Mexican stand-off

So, off he goes into the night to work off some aggression on the squash court, another day passed with women dogging his day. First me, anxious, twitchy and frankly grumpy about not having a job and fearful of being branded a substandard candidate (not shitly incompetent but not quite good enough). So, yes, I was twitchy and annoying even myself.

Poor Lizzy bore the brunt of it. "Mumma, can you play with me?", she asked for the 10th time since getting in from school, me ignoring the little girl who only wanted a companion to play horses at a birthday party with. "No. Go play elsewhere," I snapped, not looking away from the computer screen where a Hotmail message was slowly taking shape, a reply to a good friend at present literally tightening her own noose by indulging in a dangerously complacent extra-marital. Lizzy hung her head and walked off.

Oh, dear Lord, that awful feeling when all the whingeing and moaning, whingeing and moaning you did about your own 'self-obsessed', head in the clouds, deluded parents goes out the window and you find yourself behaving like a 'self-obsessed', head in the clouds, deluded parent. I ran after her. "I'm sorry Pop," I say genuinely, striding into the spare room where she is perched on the edge of the bed looking blankly at animated Justin from Something Special as he signs the word 'cow'. I crouch down and hug her. She smiles weerily, not taking her eyes from the TV, and I eventually sliver back over my own silvery slime into the dining room where my dreaded Hotmail reply lies waiting.

An hour later, however, Pop and I are thankfully back on top, folding pants carefully into her top drawer. We like this game for some reason, checking out whether it's indeed a princess or a butterfly that adorns the front as we stack each pair neatly onto the last.

Then tea-time comes and minced beef, taco shells, pots of chopped onions, salsa dip and grated cheese, tomatoes and guacamole are dished up by Owen, looking simultaneously fearsome, tired and dejected. Lizzy, on the other hand, is full of beans, not of the re-fried variety. "What's wrong?," I asked the head of the table, trying to be compassionate but knowing Victor Meldrew was not about to divulge. "Just don't even ask," he said firmly while at the same time making it understood it wasn't on this occasion my petulance or Lizzy's which had upset him.

Fiona. His first born. Gotta be. Ok, bearing in mind I've said before he has two children, it should be known he has a third. A 16-year-old bi-product of a one night stand in a high rise in Inverness. A blip in an otherwise exemplary record and one which didn't go down at all well with father-to-be's famille. And in comparison to the self confessed Mr Ultra Sensible, who rarely allows emotion to get in the way of a practical solution, the ultra volatile, angry teenager who's led like a lamb to the slaughter certainly doesn't seem to be chip off the old block. I've never met her as she is hundreds of miles away in Scotland but, from what I've been told, this pair may as well be different species.

This particular 'I'm at the end of my tether' moment had been a few days in the offing. Twenty-four hours earlier, Fiona had been turfed out of her rented accommodation for the young and displaced, needing a place to call their own and guidance on how to survive in the big, bad world. With a free bit of Christian preaching thrown in. She'd had a chance after being hurled out of her mother and Owen's ex' home six months earlier, a flat incidentally crammed full with lizards, cats and benefit forms, and was doing well at college on an agriculture and rural management course. She'd also given up the fags and

Girl, Interrupted

Today, yesterday and the day before were strange. I'm eerily content and in love. With the world. With Owen. With Lizzy. Contentment is a state of mind which leaves me suspiciously digging for danger, ruining the state of contentment in the process.

So hey, as a social experiment I'm going to see if I can actually get through this without too much paranoia. Who are you again?

Fire in the belly and volcanoes

"I'm a dreadful man manager, flighty and I'm recruiting because I have a very high turnover. Oh and I sacked a girl last week and generally my staff only stay three months." Ok, not the conventional way to sell your company, let alone a PR company, granted, but a way which obviously works for CJ, my potential new boss. Who completely put me off my stride by pointing out she was "soooo hungover" before we even sat down for interview.

