In short, how dare I complain about my life, when I have so much compared to so many?
The answer is I don’t know.
Truly.
I know all these things to be true, and yet I still feel all of these other things. They jostle alongside each other, like the paradox that life so often is. For so much of the day, I forget about the big stuff. Like most people, I’m just focused on getting through each day and the small stuff that affects my life and those closest around me. But then I’ll hear about some tragedy or watch the news and suddenly I’m reminded again.
I watch a father sobbing at a news conference because the police have found the body of his missing daughter, or hear about a friend of a friend who has just been diagnosed with something awful, and I swear to myself I’ll never complain about anything ever again.
But of course I do. We all do.
Before you know it, you’re annoyed with the person who pushed in front of you in the queue and that your train is late. Or gutted because he didn’t text back or someone else at work got that promotion. Does that make you selfish? I think it just makes you human.
If getting older has taught me one thing, it’s that I feel so many conflicting things about so many different things, and to negate or stifle any of them doesn’t make them go away. Emotions don’t necessarily have a moral compass. Feelings can’t be shamed into disappearing. Suppressing and ignoring them will only make them come back to bite you in the therapist’s chair.
Because this is what I’ve learned:
I can feel like I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, and refuse to look in mirrors with overhead lighting, and still go on the Women’s March and roar like a motherfucker. I can weep for that father who lost his daughter and pray for the friend I don’t know, and a few days later be scrolling and despairing that I am not taking beach selfies with my handsome husband. And I can marvel at a sunset and think how lucky I am, and wake up in the night with The Fear.
Because life is complicated. And so are we.
I’m grateful for:
Everything I have and always counting my blessings,* even when things aren’t going so great.
The latest episode of my podcast, in which I get to confess all this stuff, though I doubt anyone is even listening, and I’m just talking to myself and getting everything off my chest. Still, look at it this way: at least it’s cheaper than therapy.
The funny cat videos, which always make me smile, even when the world is collapsing around my ears.
Facebook is Not My Friend
Since moving back to London I’ve started sleeping with my iPhone. I know. It’s bad. All that blue light and electromagnetic stuff disrupting brain patterns and God knows what. When I lived with Ethan, we were very strict about following the No Electronics in the Bedroom rule, but it’s a little trickier when you’re renting a room and everything you own is crammed into it.
Plus, it beats sleeping alone. My phone and I get to fool around on our apps together. And Google is always up for it. But tonight when I look on Facebook, I see that Ethan has been tagged in a photo with a girl at a party.
Just some girl.
I’m not expecting it. He never uses social media. I was expecting to scroll through a few photos of random old school friends and funny videos people have shared. Not this bombshell. My stomach lurches. Even though Liza told me, being faced with the reality is hard.
I scrutinize the photo. She’s blonde and pretty and looks at least ten years younger than me. Ethan is laughing and has his arm around her waist. He looks good. Like he’s lost some weight.
FFS. What happened to the fat wetsuit picture?
I feel crushed and utterly depressed. I am not going to parties and laughing with my arm around men’s waists. I have not lost weight. I am eating crisps and writing obituaries and going on soul-destroying online dates. I think about Nick and his Fitbit. Liza telling me it’s my choice to move on.
Sod This. I log out of Facebook and into the dating app. I have a free month’s subscription, and there’s still over a week left. I can’t give up after one date. I click on my inbox. Liza was wrong. It’s not a choice; it’s a question of bloody survival.
A Desperate Act
Inbox: You have a message from MrMountEverest
Hi, I saw your profile and thought you looked rather nice! I’m a genuine guy seeking a genuine girl and I like going out and staying in, watching movies and taking selfies on Everest Perhaps you would like to meet for a coffee to get to know each other? I look forward to hearing from you. M x
Sent: Re: You have a message from MrMountEverest
Hi, what a coincidence, I like going out and staying in too! I would love to meet you for a coffee and look at your Everest selfies.
Nell x
The Photograph
Spring seems to bloom overnight. After months of wintery skies and endless damp, grey days, I wake up to discover the sky is blue, the sun is shining, and the street is lined with fluttery pink-blossom trees. Sweet, warm air, like the scent of freshly laundered clothes, wafts in as I push open the stiff sash window, and when I reach into my wardrobe, I pull out a T-shirt – an actual T-shirt.
Slipping my winter feet into flip-flops, I head briskly towards the charity shop. I’m taking the last of Monty’s clothes. I dropped most of them off last week in the taxi, but one of the smaller suitcases fell behind the back seat and was only discovered much later by the driver. He brought it over the next day, but I’ve been busy so I’m only taking it now.
The lady in the charity shop recognizes me as I enter.
‘Back again!’ She looks pleased to see me. It was quite evident that Monty’s clothes were of a higher quality than the contents of most of the bin liners left in the shop doorway overnight.
‘Just one more.’ I gesture to the suitcase.
She smiles broadly. ‘Wonderful, thank you. We’ve sold so many of the items you brought in last week. They’ve raised over a thousand pounds already.’
‘I’ll let his wife know. She’ll be pleased.’
