Six Months to Get a Life

by Ben Adams

  A part of me suspects that my parents are trying to push me in to moving back with my ex. I keep telling them it won’t happen but they aren’t easily put off.

  Thursday 10th April

  I don’t normally feel like a gooseberry around my parents but I did tonight. It’s their wedding anniversary and they spent the whole evening banging on about the day they first met, their relationship and why their marriage has lasted so long.

  ‘How long were you married for?’ mum asked me at one point.

  ‘What does it matter?’ I responded. ‘It’s over now.’

  I get the impression that my parents see my divorce as a black mark against me, an indication that I am not a great person. Maybe I’m not. I made my excuses and left them to it as soon as I had swallowed my last mouthful of beef Wellington.

  My marriage might not have worked out but I don’t regret getting married. My union with my ex produced the two best things in my life, my boys.

  Mum and dad’s wedding anniversary made me think a fair bit about my ex. As I have said before, this diary isn’t about her but she was part of my life for fifteen years so I can’t ignore her altogether.

  Somewhat unconventionally we met outside a sexually transmitted diseases clinic in Roehampton. I got lucky one night. Not being a seasoned professional, I took my eye off the ball. Or balls. They subsequently itched so badly that I waddled off to the STD clinic. As I began the drive home I was rather distracted (they had seen fit to give me a ‘routine’ AIDS test too) and crashed smack bang into the woman who was later to become my ex. Literally smack bang.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Are you blind?’ she shouted at me.

  ‘Sorry, I was scratching my balls.’

  As well as exchanging pleasantries, we exchanged phone numbers for insurance purposes. After a few beers a couple of nights later I phoned her up, and although it may stretch the imagination a bit, we ended up getting together.

  In the first few weeks of our burgeoning relationship we met up most evenings after work, walked along the river, drank in different pubs and ate out at every opportunity. We were love’s young dream.

  On account of my sexually transmitted infliction it took a while before the relationship progressed to ‘staying in’. My lovely ex insisted on seeing a clean bill of health signed in triplicate by a surgery full of doctors before she would go anywhere near my nether regions. And I never did find out what she was doing at the clinic.

  We were married within a few months. Morden registry office pulled out all the stops. My dad snored loudly throughout my father-in-law’s wedding speech, but no one blamed him because it was a mind-numbingly boring speech. We had a great day.

  Fifteen years of marital bliss followed. I wish. In reality it was more like a few weeks of bliss and fourteen-plus years of more lows than highs. Our honeymoon was a high point, as were our children’s births, although I was already having doubts about our relationship by the time Sean was born.

  The woman I had fallen in love with seemed to have disappeared fairly quickly after our wedding, to be replaced by an intense character who was either on top of the world or completely stressed and miserable. The times when she was on top of the world were great but unfortunately they weren’t very frequent and didn’t last long when they did occur.

  The rows we had were quite intense in the early days too, complete with raised voices and the odd projectile hurled in my general direction. She once picked up an apple from the fruit counter in the green grocers and threw it at me. It missed me and hit some poor unsuspecting old woman on the back of the head. Poor Granny Smith. I can’t even remember what I had or hadn’t done that made her throw the apple in the first place.

  As our relationship wore on, the rows diminished, not because we were getting on better but because we didn’t have the energy or the passion to argue. My ex gradually became more and more withdrawn until eventually, a couple of years ago, the doctors diagnosed depression and prescribed her some pills. The pills did help my ex to regain her equilibrium. The lows were less low. Her relationship with the kids improved but the damage to our relationship had already been done. We couldn’t rekindle the passion we once had for each other.

  For the record, our marriage lasted for fifteen years and two months.

  Friday 11th April

  Today, my mum made liver and bacon for tea. I am sure it is a generational thing, but I haven’t had liver since, er, I last lived with my parents twentyplus years ago.