But at least I relaxed. The MD of Proactive Communications was human, potentially a border line alcoholic and, due to impending acrimonious divorce (a titbit teased out during one of our many odd trains of conversation), teetering on the edge. I expected Alan Sugar, I got Eddy from Ab Fab. Without the garish clothes, wit or war paint. I stood 'at ease' with fire in my belly.

An hour earlier, the story was somewhat different. Quaking like a Parkinson's sufferer strapped into a giant cocktail shaker, I was terrified at the thought of meeting, well, anyone after being cooped up in the house for three months running my freelancing empire. Alone at a makeshift computer station in a solitary spare room with only magazine pics of semi-naked Jake Gyllenhaal, stuck crudely onto a pinboard, for company. Could be worse, I s'pose.

My pre-frontal cortex was flooded. Intimidation, humiliation, rejection, criticism. Negative emotions bounced over my brain wearing football spikes. Fraying hem at bottom of right trouser leg wasn't helping. "I look ok?" I asked Owen needily, desperately, slinging my bag containing portfolio of cuttings over my shoulder. "Yes, you look great. Now go!" he instructed. I opened the front door, walked to the car, walked back to the front door, opened it, went to the pinboard for hastily scrawled directions and out the front door again.

Fifteen minutes before interrogation time, I arrived at the bastion of environmentally-friendly developments, Epic House, a building covered with photo voltaics to absorb solar rays and generate power for 25,000 lightbulbs and 700 computers. 21st century commerce.

How do I know this? No, I didn't google the building, developer and car park attendant, as well as the firm itself, just to be on the safe side. The giant plasma screen in the corner of the desolate foyer, reminiscent of Gattaca, was installed solely to tell visitors how much the developer loved our planet. A bullet-pointed slide show saying "Epic House is built on a brownfield site" and "materials were sourced locally" helped demonstrate this.

Partly funded by the European Fund for Regional Economic Development, the primarily glass piece of contemporary architecture is dedicated to businesses dedicated to making a fortune from masking what they really do behind jargon. Namely, Public Relations firms and the like. Nine businesses to be exact reside there, renting a total of 25 offices. Of 500. Dodging the tumbleweed, I wondered, 'just how many plasma screens are there in this building, installed solely to demonstrate a commitment to saving the planet. And exactly how many photo voltaics are powering them?'

I eventually turned away when my potential new boss strode over in sensible black shoes, non-descript black skirt and white T-shirt covered by a threadbare black cardy. No make-up and puffy eyes that screamed "shut us, please, we can't take anymore." The body said professional but out of steam. I later discovered 72 hours a week at work was the norm.

"Hi, I'm CJ". she said. "Hi, I'm Pen". She shook my hand. As we navigated the stairs to the interview room, the empty canteen, she admitted she was a tad worse for wear. "I'm soooo hungover and realise I look a right mess." Ok. Don't say yeah or she'll think you think she looks a state. "Yeah, that's the good thing about working from home," I offered, jovially. "You can sound professional while wearing your pyjamas."

My attempt at a "hey, I can be your friend as well as a colleague" patter left her non-plussed, evident by her perfunctory "I see." We were into the zone of condescension. Good. Come on Pen, come on, I told myself, up your game. Think money, think respect, think gossip with people over 4.

After that, the interview went reasonably well. Aside from her strange attempts to convince me how horrid she was. Was she trying to impress me? And me stumbling like a dribbling chuwawa over the "On a scale of 1-10, how manageable are you?" question. I eventually worked out it was a trick, but only after muttering randomly for three minutes. "I'd say around 7-8, as I can be managed but can also effectively manage others?" I said, hopefully. The right answer.

Revealing I had a four-year-old daughter, however, was not as welcome news. "You're not old enough to have a child, surely," she asked. I smiled smugly, another reference to my not a day older than 23, youthful visage. It wouldn't be the last. "I'm 31," I said, in ready anticipation of the inevitable "never". "I realise that, but I'm older than you and I'm certainly not ready to have kids," came the actual repost. Ah. Cue thirty-something, 21st century career woman look of disgust and relentless quizzing. "But would you be able to work at a moment's notice?", "How would you feel about being away from your daughter all day?", "Do you think this job might affect your home life?" They came thick and furious. Why is it most female big cheeses give you hell when kids are part of the equation? Guess my response says it all. "No, it's not a problem, it'll be fine, I have kids club and my partner can step in at the drop of a hat." Might need to mention that to him.

