight my father beat my mother up quite regularly. She never asked me how my weekend had been.

My weekends were awful.

USING ONLY ONE WORD Not as easy as you might think! !

Where is your mobile phone?
close

Your significant other?
who?

Your hair?
witchy

Your mother?
forgiven

Your father?
poor

Your favourite thing?
chocolate

Your dream last night?
wet

Your favourite drink?
quenching

Your dream/goal?
improve

What room are you in?
mine

Your hobby?
living

Your fear?
desperation

Where do you want to be in 6 years?
together

Where were you last night?
far

Something that you aren't?
sensible

Muffins?
please

Wish list item?
peace

Last thing you did?
read

What are you wearing?
nothing

TV?
never

Your pets?
children

Friends?
missing

Your life?
new

Your mood?
fragile

Missing someone?
always

Drinking?
no

Smoking?
did

Your car?
Alfa

Something you're not wearing?
mask

Your favourite store?
antiques

Your favourite colour?
orange

When is the last time you cried?
Yesterday

Where do you go to over and over?
past

Five people who email me regularly?
friends

My favourite place to eat?
mine

Favourite place I'd like to be at right now?
mine

It was Pest n.1's turn to feel fragile. He has clumsy, un-endearing ways to show it, and I flipped more often and more explosively than a clown all day yesterday.

He slept in my bed.

Little body. Sweet breath. Hair smelling of young age and season.

A light hug which did not bother either of us, all night.

Today, perfect behaviour.

Unfortunately, it is my turn to feel fragile.

So close. So close to undoing things, unstitching efforts.

Maybe I shall be going to his bed tonight, and pretend I wet mine.

I stopped by at the old family home to collect other pieces of me, tonight.

Pest n.1 was still in his uniform, handsome and with a toothless smile. Eating rubbish, spending boys' time with his father.

Pest n.2 had come out of my car to say hello to his brother.

Within five minutes, Pest n.1 told me that he would very much like to come back home to mine, tonight.

I can't do that. It is not my 'turn', and I don't want to tip the precarious balance. Neither can I watch him dissolve in tears. But I do.

I do, I do, I do. Tears bigger and bigger, hugs to his brother tighter and tighter.

Two little heads together, close as they've never been before. Shoes at the ready and trying to sneak into my car.

More tears. More distress.

My fault. Entirely and unequivocally. I shouldn't have dropped by during the week. I shall have both of them from tomorrow, but in the life of a child tomorrow is an eternity too far. No matter how I mutter my pathetic excuses, they are inconsolable.

I shouldn't have dropped by. I shouldn't have left. I shouldn't have decided. I shouldn't have felt.

But I do. Stone me. Pest n.2 hit out in the car, with his little fists on my arm, my lap, my shoulder. Stone me. I deserve it. Not because they cried and they are in pain. But because I will still go back to my place and feel it was the right thing to do.

I am sure that the feeling must be reciprocal.

I bore a man's children, married him, and lived with him for eight and a half years and yet....

I do not know him at all.

Among the many ghosts, dark shadows and memories from the past, an unknown creature.

The projection of me in his own world must be infernal.

Mr Single got in touch. You, my friends, know that. Some of you will have followed the tortuous ways of that relationship in my other blog, and told me in no uncertain terms where Mr Single should stick his attitude.

I was in pain for a while. Although, looking back, I was in pain as whatever Mr Single broke inside me only added to the pile I already nurse and carry with me, wherever I go. Mr Lost. Mr Estranged Husband. One I loved. The other loved me.

I made it very clear, with Mr Single, that I would cautiously welcome him back into my life but on different terms: that he felt 'inadequate' and 'unreliable' was something HE would have to deal with rather than wait for me to reassure him of the contrary.

I have seen him a few times, and there has been silence in between. Some men do not learn. Taking things slowly does not mean occasional meals together and a desert of communication wedged in the middle. If that's the way Mr Single thinks my heart is going to remember how it felt before, then he may be a little wrong.

Nowadays I know I can have, and deserve, more. Far more. More depth. More space filled with attention, and care. Nowadays, my 'terms' matter as much as the other person's.

Paradoxically, it has made me appreciate another man's efforts, the little messages which support the fragile bridge between two people who have not yet crossed it together.