‘Such a difficult time.’ Her expression is sympathetic. ‘I hope she finds comfort in knowing she’s supporting those in need.’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ I nod, opening the case and taking out the rest of Monty’s belongings. I know she’s trying to be nice, offering up such platitudes, but having witnessed Cricket’s heartbreak, there seems to be little comfort to be gained when someone you love dies. It’s just a case of necessity. Of getting on with it. Of putting one foot in front of the other, and breathing in and out.
‘Do you want to check through all the pockets, just in case?’
‘That’s not necessary, we did that already—’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
She takes them from me and begins shaking out his clothes and slipping them on hangers, ready for their new owners. I watch her pick up the raincoat Monty found in Paris and my chest tightens. I turn to leave.
‘Oh, wait a minute, dear!’ The lady calls me back. ‘This was in the inside pocket.’
She’s holding out an envelope. I go to take it from her.
‘Oh, thank you. Good job you checked!’
‘Well, it was here, look . . .’ She starts showing me the raincoat. ‘It can appear just like a seam but it’s actually a little secret compartment for tucking away your wallet, or passport, or anything important that you don’t want to lose.’
‘Right, yes.’ I nod, slipping it into my bag. ‘Well, thanks again.’
She smiles cheerfully as I say my goodbyes and leave the shop. Only when I’m outside do I take it out again for a closer look. It’s addressed to Monty, and the edge of the envelope has been neatly slit by a letter opener. I was half expecting it to be postmarked Paris and contain some old love letter from sixty years ago, but it’s more recent, by the looks of it, and the stamp says España.
As I turn it over, a black-and-white photograph slips out. Taken underneath a tree, it’s of two men embracing.
/> My heart starts to beat a little faster. Is that—?
Written on the back is an inscription: Monty, t’estimo per sempre, Pablo.
I’m grateful for:
Being the one who found the letter and the photograph, instead of Cricket.
Time to think. Because now it’s up to me to decide whether to tell her or not.
Google Translate: it’s Catalan for ‘I will love you forever.’
Mirror, Signal, Manoeuvre
I remember when I was learning to drive and I could never overtake. My instructor used to try to coax me into putting my foot on the accelerator and going for it, cajoling me with cries of ‘it’s all clear!’ but I would stick resolutely to the slow lane, trundling along.
Which is basically a metaphor for my life right now. I’m firmly stuck in the slow lane. Actually, no, it’s worse: I’ve pulled over onto the hard shoulder, map splayed over the steering wheel, wondering where the hell I’m supposed to be going.
My living arrangements aren’t exactly ideal, but they’re tolerable. I’m dating – unsatisfactorily – but still. I’ve got regular work, though the money isn’t great, but together with what’s left of Dad’s loan it’s enough to cover my bills. I know I need to make some big changes and figure something else out, but for now everything is just sort of ticking along.
I spoke to Sadiq today and he’s really pleased with all my obituaries so far. He told me I’ve got ‘a knack for dead people’, which I’m not quite sure how to interpret, so I’m going to take it as a compliment.
Thing is, I do actually quite enjoy writing them, because in a way it’s like bringing the people that have died back to life again. Also, mostly, the people I write about are quite old, and I’ve found that when an old person dies, we tend to think ‘oh well, they’re old’ and sort of shrug it off, as though old people are different somehow. Especially when you don’t know them.
But in doing my research I get to see they were young once, with thick hair and straight backs and high hopes; they fell in and out of love and they did brave and wonderful things, and they lived their lives, just like we’re living ours. They’re just ahead of us, that’s all. We’ll catch up eventually, and when we do I doubt any of us will think, ‘oh well, we’re old’ with a resigned shrug of our shoulders.
Cricket certainly doesn’t feel like that, and I don’t see her that way either. On Sunday we met for coffee and she turned up on her bike wearing her new bicycle helmet, which is bright plastic leopard print. We’ve become firm friends and she’s invited me to see an exhibition with her next month at the V&A. I haven’t yet mentioned the letter and photograph I found. I still don’t know whether I should.
As for my friends, I haven’t seen them since the baby shower last month, but I’ve exchanged a few texts with Holly and Michelle. Fiona, however, I’ve barely heard from. Usually we leave each other WhatsApp voice messages, but the last few times she hasn’t listened to them, which is unlike her. Usually the ticks turn blue immediately. She must be busy with the children and David and her latest renovation. At the baby shower I overheard her mention something about Annabel helping her to redecorate the living room.
Which is fine, of course it is; I just miss our conversations. And I really miss her. All those silly references and jokes that only she would get. But the more time she spends with Annabel, the more I feel detached from her. In fact, the truth is a big part of me can’t help feeling like I’ve lost her. That while I’m here, trying to figure it all out on the hard shoulder, she’s left me far behind and moved on in the fast lane.
I’m grateful for:
Cricket’s trip to Dublin to attend the funeral of an old theatre friend, which means I have more time to decide whether or not to tell her about what I’ve found – we won’t see each other now until the exhibition.
Hard shoulders, because we all need to pull over sometimes.
It’s Not You, It’s Me
Online dating and I broke up. My free trial came to an end last week and I decided not renew it. I went on a couple more dates, but they were all pretty awful. There was nothing wrong with the men as such (though I do tend to prefer it when dates don’t turn up already drunk or spend the whole evening bashing their ‘crazy ex-wife’) so it was probably my fault; after all, I was the common denominator.