Numerous masquerading-as-clever questions later such as 'do you think you are good worker?' (Uh, no, I think I'm pretty hopeless really - could I have that job now please?), I left for home to complete her press release writing task in anticipation of a second interview. Very confusing experience, all in all.

Home James and, to my delight, Lizzy was on top form, showing off her smiley sticker for good reading. Her feedback book is full of little gems from teacher, Mrs Wyatt, bringing to the fore the "my child's a true genius" parent in me. 'Lovely reading Lizzy, read all the words and used sounds and pictures to help her today, what a good girl.'

And I didn't know she could now see a word and read it back. Oh the pride. "So, can you read the word 'a' now?" I asked her. "Yes mumma," she answered excitedly. "Aaaaand how about 'an?". "Yes mumma," she offered again eagerly. "Aaaaaand what about.......'the?", I said, upping the ante. "Yes mumma", came the reply. I couldn't resist giving her a warm hug. "Good girl," I announced in head mistress fashion. "But mumma, what about volcano?" she asked, clearly frustrated. As I said before, the zone of condescension.

Feel the force Lizzy

Had a brief moment of Kill Bill panic tonight. Owen came bustling in the door after a day supping Yorkshire Tea and snuffling Custard Creams with flirtatious, botox-enhanced rich old dears and flew straight over to Lizzy in an enthusiastic gonna do the step dad bit and it's going to work whether she likes it or not fashion. Right then.

"Alllor Lizzeh, what you been oop to den?" he said, in what was actually, for a Scottish person, a marginally humorous Yorkshire accent. He was trying. Lizzy, in usual fashion when Owen tries this tack millimetres from her face and she's in the middle of watching Storymakers or Something Special, clamped her mouth tightly shut, turned her screwed up face away and began making traumatised mmm, mmm, mmm noises, eyebrows knitted, knees defensively round her ears.

The Beatrix Kiddo sound effect of impending vengeance resounded in my ears and, to my dismay, my own mother's words began to reverberate around my head. "I'm sick to death being piggy in the middle round here." I felt nauseous. "Lizzy," my subconscious cried. "Hear my voice, this is your Jedi master, Obi-Wan. Be nice, smile, feel the force. It is your destiny." "Mmmmmm, mmmmm, mmmm". Dejected, he was gone, off to the computer to check whether his own, the nine and four-year-old products of his own loins, the pair who whimper daily, "daddy, we miss you", are logged onto Messenger, whether there's any small hope of an impromptu webcam session.

I've been Lizzy, been the spanner in the proverbials, made my mother's relationship with her new fella more difficult solely because "he" wasn't my dad. And thoroughly enjoyed it. Loved seeing my stepdad squirm as I lit the candles around my REAL father's shrine in the corner of the bedroom, only just resisting the urge to throw up my hands and cry "father, why have thy forsaken thee."

Fifteen years passed before I relented but, these days, I'm pleased to say my stepdad and I are like peas and carrots, to coin a simplistic yet oh so perfectly astute turn of phrase. I genuinely wish, however, we could have had had this relationship much earlier on. With this in mind, I put Lizzy to bed and before Little Red Riding Hood, attempt to tell the story of my mummy, my daddy, step dad Thomas and me.

"There once was a girl called Penelope who had a sister called Kelly who had a mummy and daddy and they all lived in a happy house together. Then one day it was a SAD day (cue frown) and mummy and daddy said they didn't want to live with one another any more." The story continued with mummy wanting to live with another man, Penelope adamantly refusing to budge while sister built treehouses and sandcastles with new father figure, until the ultimate crowd pleaser, "Thomas and Penelope one day realised they could also have fun together and slowly learnt to love each other." (Applause).

