Do you know what?

I haven't written for ages but I really felt the need today. Since I last posted Seb's started school and has been formally diagnosed with mild to medium autism; I can't say that dealing with either issue has been particularly easy but I'm getting there - Nick's been a great help and I'm very grateful to him.

As for the rest, do you remember that I'd experienced issues with a clingy and overbearing friend from my NCT antenatal group back in June? As a consequence I'd not attended any of the parties to avoid her? I'd been in contact with one of the others who'd promised that we'd meet up at some point but nothing ever came of it? Well, I looked on Facebook today and lo and behold there's a series of pictures pertaining to a Halloween party. How cosy. Petty I know but I deleted and blocked the lot of them. They knew about Seb's autism too because I told them at the Christmas Party but nobody cared to ask for any updates.

Right, moan over - I'm attending the school Parents' Association AGM next Friday to get involved and meet new people.

Wet Saturday

Last night's date was amusing - Nick sought Margaret's advice regarding the choice of restaurant and her, well being Margaret, suggested the venue for her 40th birthday - The Bienvida. I suppose it was both retro and amusing, Nick was slightly mortified, but we had an enjoyable evening. Being a Friday night there was entertainment laid on for the lucky diners, tonight's act was a Tina Turner tribute act. She was ok actually, I'm not sure if the septuagenarian male sitting near the makeshift stage really appreciated the power of Ms Turner's performance, but I suppose it gave us all a bit of a laugh.

Nick's just left for Wood Green; he has to attend a residents' evening riot fundraiser tonight, which I'm sure is as exciting as it sounds. I could spend the time dusting this room couldn't I? Yes, I suppose I could, but I don't think I will. Laziness abounds.

Right, I suppose that gives me a bit more time to write about my relationship with my late/estranged husband doesn't it? Well, he split from his long-term girlfriend and categorically stated that he wasn't interested in another relationship which I respected. Anyway after a couple of times of meeting up and various fumblings I accepted that but the office gossip told me that he was 'seeing one of his female friends' and indeed he was. I fell out with him for a long time after that, I thought he was pathetic. Sadly, I got re-involved with him a few years later, I can't say that I'm proud of that so I won't go into details.

Childcare dot com

This is now the third day I've looked after my son Seb in a week, it may not seem like a great deal but for me it's a bit of a record these days. Days have become very routine - breakfast, walk to a local playground (two different ones in two days now - a veritable 'playground crawl'), lunch, baking, TV, reading, maybe even some colouring. I can't say that I hate it but couldn't imagine being a stay at home mum, perhaps that's because I'm a rubbish housewife or hausfrau as the Germans call it. I am looking at the airer which contains a huge pile of ironing, the only way I like to iron is in front of the TV, but there's currently only one set in this house and Seb's currently bagged it.

Mum's taking Seb overnight because Nick's taking me out for a romantic meal. The venue's a secret and he's told me to dress up. Reflecting on my relationship with Nick is quite nice really, it contains none of the fireworks, worry and passion of my late husband, which can only be a good thing.

I don't think I've ever said how I met Roger Cuffley, well it was back in late 1994 I'd completed my secretarial studies and it was difficult to find a job during that particular recession. Anyway, Roger, I and about 150 other recruits began work at the records department of a huge central Government Department; he was a recent graduate, ambitious and looking to progress, I just wanted a job. He worked in a section which mended broken microfiche records (we are talking about the late twentieth century here!) which I'd wittily dubbed 'Peter's Poking Section' (you clearly had to be there to understand that joke). On first acquaintance he was darn cute, brown hair and eyes, olive skin, medium build and a cheeky demeanour - I was hooked. Sadly, he had a long-term girlfriend and that was that really. I'll fill you in with the rest of the story during a later post - the ironing pile's calling me.