I closed the door behind Mr Single, tonight, and felt that he doesn't want to visit my universe; he wants to look at it from the outside. Occasionally. He does not listen to me; he merely understands what I say. He doesn't even LIKE me that much; but I can be, to him, and from time to time (his time to time) a touch more vivacious than other women.

If I am to see a man for any length of time, he needs to hold my attention, perfectly and effortlessly. I need to fit in his hands. I need to be important. My thoughts must speak loud and clear in his ears. He must want to read my books, know my fears and feel my weaknesses. He must love despite, and not because.

I want to see a reflection of me in a man's eyes, and think I am beautiful.

Over to you, boys and girls.

There is truth and there is fiction. I am asking you how much, if any, of what I wrote in the last two days is true.

To toy, to tease, the please and to acquiesce. To love and obey in the only way Christianity should have meant, when promising on the altar.

He has indeed 'hemmed me here', and I am the ivory pale, and within this circuit I shalt be the park and he shalt be the deer.

I, of the many keys and the many tastes, of the many capricious places which wish to hide and be found. I, of the many wants and the many needs, of forgotten music and forbidden body.

For those many keys he has the will, the power and the curiosity. He has the hundred fingers and the thousand tries, the right organ to play mystic tunes I did not know I could hum.

Taken in more ways than I could adapt to, and alive in more ways I can breathe in.

But despite having my ears full of voices, requests and needs to fulfil needs, it is only when he kisses me that I long to be released.

I wrap my legs around his hips and we kiss deeper, in more ways than one.

The feeling is not unlike that of a body of water being unleashed from behind a dam. I have struggled with dams for an eternity: in my mind, in my soul, and in my heart.

The simple act of belonging removes all barriers.

He will always have more of me than anybody else.

My wrists and ankles were made to be tied. They are small and slender, yet strong and wilful. If I really wanted to, I could come untied, albeit with some effort.

My body may find its position and surroundings new and daunting, but it's fit and supple, and deals with being attached to an uncomfortable cross as well as it can. I wriggle and arch, moan and hiss like an angry feline, but do not tug hard enough to feel any pain.

For a few minutes, I feel his presence in front of me, watching, thinking. Then that silence again. The heavy silence before new ideas, and my new challenges.

My body tenses like the string of a crossbow.

Despite being alert and ready, the cold takes my breath away, and I whimper.

A compress, perhaps. Or gel, or liquid. Or maybe it's not cold, it's so hot that my skin does not register reality any more. The absurdity of opposites. Contraddictions... the binary language of sensuality.

I can't tell. All I know is that his fingers are close, oh, so close, to that triangle for which men have launched a thousand ships and killed a million rivals.

Hot or cold? I cannot answer. My eyes cannot tell me, my body will not.

'What are you doing to me?'

It is not a real question, nor a pleading. When the words come out, they sound as warm and rich as mahogany.

What they really mean is, of course, 'do some more. Do as you will please.'

I was born to please.

Have you ever undressed for someone else?

No... I don't mean to take your clothes off as the other person does the same, each concentrating on the other, a body against your body, your breath mixing with theirs, your clothes in a messy pile or scattered with their clothes... No.

I mean, to undress FOR someone else. To take your items of clothing off, one by one, in your own time, and be painfully aware of your body, as the other person does nothing else but stare?

Add a new dimension to that: to be blindfolded and to undress for a person who is in the same room as you, but whose exact location is not known. I cannot look seductively at the man as I peel my stockings off. I cannot smile coyly as I remove my top and run my hands down the lacy bra, the lacier knickers.

I must conjure up the sensuality of it, all my myself, and without help; it comes from within and speaks a louder voice than fear. To undress without visual support reduces you to a basic creature talking the language of sex without its grammar.

I drop my clothes to the floor and stand in my underwear. I am aware of the noises around me but do not turn towards them.

He runs his fingers between the soft flesh of my round hips and the elastic band of my panties, gently. When he pulls towards him, I hear the sound of the fabric ripping, and a ripple of excitement runs through me like electricity.

The further away from my control, the faster the action: busy fingers around the clasp of my bra, digging into my back. I am suddenly more naked than I have ever been simply because I cannot see me without clothes.

One's fantasies are always more powerful.

The push catches me unaware. I stumble and fall backwards but do not remember to cry out. My back hits a flexible structure, which takes my weight with a slight creak. I am no longer standing but leaning back against something with the warmth and the smell of old wood.

