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Ok, so I’m not really nine, the brace worked wonders and any remnant of Shirley Temple dimples have long since been replaced by crow’s feet and wrinkly indents.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.
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