I decided to go for broke and pop the question. "You know someone else who has a mummy and daddy who don't live together?" "No?", she said absent mindedly, inspecting instead deshevelled teddy Bunty's unfortunate mortar wound and escaping cotton wool balls. "How about someone beginning with L," I offered. "Lizzy!", she exclaimed, always incredibly proud of the fact she knows her name begins with the aforementioned letter. "And the man who lives with your mummy?". "Is it daddy?", she ventured hopefully. "No, try again," I said kindly. "Owen?". Yes. Finally. I waited for the growing realisation that there was a moral to the story and the fact there might actually be fun to be had. And there it was. The smile slowly crept across her cherub little face.

"Ni' Nite," I said, knowing exactly when enough was enough for one night, and pulled the pink daisy duvet up to her chin. "Ni' nite mumma," she smiled. "Sweet dreams," we both said. I kissed her forehead, pressed play on the CD player and let My Bonny lies over the Ocean begin to quietly filter across the room. Lights out and I made my way downstairs to a welcome glass of rich Ruby Cabernet and an aimless wander through cyberspace while Owen caught up with the European Championships.

Peace. Contentment. At last. Admittedly a few nerves before interview with PR firm tomorrow, but generally feeling calm. Soon sleep and dreams of writer's block on deadline while administering Calpol.

Midnight. I creep upstairs and quietly enter Lizzy's room, lit up faintly by a dinky orange night light plugged into the socket by the door, heralded by a 'Princess Sleeping' sign. And she is asleep, bless her, a small smile on her peachy little lips, raggedy old Bunty pressed against her cheek.

And, like treasure safeguarded by the knights of the last crusade, a wooden framed photograph sits protectively under her arm. A picture from long ago. Of Lizzy and daddy.

The Lionesses, the Witches and the Wardrobe

Why this blog? Mmmmm. Probably to alleviate the mounting pressure on poor old My Documents, a folder fast becoming a growing outlet for some pretty petty, some perfectly reasonable (in my opinion) observations of the bizarre triangle, square, hectagon, septagon, octagon etc created in the wake of that dirty dog, divorce. One of which I will kick open the door of this Room 101 with. It's a tad lengthy but hey, that's what this is here for, ain't it? To vent. Note: names are changed to protect the innocent and the litigious.