The thing is, I know it works for thousands of happy couples, but I’m just not cut out for it. The endless scrolling and emailing and trying to be cute and sexy when, to be honest, sitting in my dressing gown eating crisps, I felt like none of those things. I know some people love it. They’re good at it. All that flirty cyber banter and going on first dates. I was rubbish. I failed badly at it. And, even worse, it made me miss Ethan more.
So I think I’m going to stick with the old-fashioned, crossing-of-paths, fate stuff. If love wants to find me, it will.
I’m grateful for:
The deactivation button on this dating app.
Stopping scrolling, as I was in danger of getting carpal tunnel.
No more dick pics.
The Last (Plastic) Straw
I haven’t seen much of my landlord since my failed attempt at Murder by Essential Oils. Only joking. I wasn’t really trying to kill him. Though I’m sorely tempted this morning, when I pad into the kitchen to make my coffee and catch him elbow-deep in the recycling bin.
‘Morning.’
Still half asleep in my dressing gown and slippers, I ignore him and pat Arthur who comes to greet me, then reach for my coffee pot.
‘You can’t recycle bubble wrap.’ With his shirtsleeves rolled up, Edward plucks it out of the bin like he’s at a lucky-dip tombola, and waves it at me.
‘Why not? It’s plastic.’
‘It doesn’t have the symbol.’
‘So?’ I stifle a yawn.
Edward almost chokes. ‘Please tell me you are actually looking at the symbols to check if it’s recyclable or not.’
‘It’s too confusing. If it’s plastic I just chuck it in the recycling.’ Filling up my espresso pot with water, I take a spoon and begin ladling in coffee.
Edward looks like I’ve just told him I murdered our next-door neighbour. His eyes pop and his jaw clenches. ‘That’s not how it works, Penelope. If just one non-recyclable item is included in the recycling, the whole bin is contaminated.’
I feel suitably told off.
‘OK, I’m sorry, I’ll check the symbols properly. But if it’s plastic it should all be recyclable,’ I grumble, putting my coffee pot on the hob and turning on the front burner as he continues dragging things out of the bin.
Ignoring my apology, he begins forming a little moat of glass jars and plastic bottles around him.
‘And can you please wash them out properly!’
As he waves a can of baked beans at me accusingly, I can feel myself having one of those out-of-body experiences where you look at your life and think ‘nowhere was this in my vision of my future’. I had such high hopes in my twenties. Imagine if I could go back and tell myself that no, I wouldn’t be living in a nice house with colour-coordinated scatter cushions, I would be standing in someone else’s kitchen having empty baked bean cans waved at me by someone else’s husband. And that’s even before I’ve had my morning coffee.
‘What’s this?’
I suddenly realize he’s inspecting a plastic container of Jolen creme bleach, which I use to do my moustache. I snatch it off him. ‘Is this really necessary?’
‘Yes it is, Penelope,’ he says, looking pleased to finally have my full attention.
‘Stop calling me Penelope,’ I snap.
‘Why? It’s your proper name.’
‘Because no one calls me that.’
‘Well, they should. People want to shorten everything these days.’
‘Well, it’s a bit of a mouthful.’
‘It’s four syllables.’
‘Exactly.’
‘If people cannot make the effort to say four syllables, then you shouldn’t
make the effort to answer.’
‘Is that why you insist on being called Edward, instead of Ed?’ Folding my arms, I lean against the counter-top and wait for my coffee pot to boil.
‘My name’s Edward. It’s not a matter of insisting.’
‘Or Eddie?’ I suggest. ‘Eddie’s nice.’
He frowns, and pushes back his hair from his forehead. ‘I don’t feel like an Eddie.’
I look at him. He could really do with a haircut. It’s beginning to grow sideways as well as lengthways. But then who am I to talk? I haven’t been to a hairdresser for ages, I’m so broke. I might have a go with Mum’s old hairdressing scissors.
‘No. I suppose not. You don’t look like an Eddie.’
He heaves a sigh. ‘What’s this desire to shorten everyone’s name? Do you think they call the Queen Liz?’
‘Her Royal Highness Liz?’ I laugh. ‘Maybe.’
His serious expression softens. ‘I like the name Penelope. It suits you.’
‘I sound like a maiden aunt. Or a Thunderbird puppet.’
‘Lady Penelope.’ He raises an eyebrow and cocks his head, as if considering. ‘It’s very elegant.’
‘I’m elegant?’
‘Well, no, not as a rule. But you were the other night.’
Unexpectedly, I feel myself blush.
‘You brush up very well, Penelope.’
‘Why, thank you,’ I grin, and do a little twirl in my dressing gown and slippers.
A smile flickers. ‘That’s what my mum used to do.’
‘She did?’
‘Yes. When I was a small boy, she and Dad were always going to parties. I was supposed to be in bed by the time they left, but I would sneak out and watch them through the bannisters. Dad would go to bring the car around, and when he was gone she would always look up and pirouette for me. “How do I look, Edward?” she would always say.’
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 15