'Spread your legs,' the voice says. 'As wide as you can.'

I ask my body to perform the movements and feel as if it belonged to someone else. Expert hands position and tie up limbs which have so far only obeyed me. The ligaments are soft but unyielding.

Spreadeagled and exposed.

I remember the question: 'Do you wish to stop?'

But all I can think of, and ask myself, is: 'how many people are here in this room, and what is going to happen to me?'

Curiosity plays a big part in the game of life. Sexual longing plays even a bigger one.

I... am... soaked.... with my own desire.

I stand somewhere unknown and blindfolded. I feel him in the same room with me, but where am I?

Then I hear a noise just behind me. The assumption that we were alone leaves me.

Time stands still. And although I am still fully clothed, I have never felt more naked.

‘Do you want to stop?’

The metallic voice runs its synthetic claws on my back.

Within this universe, I am not in control, although I am ultimately in control of whether to be in it.

I shake my head slowly. No... I don’t want to stop.

He drives for what feels like ages. There is no conversation. Nor does he touch me. I spend that time feeling control ebbing away from me and my body. I have no ideas or thoughts bar this basic perception of me as a separate entity without a will.

Sensory deprivation. I think that's what he whispered on the phone when I had the potty idea of offering to do anything he wanted me to do.

And there I was, thinking he'd make me belly-dance in the local pub.

When the car eventually stops, he gets out from his side and walks to my door. I hear it open and feel the cold air.

'Come out. I shall help you. Don't ask questions, just follow the instructions. You can stop this any time.'

I wonder whether there is pain involved, but I do not ask.

I stand, blind and straight, somewhere outside. Briefly, I wonder whether people may be able to see me, my black-and-white top and painted-on leggings. My thigh-high boots. The black blindfold. My fear.

There is no denying that I am scared. I do not know this man well, and am at his mercy. Nobody knows I am here tonight; not that I have any idea of where I am.

He takes my arm, and directs me, steps and stairs, doors open and shut behind us. Distant dogs bark at the madness of people.

'Where are we?' I ask myself, as I know I shan't get an answer from him.

He sits me on what feels like a bench and leaves me there. Minutes push each other and argue their knitting of time. I breathe heavily. I think nothing.

'Come.'

The voice is new. I am startled.

'Come now.'

Computer-generated. The voice. For some odd reason, it is then that I realise that the game is now truly on, and that I have a big part in it. A serious game; a contraddiction in terms.

'Take your clothes off. Slowly.'

We get into his car. By now the night has lowered her skirts.

I notice he has a little bag with him, but he puts it on the back seats so I can't see the contents.

We drive off; he is a good, fast driver, and holds the steering wheel with the confidence of someone who knows and tames his cars.

A short trip. Some countryside lanes. We get to a large clearance in the middle of what looks like a forest. Rough terrain. A few cars parked in the distance, their silhouettes darker than dark.

'Where are we?' I ask, breaking the silence.

'No questions. Just do as you are told. I want you to wear this.'

He produces a blindfold from nowhere. A large black fabric blindfold. I have heard of this, but never seen one. I smile in the dark despite myself.

'You are not serious.'

'I am dead serious. Wear it now.'

He puts it on my eyes and around my head, tying it at the back. I grimace, although it is now so dark outside that the blindfold makes little difference. I hear some rustling. More props from the bag?

The screeching noise of tape being pulled and cut. In the silence of the cabin, it almost echoes in my head. He secures the blindfold with tape, and smoothes it out. Now I really cannot see a thing.

'I am going to leave you in the car now, for a little while. I do not want you to take that off, or come out of the car. Is that clear?' His voice is not unkind, but very firm.

I nod. The door opens and shuts with a thud. The silence in the car is thicker than the darkness. Steps outside the car, dying in the distance.

I can hear myself breathe.

It could be two minutes, it could be longer. He comes back smelling of the outdoors; I wish I could reach out and touch him, but I don't dare.

When he drives away, I suddenly feel as if I had left my sense of balance in the open space, the last geographical reference my brain hangs on to. The car swerves and lurches, then finds the path. I scramble and dissolve in my confusion.

It is a very erotic experience, this sudden loss of control. To be completely at the mercy of another person is the strangest feeling of exhilaration and fear, all compacted into a bouncy ball of excitement.