I’m sitting in a pretty Scandinavian apartment in Gothenburg, cross-legged, the gap in my two front teeth perfect for tonguing as a smile nervously works its way up my blushing cheeks to my nine-year-old ears.
Ok, so I’m not really nine, the brace worked wonders and any remnant of Shirley Temple dimples have long since been replaced by crow’s feet and wrinkly indents.
But, right now, I feel it.
“Oh, and by the way Owen,“ the ex wife says with her Swedish lilt and a knowing twinkle. “You haven’t got rid of the bread tray that goes with the set, have you?”. She sips her Tarmac-tasting Gevalia coffee. “I’d quite like it if you don‘t want it.”
Again, I smile politely. God only knows why. Rude not to, I guess.
The bit of domestic kit being referred to is part of a wooden 135-piece (or so it seems) hand painted, Swedish kitchen utensil set that she (the ex-wife) and Owen (my current partner) were given by their respective clans to herald their wedding day back in 1994.
Whether each piece was actually lovingly whittled by individual family members, I can’t be sure.
He smiles, obviously forgetting why it’s now divvied up.
“Yeah, not a problem. I’ll dig it out and bring it when I next come to see the girls.” “But I’m keeping the cheese slicer,” he quipped.
He might as well, a la Burt Reynolds, have stretched out his thumb and first finger, clicked his tongue against his cheek and given her a mischievous wink.
Thank God for small mercies though. Riotous “oh no your not”, “oh yes I am‘s” failed to materialise.
I know the bread tray all right, I even know the cheese slicer.
The latter’s in the second drawer down back home, the quaint little handle all pretty red, blue and white Dala horses, tulips and Swedish peasant girls wearing thigh high leather boots.
Resisting the urge to fly home, find said bread tray and, with a vindictive cackle, spray, “not any more, ha ha, ha, I win” over “Lotta and Owen 21.09.1994” (as Dr Evil’s graffiti artist love child might do), I again produce a gap-toothed smile and continue to watch, like mute tennis umpire, the pair continue with their so-called “amicable” banter.
So does her new boyfriend, Petter, who might have made quite a good ally in this Terry and June farce if only he could understand me.
For fear of making as much sense as The Swedish Chef, I’ll set the scene.
Scottish-born Owen and Swedish-born Lotta met in Italy, Florence no less, in 1993, embarking on a whirlwind romance, followed by marriage six months later thanks to two wedding rings won in a Ratners raffle. And love, actually.
Thirteen years of wedded bliss in England and two daughters later - one a begrudging attempt at getting a dead in the water marriage back on course - the marital harmony was ended over burnt toast at the breakfast table, the damsel declaring with a triumphant toss of the head that Blighty was, in fact, a miserable blot on the landscape and as for her deluded choice of beau…well.
Throwing the kids and suitcase under her arm - actually it was a removal van reluctantly driven on her behalf by weeping ex-beau to Newcastle and, via ferry, across the North Sea to Gothenburg - she went back home leaving hubby to be axed with empty house and equally empty heart.
Enter moi, also on the cusp of divorce with four-year-old daughter and little else to my name bar a penchant for parties and Pinot Grigio.
We met at a soiree a friend and I were hosting, me with chicken entrails covering my hands, him clutching a small, dejected bunch of daffs.
A peck on the cheek and a bottle of gin later, we were all systems go and in true From Here to Eternity style, spent the next few months frolicking in slow-mo on beaches, in woods, in fields and in car parks.
I held his hand as he pined for his babies thousands of miles away and he listened intently to acid-laced diatribes aimed at my annoyingly “lethargic” ex.
Which is how I found myself drinking Tarmac-tasting coffee around a table in Gothenburg six months later with him, the ex-wife and her new suitor.
Along with our three girls, oblivious to anything but dolls and the resident rocking horse, incidentally adorned with pretty hand painted red, blue and white Dala horses, tulips and Swedish peasant girls in thigh high leather boots.
Why I agreed to us all staying in her flat for a four-day break is anyone’s guess.
“It makes sense Pen,” Owen had pledged as I choked on my G&T two months prior.
“The girls will be able to stay in their own home, we won’t have to fork out and Lotta will be staying at Petter’s flat. It will be fine. And anyway, it’s a nice gesture from her.”
There were two ways to approach this.
Throw teddies out of pram, kick and scream the words “insensitive bastard” like a petulant child. Or breathe in deeply through the nose, out through the mouth and close our age gap of six years with a mantra of maturity and martyrdom.
Think Jude and Sadie, Andrew and Fergie. Dear Lord, think of the children.
So, reluctantly opting for dignity over bunny boiling, the flights were booked and we all trooped off to Svenske.
A plane journey, two bus rides and a two mile trudge uphill laden with cases later, we arrived at the ex’s flat, home of shelves of once jointly-owned CDs (Steve Wright‘s Love Songs 1995 and the like), a hotly contested cream sofa and a drawer of Swedish, hand painted wooden butter spreaders, circa 1994.