  I am getting the feeling that, just like my marriage, living with my parents isn’t going to end well. It didn’t end well when I was a teenager either. I went to university and once I had completed my degree (talking bollocks for three years, more commonly known as politics) I moved back home. I stayed for about three days before I had an argument with my dad and moved out. My dad wanted me to eat some left-over cheese for tea whereas I wanted a take-away curry. We had a row and I moved in with my then girlfriend. Looking back on it, my girlfriend at the time was living in nurses’ accommodation so I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of moving in with her sooner.

  The decision to ban my parents from having conversations with me about my life has had an unintended consequence. I am beginning to get fitter. With nothing to talk about, and no desire to sit and watch episodes of Pointless, Countdown or Coronation Street on Sky Plus or to listen to The Archers on the radio, I have ended up drinking less beer and actually dusting off my dad’s exercise bike. There is still a long way to go before I enter the Tour de France or even before I would confidently be able to cycle to the corner shop without getting a sweat on. The beer belly doesn’t seem to be diminishing yet, but at least the journey has started.

  It was a Friday night and yet I retreated to the sanctuary of my bedroom, put my headphones on and immersed myself in some classic Bon Jovi. ‘You Give Love a Bad Name’ really cheered me up.

  Saturday 12th April

  As Jack’s football season has finished, the kids and I decided to do something a bit different today. We went swimming in London’s Olympic pool. We fully immersed ourselves in the Olympics when they were here and were lucky enough to get tickets to see both Mo Farrah’s gold medal-winning runs.

  Fifty metres is a long way to swim without being able to touch the side, especially when your trunks keep falling down (I had forgotten about that issue until I got into the water). The kids and I had a few races. We would have re-enacted moments of British 2012 golden glory in the pool but there weren’t any in the Olympics and we couldn’t remember the names of any of our Paralympic winners so we just raced each other instead. Sean won, much to his brother’s annoyance.

  For lunch we decided to gorge ourselves on pizza. I appreciated the pizza more than the conversation. The kids spent the whole time haranguing me about my dress sense.

  ‘Just look at what you’re wearing, dad,’ Jack started off. ‘Your jeans are baggy and need chucking out.’

  ‘And even if they weren’t baggy you are too fat to be wearing jeans,’ Sean joined in.

  ‘Why have you got your t-shirt tucked in? Dad, you’ve got no swag.’ Jack.

  ‘Swag?’ I asked, not having a clue what they were on about.

  ‘And those trainers dad, we aren’t going running so why are you wearing them?’ Jack again.

  ‘Because they are comfortable,’ I tried.

  ‘I suppose they’re better than his flip flops,’ Sean threw into the mix. ‘And those tracksuit bottoms you wear to the pub just look stupid, dad.’

  ‘People of your age should never wear tracksuits.’ Jack again.

  Alright, enough already. I let the kids take me to West-field on the way back from the Olympic park and help me pick out a new pair of chinos, some designer leather shoes and a smart jacket. In return for their ‘help’, I bought them a designer jacket each too. I probably spent as much in the shopping centre as I would have spent on my first month’s rent for a flat.

  It has to be said that this isn’
t the first time I have spoilt the kids since our divorce. When I was married, I would always be the voice of reason. Have you eaten your fruit? Have you brushed your teeth? Have you done your homework? Have you tidied your bedroom? Now, I buy the kids ‘Superdry’ jackets, take them to Frankie and Benny’s and to the cinema on school nights, let them have drinks in the front room (albeit not my lounge) and let them stay up later than is probably good for them. I know I am spoiling them but they have had a rough time lately. Doesn’t everyone deserve a bit of spoiling from time to time?

  Sunday 13th April

  I dropped the kids back to my ex’s at lunchtime today because I was going out for the afternoon. She wasn’t best pleased when she saw their new jackets.

  ‘Why have you bought them new coats? They have got plenty of coats already.’