'Where are we going?' I ask.

He does not answer.

It is the promise, the promise I made, which dictates the rhythm of my day; words which I have never pronounced before. I busy myself with the usual chores so familiar to separated parents: 'I need his socks and school uniform'... 'bring me the swimming gear'... 'when are you going to collect the rest of your stuff'... 'don't be late on Sunday'... 'remember he has been a little under the weather'... The coming and going between two houses and two lives. Little faces behind the windows of cars disappearing into the distance.

I shall be late.

The cake. I forget the cake. A chocolate birthday cake. Redundant and yet decadent, dripping with chocolate cream and chocolate shavings, soft and yielding and full of promise.

Like me.

I am late and yet it is still light when I turn up. The house leans against its terraced companion, groaning with age and arthritic with stairs. Scarlet and violet fabrics swoop and dance to the breeze: the windows are open but there is a rather heavy air inside, as if the house itself were expecting something, or someone. My car's engine sings its last notes into the alley, and goes obediently quiet.

He waits at the door holding two flutes.

Champagne and cranberry juice.

I carefully put my arms around his neck, holding the glass. My eyes narrow.

'What have you got in store for me?' I ask. I know the answer.

'You'll have to wait.'

'I have no patience.'

'Tough. You will do as you are told. That's the deal.'

'That is the deal,' I repeat grumpily. 'But how long do I have to wait?'

'Until it's dark.'

I look through a gap between the gothic curtains. Two elusive cats swing in and out of my legs, purring. A smudge of light is still staining the sky.

'What if I should want you now?' I ask the question more to tease than because I mean it. The champagne is strong and I have not eaten all day. As I finish the drink, my head lifts, lighter than before.

'Then you may ask me, and I may or may not take you.'

'Please.' I sound like a petulant child.

He takes the glass from me and places it carefully on top of the mantelpiece. Between two spent shells from WWI.

'Go upstairs. Now, and quickly, before I change my mind.'

He pushes me, neither kindly nor carelessly. I find myself facing the steep stairs of the ancient house, and they smell of age and the many steps of people who are no longer there.

He is behind me, his hands on my hips. By the time I am in his bedroom, my shoes have been left behind, poised on the stairs, and my panties are a black exclamation mark on the floor.

He takes me quickly, leaving no room for negotiations or my own pleasure. Under the weight of his body and his hands I fold and unfold like a story told many times. He leaves me longing and wanting, still wearing my top. 'Get dressed,' he says briskly. 'We have things to do.'

'Do you know what day it is today?'

That's the way it started. A text. His.

'No.'

'Oh dear.'

'Don't tell me....'

'Yes.'

'Your birthday? Can't be.'

'It is. And nobody knows.'

'What a shame I am not there to help you celebrate.'

'Maybe you should.'

'I sure would know how to.'

'Then come over.'

'I have no present... unless...' I hesitate.

'....unless?'

The word hangs in his text, pregnant with expectations.

'I bring myself as a present.'

'What do you mean?'

'I am going to present you with me... doing anything you would like me to do, for one night.'

'Anything at all?'

'Anything.'

I am throwing a little idea here... I shall be writing about my weekend as a free, single girl. Your challenge will be to work out whether ANY of what I am going to write is true. I shall PM the one who is the closest to the truth.

The bad news is... there is no prize, bar the satisfaction of knowing that you were right.

The post will be called 'Restrain me', and will be public. It might be spilling over two or three posts, as my mood takes me. So to speak.

Sod that. How many people are going to read it?

Have you ever wondered.... if I were a member of the opposite sex, would I date myself?

I pondered over that last night. Went out for dinner, great company, surprisingly delightful food too. For a start, I am becoming convinced that a large part of attraction between two people is simply down to how much the other may fancy you. You like your reflection in their eyes, and it gets absorbed in your perception of the other.

I have little self-control but a stronger sense of 'roles'. As a woman, if I fancied someone violently I'd be sick at the idea that they may not reciprocate, but I would be incapable of 'chasing' to find out.

If I were a man, though...

I sit at the table and look at the woman I have taken out for dinner. I have a decadent penchant for red hair and hers is outlandishly long, a little old-fashioned, perhaps. Because she has not bothered to put it up or indeed style it in any way, it falls and curls, heaping up rather than just brushing against the edge of the table when she leans over to talk to me.