The girls promptly scooted off to the kids’ bedroom to play.
I, meanwhile, single-handedly attempted to perfect a scene from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
My rabbit caught in the headlights impersonation was admittedly partly to make a point (I am a Leo after all), partly because my knees genuinely wouldn‘t stop knocking.
Owen, meanwhile, was pulling out the sofabed (“do NOT under any circumstances sleep in my bed, Owen“) and making himself right at home.
“You alright Pen?”, he called out.
“Yeees, fine,” I offered quietly from the living room window, staring at the picture postcard view of timber framed, smugly eco-friendly houses scattered randomly over rambling hillsides.
Then the bombshell.
“Oh, by the way, Lotta and Petter are coming over to see the girls and have coffee with us in the morning.”
Oh good.
Next morning, as promised, the key rustled in the lock and in they came to see how we were all getting on.
She might as well have cocked her leg against the wall.
What to do? What to say? “So, Lotta, fancy a cuppa?” Mmm, perhaps not.
Saved by greetings and awkward welcome kisses European style - mwah, mwah, smack noses - she eventually offered to put the kettle on.
“Mel, you want Swedish coffee or that stuff the English call coffee?”. Cue smirk at an oblivious Petter (the Swedes are after all renowned for their cutting edge comedy genius. Dare I mention Eurovision?).
Next came the once overs.
Supping on our Tarmac (me accidentally taking a swig of Petter’s before my error was kindly pointed out by Owen), the two lionesses prowled slowly and methodically, registering differences and subtly spotting flaws.
On some points, I felt suitably smug.
In my opinion, I have a much cuter tush, nicer hair and potentially six more years to live than my nemesis.
On others, I am somewhat less confident.
My culinary and dress making skills are clearly found wanting against those of the butcher, the baker, the cushion cover maker.
And, lets face it, I’m not, and will never be in any way shape or form mother to Owen’s children.
Game, set and match Lotta.
The boys oblivious, we continued to make mental notes, simultaneously keeping up with inane conversational pieces such as the progress of the Macdonald’s controversial conservatory back home, until, sadly, it was time for them to go.
“Thanks ever so much for letting us stay,” said Owen as they left, kindly leaving enough of a pause for me to echo his sentiment.
“Yes. Thanks.” I said with a clenched smile, dreaming of the deliciously appealing, cheap as chips YMCA room up the road.
At least we had christened her sofabed.
And the point of all this yada, yada, yada?
Primarily to have a rant.
But also to reassure all those who get involved with someone who a) refuses to slag off their ex-spouse, b) refuses to say anything even slightly derogatory about their ex-spouse, c) lauds their ex-spouse to high heaven, often leaving you wondering why they are not still together or d) openly stockpiles stuff ex-spouse might have accidentally left behind to be returned on the next trip to see the children, that you are not totally barking. Yet.
Don’t get me wrong, 99% (well, 89%) of the time, Owen is Prince Charming.
But there are times I do want to throttle my beloved.
For instance, the day we found her Royal Ascot-style wedding hat lurking at the back of the top shelf of our wardrobe, six months after she had moved on out, a week after I had moved on in.
“Oh look, Lotta left her wedding hat, I’ll take it on my next trip to Sweden,” he exclaimed. “If she doesn’t want it, she can always get rid of it.”
Add to stockpile.
How can you possible explain to a man that, considering Lotta took practically everything bar the Swedish bread tray with her back in April, the hat was obviously left because it was a) about as wanted as Jade in Jaipur or b) a subtle reminder to jilted lover of what he once had BUT LOST.
Cue Babs Streisand and The Way we Were. Sob.
Then there’s the periodic requests for trips to Asda to buy kids pants.
Allegedly, smalls are hard to come by and way too pricey in one of the most socially and economically advanced countries in the world.
But enough.
Before this tirade of vitriol spirals out of control, I am willing to take a step back, take yet another deep breath and ponder something directed at me at regular intervals these days.
Ex’s should get along for the emotional well being of the children.
And deep down, I agree.
An amicable divorce means less heartache in the long run, less misunderstanding, less bitterness and ultimately less madness and family feuds.
I’ve also started to build a relationship of my own with the two bairns in question and, come to think of it, a working relationship with my own ex for the benefit of our child.
So yes, I am learning to be flexible. After all, everyone has a right to their past.
As for Lotta, she’s not a bad woman. In many ways, we are actually quite similar.
And finally to the issue of princess pants.
There is no getting away from the fact there are some serious deals to be had in the supermarkets of dear old Blighty and if it means we remain superior to our Scandinavian neighbours on at least one count, then so be it.
What is annoying, however, is the fact I’ve suddenly gone right off IKEA.
Cheap, effective storage solutions and meatballs will sadly, for me, never be quite the same again.