  ‘These aren’t just any old coat. They’re ‘Superdry’ jackets,’ I told her as if I was suddenly the world’s expert on designer clothing. ‘And nice haircut, by the way.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit if they’re Superman’s jackets. The boys didn’t need a new jacket.’

  My ex is always practical. She is a ‘needs’ person not a ‘wants’ person.

  ‘These must have cost a fortune,’ she continued.

  ‘They weren’t cheap,’ I conceded.

  My ex ushered the boys inside before carrying on our conversation.

  ‘Don’t think I can’t see what you’re trying to do here, Graham. You are just trying to outdo me in the eyes of the children.’

  ‘I just bought them a new jacket each. It’s hardly the crime of the century,’ I protested.

  ‘If you’ve got money to burn on new things that the kids don’t need then you can give me more maintenance because I am struggling to pay for groceries, let alone designer clothing,’ my ex suggested.

  I left it at that and made my exit. She may well have got the better of me in that one, although the maintenance point was a cheap shot. Two jackets cost nothing when compared to the new car my ex bought only weeks after we split up.

  As well as dividing their possessions, divorcing couples also have to divide their friends. In mine and my ex’s case, virtually all of our friends seem to have stuck by my ex but fallen by the wayside as far as my social calendar goes.

  I made the mistake of discussing this unequal distribution of friends with Dave and Ray a while back. I came up with an explanation that centred around my ex forming most of the friendships over coffees at playgroups, nurseries and the school run and the men just being the ‘plus ones’ who went where they were told. In other words, my lack of friends was all down to me having to go to work whilst my ex was staying at home.

  ‘No, Graham, all your mutual friends have taken your wife’s side because you are a miserable dick.’ Dave put me straight in his own inimitable way.

  I think I will stick with my explanation. I got on fine with the blokes whose wives did school runs. We even went for the odd ‘dads’ night out’, normally for a few beers and a curry. I just haven’t got around to phoning them up to organise anything since my wife became my ex. With my ex and her mother’s union mates organising us men’s social calendars over the years, I am a bit out of practice.

  Luckily, Katie and Bryan Green are the exception to the rule. They have kept in touch with me despite Katie knowing my ex via anti-natal classes and Bryan and I being the ‘plus ones’. The Greens invited me to a dinner party this afternoon at their trendy Southfields house.

  As I walked along Replingham Road towards the Greens’ Georgian terraced abode, I couldn’t help worrying that my ex might be on her way there too. I haven’t seen her out socially since our split. This is hardly surprising as I haven’t actually been out socially that often lately.

  Katie and Bryan greeted me at the door. As they led me through their high-ceilinged hall, lined with portraits of people I didn’t recognise hung in gold-leaf picture frames, I took a quick glance at the coats on the coat hooks. I couldn’t see anything my ex owned. This was a good sign.

  We went through in to their deep red painted dining room. The room was sparsely furnished, containing only a stone fire place, dark wood dining furniture and double doors that led out on to an immaculately laid out albeit quite compact garden. The table was laid for six. Other than Katie, Bryan and me, there were three people in the room, none of whom was my ex. I sighed inwardly. And maybe outwardly too.

  I mentioned my relief to Bryan.

  ‘Your ex has been to the last few dinners we have hosted but we thought we would have a change and invite you to this one,’ Bryan informed me. Thanks mate.

  Katie played the hostess with the mostess and introduced the three other people to me. I vaguely knew John and Tracey, him quiet and reserved, her more boisterous and opinionated. I had never met the third person before though; a woman whose name I didn’t catch when Katie introduced us.

  I will call her Miss Putney. I couldn’t bring myself to ask her to repeat her name. The longer the conversation went on, the more awkward it became for me to ask her. So I didn’t. I do remember where she lived though, hence the Putney reference.

  Despite being anxious, bordering on a nervous wreck, for the whole evening, I don’t think I embarrassed myself too much in front of Miss Putney. As the drink kicked in, Katie and Tracey talked enough for the six of us so the awkward silences between myself and Miss Putney were kept to a minimum.