I like women with happy curves and narrow waists, full breasts and small feet and hands. She has narrow long fingers and is a touch too slim: the lace tantalising onlookers from the top of her blouse (she is wearing a formal suit with a very short skirt) does not hold the mounds and secret grooves I was fascinated with when I was a child.

The legs, though... The eternal legs stretching under the table, a torture for me as I sit opposite her, snaking out towards my loins, so close to my knees, so near my hands.

I could reach down and and out for the ankles and the high heeled sandals.

And yet it is not the sinful red shoes she is wearing. Nor the matching lipstick.

It's the volcanic vitality. I get lost in it, bounce off it in a crescendo of exhilarating verbal sparring. She is moody and prickly but not volatile.

I am on my toes all the time and get a perverse pleasure out of it, as if she continuosly reminded me that I have toes in the first place.

Yes. If I were a man I would have kissed the exotic and held the spirit in my arms, for as long as I could: she burns but I like the heat. I just don't know how long I can stay before being reduced to cinders.

I need attention like other people need air.

Forever missing. Forever single.

It is not that I limit myself to metaphors related to cars for lack of imagination. I truly feel an affinity with cars; well, for a certain breed of cars.

In that light, I need soaping, rinsing, drying, polishing and shining. I want a breathless ride through the woods and yet love pottering about town. I can sit on your drive and be admired but the engine is always ready to fire up and take you places. Quick spins round the block are pointless: I'll rust away.

More attention, more care. More use, more love. To know I can return whatever is lavished upon me a thousand times is more frustrating to me than anybody else who is not aware.

A garage that will fit. An owner who will too. Until then, my dials may only blink in the dark.

I never thought I'd compare myself to a barn find.

'I like being here', says my son. No, let me qualify that: 'I like being here', pipes up my son, bouncing up and down, twisting his legs, skipping around, and flapping his arms. Pest n.1 does not do 'quiet' behaviour.

I am not sure why he said that. I let him go to the local shop on the high street on his own. Well, that's what he thought. I followed him from a distance, and checked what he was doing. When he came out of the shop, he looked that way.... and I approved. Any time now... Any time... Any time he IS going to look THIS way....

No.

He happily skipped across the road WITHOUT looking this way. I pounced upon him like a tiger with a headache.

'What on earth do you think you are doing? How many times have I told you how to cross the road! You look BOTH WAYS!!!'

My checking from a distance would not have stopped him from getting run over. Clever mother that I am. I also did not stop him from buying 14 sweets and spend his £1.40 on rubbish.

'Maaaaamma-ah!' he shouts from just outside the kitchen. I am stirring the chicken soup.

Bang. Flop.

The foam bullet he has just shot at me from his toy gun lands in the soup.

'Arghhhhhh', I gurgle in distress. And shout. Loud. You know... the Italian way.

When I turn to the soup, though, to retrieve the bullet, I am holding my shoulders trying not to show I am giggling. The bullet is floating in the soup, a big fat yellow foamy sausage.

'Yes, I like it here.'

'But I shout at you.'

'I learnt to cross the road. I don't know everything. I will do it properly next time. And I like it here because the house is small but you are very nice. So it doesn't matter.'

This morning I thought I was a bad mother.

Tonight I think I am invincible.

I drove so fast even the car was breathless. The bus stop felt a universe away. My son sat with his bag on his knees and counted the minutes like an over-zealous co-driver.

An exciting start to the week. We got there in time. I saw his little bare legs climb the steep steps of the bus, a small face turning to look at me and wave. Perhaps it was the adrenaline. I felt scared.

I did a little prayer, for the first time in months.

My sons. Sometimes I worry I am not good enough for them. Fast enough, yes. But not good enough.

I did consider watching the GP.

Then I baked bread, supervised my boys washing the car (with a hose, and sponges the size of Canada, and a bucket the size of a thimble); fought with the hose itself and the many attachments - I am not practical, you do remember don't you? Popped chicken in the oven, clothed with potatoes and colourful things my children will eat when the gun makes its appearance at the table, pointing at their forehead.

Four weeks in my new home, and I am almost perfectly self-sufficient.

Oven gloves still missing. Can't really keep using the rim of my skirt, and it is rather too short to reach the tray.

Now waiting for the icecream van. More eagerly then boys themselves.

The GP... It would have been nice to watch it, for a change. But I shall survive without it. I can always ask Mr Single to give me updates.

I had not thought of Mr Estranged Husband's blog for a while. It was a conversation with someone that brought it up; my interlocutor thought it was written by a man who is articulate, intelligent, and very much in love with me.

'You should have made more of an effort to save the marriage', he said to me.

But I did. I really believe I did. I also believe that no matter how solid my reasons to leave, there is something untouchable about the person who is left behind to pick up the pieces. The one 'in love'. I fell 'out' of love. He found himself 'in', after I had already left, in my mind and in my heart if not in person.

The logic of a person in love has the terse validity of a child's. No matter how wrong they may be, one cannot help but cave in to the sweetness and hopelessness of it all. Inappropriate as it may be to the outsider's eye, the point of view of the one in love always wins hands-down against the one who leaves. Reasons notwithstanding.

I am woman enough to go through the same kind of questions too regularly to mention it. Did I do the right thing? Could I have put up with this, and that, and the other?

That I should express relationship issues as something to 'put up with' is a sign, of course. However, compromise dilutes bitter lumps.

My problem is that I no longer believe there should be bitter lumps. As I said before, I want the fairytale.

I could have stayed.

And I would have had the occasional lover, coming back home dirtier and dirtier, more and more desperate in my search for not the One, but myself.

That my articulate, intelligent, reliable and loving husband should not be able to nurture the Me in the Menage is possibly hardly his fault. I should have been capable of doing that for myself.

Nowadays, though, I think that the right person is the one in whose company 'Me' comes naturally, like eating and drinking. Like loving sex, without blue movies in the background. The right person should not need any encouragement or effort, bar the daily, minuscule ones we make for those who mean a lot to us.

When the effort feels legendary, it is time to accept there are doors which do not open at will, nor shut deliberately.

My Estranged Husband's blog is beautiful and makes me, and my writing, look egocentric and vain. The difference, of course, being that love has a knack for being exactly that, egocentric and vain, but never show it as blatantly as non-love does.

I may be shallow. But I am not in love.

Courtesy of NonBob, I tried the 'what font are you' quiz.

Apparently I am IMPACT.

While you make your presence known, your message is a bit fuzzy.
You are not the easiest person to understand, and you're not one for details."

Oh dear. All probably correct, apart from the bit re. 'details'. I am very much one for details. Or am I?

'I don't think you know, and how to tell you, Lu.'

First phone call. I am busy at work, my mind on many different items, weaving in and out of important people's egos.

That gets my attention though. I am not sure why. Maybe it's the hesitation in this person's voice.

'You know someone who was on the AirFrance plane.'

Do I?

I lazily listened to the names being called out, in the news. Because we always think... when this happens... do I know anybody who was there? Not believing it, of course. Just thinking it.

I had not heard any name that sounded familiar.

I missed it.

The man whose job I got, all those years ago. Kind, and good at what he did. I did not find it hard to follow into his footsteps. They were larger than mine, but so different. Journalists learnt to recognise my voice, and my accent, very quickly. He went on to better, higher things.

I think of him, and the memories of him, crushed in the metal.

It's made me wary of mortality in the way only having children can make you. Closer to home, everything burns hotter.

I thought planes fell through the sky and crashed only on TV, like they do in movies. Not really. Not in my reality. I thought that when I am not looking, plane crashes uncrumple themselves and soar up in the clouds again.

Not now. Not now that he was there, and is no longer.

I have not cried.

I pick the delicate lace from my drawer, this morning; it hangs from my finger, pale pink, a colour not dissimilar from what you sometimes see on the inside of young bark. A simple triangle of nothing-fabric, and thin strips at the sides.

My knickers.

I never wondered by I would wear something which is so blatantly NOT there. So useless at its job, and yet so perversely good at it. It holds nothing, it covers nothing. It is both coy and supremely naughty.

I don't even wonder why I wear it, when it is so clear that I only do it for myself; no other spectators being involved, actively or passively.

I adore underwear. The difficult one to find, not too saucy and not too plain. The kind which is only really sexy if the wearer wants it to be.

Today, I do.

I have a magic fridge;

It is full of the juicy tokens

I collect for my rainy needs

But every time I open the door

It looks like a De Chirico painting

I have been without the boys since Wednesday night. Father's turn. The house is oddly quiet; there is no mess and I can get ready and leave for work in half an hour flat.