  I know this isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement but she isn’t an unattractive woman. She is tanned and has got a great smile but I couldn’t help wondering why she had gone for a mullet hairstyle. She is nearly as tall as me and, like me, she could probably do with losing a few pounds. She wouldn’t necessarily stand out in a crowd, but nor would I expect that I would be the only bloke in the crowd dressed in chinos and trainers (I broke the lace on my posh shoes as I was putting them on and didn’t have a spare one).

  Anyway, the food was interesting too. We were served stuffed peppers for a starter followed by mushroom risotto. The trouble was that it tasted as though the risotto mixture had been used to stuff the peppers, the result being that the main course just tasted like the starter only without the peppers.

  At the end of the evening the two couples and two singles present even started talking about whose turn it was to host the next gathering. I need a place of my own. Miss Putney and I swapped numbers. Even though I fear that we did it out of duty rather than any actual desire to talk to each other again, that has to be some kind of result, right?

  Tuesday 15th April

  It has been a while, if you know what I mean. My evening with married adult company on Sunday has reminded me what I am missing out on. It isn’t just the sex, although I am certainly missing that. I haven’t yet resorted to looking at dodgy websites on the iPad but that is only because the ex got the iPad and I don’t think I would dare misuse my parents’ tablet in that way. What Sunday night showed me is that, even more than the sex, I am missing the company, the sharing, the banter, the caring for each other. Some people might be able to convince themselves that they are happy being single. I don’t think I am one of those people.

  And there is no end in sight either. Miss Putney was nice but I am not excited about my prospects there. I am not a natural when it comes to charming the opposite sex. I am not bad at a bit of harmless flirting but am rubbish at ‘sealing the deal’ – does that sound too crude? Without going into any sordid detail, I did OK as a late teenager and into my twenties. My bedpost wouldn’t be riddled with notches, but it is quality rather than quantity that counts, right? Actually some of the quality may have been a bit questionable too at times.

  I am now well and truly middle aged. I don’t meet new people. If I did meet new people I wouldn’t know what to say to them. And the more attractive they are, the harder it is to talk to them. Why is that? If I was to meet a woman, it wouldn’t be long before I uttered one or probably all of the following sayings – ‘I am divorced’; ‘I have two children but they live with th
eir mum’; and ‘Do you come here often?’

  This evening was a case in point. I met someone when I was walking Albus on Wimbledon Common. ‘Met’ might be putting it a bit strongly but hey, if there is a straw to be clutched at, why not clutch it? Dog-walkers often talk to each other but it doesn’t normally go beyond ‘how old is he?’ or if you are really lucky ‘wow, she has got a beautiful coat’. Well, today I saw a woman who I have seen and exchanged nods with a few times before. Albus helped me out by urinating on her little pooch’s head. If that isn’t able to start a conversation between owners, I don’t know what will.

  ‘Your dog just weed on my dog’s head,’ dog-walking woman said to me with a smile. A lovely smile too.

  ‘Oh, sorry. Do you come here often?’ I am useless. It’s official. I need to rehearse a few clever lines just in case I meet her again. She was ‘top totty’ as Dave would say.

  Thursday 17th April

  The cricket season has started. I just spent my first evening of the year at Sean’s cricket training in Worcester Park. Despite not knowing anything about cricket, my ex other half used to do the cricket run because a couple of members of her mothers’ union would also go with their children. Tonight, though, my ex asked me to take Sean because she had to work late.

  I gladly agreed, partly because any opportunity to spend time with Sean is to be welcomed and partly because the cricket club has a cheap bar.

  I sat out on the patio with Sarah and Debbie, both mums of Sean’s friends and part of my social life pre-divorce. We had a good time gossiping about the kids and life in general. My normal nerves when speaking to women were nowhere to be seen, because I knew Sarah and Debbie’s husbands and wasn’t trying to hit on their wives. I could just be myself and didn’t have to try to impress anyone.