It will be a good, sunny weekend with a couple of lie-ins factored in.

I am ashamed to say that I do not feel guilty at all about being child-free.

I look at all the sweeties in front of me and hesitate so much I'll probably leave the shop with an empty bag.

One day, in the complete mess that I surround myself with (and I am talking of the physical variety), I shall find the digital camera and take a photo of the cabinets, beds and various pieces of furniture that I have virtually ruined my witchy fingernails on. Built them. Use them. Am proud of them. They wobble because I am not strong enough to tighten those screws. But they are mine.

One day I shall take photos of the dishwasher which was connected by the guy who fitted my alarm because I had no idea about flexy-plugs. And which is too small for my dinner plates.

One day I shall show you the tumble dryer which does not dry but cloaks the utility room in damp dust.

Or the rotten skirting boards of the ancient kitchen.

One day my back will be supple again and I shall take a photo of my tanned legs as I stretch in the garden, in the sun. With my kind neighbour cutting the grass with his mower, as I do not own one.

I shall bring into blogland the television set with just four channels and the Playstation III which broke my bank but mended my guilt. All connected and fitted by another friend who drove an hour from Leicester to help me out. And only had a cup of coffee here (the biscuit tin was empty).

I am lonely but not alone. Sometimes I am alone but not lonely.

Most people are so nice to me that I am starting to think they may quite like me. Unthinkable until recently.

Even my boys hug tighter, and smile wider.

Time to feel pretty. And give out what I got. That's the way it's always worked.

I loved school.

My friends,

I am connected.

Now, it may seem to you a small thing; yet another person hooking up onto cyber-world. And one who is so used to being online!

However, all is not as simple or obvious as that.

I am connected because I WANTED to. I chose the carrier. I paid the bill. I selected the deal. I took delivery of the bloody thing. And I set it up. All by myself.

For someone who doesn't even know where the plugs are in this house, I would say that is a major achievement. I did contemplate begging someone to help.

Hell, I even contemplated asking Mr Single to help. He is, after all, very good with computers. What a splendid excuse: distressed, in need, and in a house all by myself... With a computer and a hot hub....

But I didn't. I read through the instructions and I was so determined to 'connect' without 'connecting' to anybody else that I folded my aching body onto the floor and forgot my bad back. Well, until now.

So, here I am. Determined, independent, and connected. Scared of men, maybe. But not of computers.

I am so proud of myself I could pour that glass of champagne, if only I had a bottle.

There isn't much point in being on a dating site if every time I meet a man I feel like running very fast in the opposite direction.

It is nothing to do with the men; I have not met many and I have been very careful about my choices.

It's me.

Now, I have always hated the "it's not you, it's me" ubiquitous escape route.

In my case, though, it is simply true.

I have now terminated membership and will hide the profile as soon as I work out how to do it properly.

Then I can sink into my massive bed all by myself, and wonder why I may feel lonely but do absolutely nothing to address that.

Even a text which would have given me palpitations a month ago has just made me feel more keenly a sense of loss, instead of spurring me into action. I have never courted a man, and am unlikely to do so; but I am more likely to keep talking to one if I do not feel it is going to blossom into a meeting.

How can I expect anybody to understand me, if I don't understand myself?

Pest n.1 scuttled downstairs, leaving the huge bed where the three of us had been pretending to sleep, since six o'clock this morning. We had an argument last night, and I was still sore with memories; he was probably sore with the slap I gave him. I did not leave five fingers on his face, but a slight hue of red. I was ashamed but robustly angry too: it was not a question of simple misbehaviour, but of safety, and he had risked his little brother's life.

I heard crushing and banging, picturing little busy fingers finding tools and ingredients, places and quantities. I resisted the temptation to storm the kitchen and supervise.

'Come, mamma! Cooooomeeeee!' we heard. Pest n.2 and I climbed down the stairs gingerly. Breakfast was ready. A superb display of a seven-year-old's cunning ability to reach where he couldn't and make up for what he didn't.

So I am being looked after by my first son. And kissed by my second.

Does it really get any better than this? I even got Pest n.1's forgiveness thrown in for good measure.

Men should learn from my children. Nobody treats me better than they do.

The radiator in the bathroom leaks a black sooty constant trickle. I have ruined my favourite towel and put endless buckets under it. The boiler is being changed (the leak may be part of the work, or a consequence to it) and we have had no hot water or heating for three days.

My back snapped two days ago and I have been carefully arranging myself in bed after spending my waking hours bent in two. Not a pretty site.

Things have been, shall we say, challenging at work. The wrong sort of challenging. Not the one that makes you want to soar and deal with it, calling in all your best assets, knowledge and savoir faire.

I am not an admin girl. Never will I be. I merely make the best out of the worst I have to do.

It's like eating mash potatoes with one's toes. Messy, pointless and excruciatingly painful (with a bad back).

I can have 'no' days too.

Another strange thing about starting a single woman's life is the puzzling phenomenon I am experiencing, and which I can only describe as 'closing the doors'.

I have been busy texting ghosts from the past. Not to offer my newly found singledom at the altar of their selfishness. No, not at all. Or even to compare selfish behaviour, since I know I have been selfish too. I have texted to achieve closure; I cannot open new doors unless others behind me are firmly shut. I no longer hold a grudge or resentment, though I have been a prisoner for a long time. I need to turn back and wave and smile before I can look ahead, alone or with a partner.

It is cleansing. I froze the good memories and discarded the bad ones. I shall never be friends with people who have hurt me, especially as I did not reciprocate the pain. And a small part of me still thinks... Your loss.

I am convinced I have gone back in time. A time when I was younger - but just in my mind: for some odd and inexplicable reasons, my body does not seem to have aged all that much.

Diet? Genes? I shall never know. Perhaps a little of the Dorian Gray (can never remember whether it's spelt with an 'a' or and 'e') spirit. There ARE photos of me I do not show...

Back to the plot. I am physically ageless and mentally regressed. Fitter than ever, apart from an aching back due to my shifting furniture on my own. Big, heavy furniture. I have dainty hands and arms.

Mentally, though... I have shed about ten years. The single woman's life, it does that to you. The thrill of having nothing in the fridge and not caring a jot; not being able to find matching bra and knickers and flipping the washing basket upside down like a little girl looking for a toy.

Going to be disgustingly late. Drag myself to work disgustingly late.

With the extra gift of a little face asleep in the big bed, and the most loving company in the morning (for breakfast) and in the evening (between swearing at the TV which doesn't work and the homework I don't know how to help with).

We split the boys, and they spend a week each with each of us. We swap the following week. Everybody gets an inordinate amount of attention, and I have not seen a single tantrum yet.

I have a little friend; with a sore back, the seven-year-old has done the shopping for me, from choosing items - I found far too many crisps in the shopping trolley - to packing them and putting them into the boot of my aging but fast car.

Even being locked out of the house last night did not water the enthusiasm down; we did the homework inside the car, whilst waiting for the landlord to find the missing key. We ate apples and crunched on chocolate. We had a bath together (not enough hot water for two separate ones).

Maybe my boys keep me young in a way they never did when we were one big happy family.

Or maybe doing exactly what I want to do with my private life does it.

Now all I need is a good man. A bonus, not a pre-requisite for fulfilment.

He touches me with the dexterity of an experienced lover, or a very sensitive one. But I want to be touched with the impossible ability of a man who loves me.

He makes me sing to his music, happily and willingly. But I want a man who will make music for me, not regurgitate existing material.

I fit in his hands perfectly; my hips cocooned between his thumbs, my strong thighs framing his body. When he pushes himself inside me, I remember the flicker of life I thought was exhinguished forever. I am not afraid to look into his eyes, nor he in mine.

when I leave I shall be deliciously sore, the simple act of sitting down reminding of higher pleasures through the maddening sharpness of pain. I like that kind of pain; it whispers of passion and inquisitive bodies, it spells out the private acts of a man and a woman who agree to find pleasure together regardless of boundaries.

Nevertheless, until I want to lose my poetic fragments in the right, yellowing pages of the prime book I am seeking, sex will only and always be just sex.

No connection at my new place. On a whim, I decide to visit the gym I have either avoided or longed for, without a chance to use, for the last three months.

Here I am sitting at the public computer, busily tapping away. Around me, tracksuits and sweaty trainers.

I am wearing a flared, short black dress and six-inch Bronxx heels.

I may look a little conspicuous. Although it's what I think, surely, that makes me... stand out a bit.

Naked eye. Naked mind.