The history of Miss Polly

Oh, just to let you know that Polly was charged with theft and public disorder at the weekend as part of last week's London riots. Apparently she smashed the Wimpy Bar's windows in and stole 35 burger buns, 20 'bender' sausages and 12 catering packs of fries. I've thrown her out and retained her deposit in lieu of the clean up job I'll have to do on the spare room and to cover the cost of a taxi to transport her belongings back to her mother's house. No more lodgers!

The Playground Jungle

Today is the beginning of three days' worth of looking after Seb; don't get me wrong, it's not that I never do, but because of nursery, work and other things I don't tend to see him much in the week. Right, so I arranged to go out with my friend Charlotte and her daughter Samantha and after a couple of cups of tea for dutch courage we took ourselves over to their local playground. Now, don't get me wrong, every area is fairly mixed and Charlotte's road is suburban, busy but the houses are well-tended and it's nice, unfortunately a neighbouring postcode really isn't and I know I shouldn't say it but it has quite a preponderance of social/council housing - call it what you will.

Being school holidays it was crowded, but with a high number of older kids. There were eight or nine-year-olds riding big bicycles around and quite frankly endangering the safety of the youngsters. One kid ran into a toddler/pre-schooler but the mother, despite flashing the brat concerned some rather dirty looks, did absolutely nothing. Ok, so when the brat nearly compromised the safety of young Seb and Sam I marched up to him and gave him a piece of my mind. You'd expect a child to be somewhat humble wouldn't you? Oh no, not at all, the brat insisted on answering me back, telling me not to shout at him and generally to leave him alone. He even denied seeing the 'no bikes' sign on the gate. Ridiculous. One mother deigned to back me up but I saw one of my neighbours in the background with her husband, daughter and grandchildren, she, of course, did nothing, despite being a gossipy old hag most of the time and especially during street Christmas parties when she's got nothing better to do then run everyone down. Her husband wears a hangdog expression most of the time, I don't blame him.

Anyway, the upshot was that the brat left the playground and only returned once we'd departed, some fifteen minutes later. Does this mean that parents have to put up with such behaviour? Is this why this country is such a bloody mess? Answers on a postcard to 'Eleanor Writes, PO Box 123, Suburban Hell'

Rant over.

PS - no invitation for Charlotte to the latest NCT antenatal birthday party. What a surprise, so glad I'm out of the loop on that score.

Shopping, Birthday presents et al

Yesterday evening with Margaret was more interesting than normal, she seems to be getting more relaxed as she gets older and we had a bit of an 80s fest, well watching Back to the Future whilst eating Super Noodles. The only thing which could possibly top that in retro terms would be Dave Lee Travis wearing deeley boppers and playing Space Invaders (strange Viz reference - look it up!)

I went shopping this morning for Seb's birthday presents. He now has some more Thomas the Tank Engine stuff than anyone else I know. I also went to the Early Learning Centre to search for stuff but I kept finding that he had most things so I bought him some educational stuff; I bet he hates it but it's tough really. I also went to Marks and Spencer and tried on some clothes, well a pair of grey skinny jeans, a western shirt and a geometric tunic to be specific. Firstly the jeans looked awful, my muffin top resembled a huge amorphous doughy lump of lard hanging over the waistband, the shirt gaped around the bust area and the tunic showed my bra. Either M&S sizing's up the creek or I have to lose some serious weight. Arse, I thought I'd cracked it.

Seb, broken eggs and the end of an era

Seb left nursery yesterday, it was a sad day indeed because I waved goodbye to some of my independence, but it'll be a nice break for him prior to starting school in September. I went out for the day though and popped into Ann Summers, strange store, a flagship one no less but not really that friendly. I thought I'd try and spice up the physical side of the relationship with Nick via the medium of new underwear, hence I tried on some of their 'dress up' outfits - oh dear! I just looked darn silly and that's no way to behave in the bedroom. As for the basques, well let's just say that the cup size was seriously inadequate and as for all of the hook and eye fastenings, they'd probably tire you out before you'd even got around to getting frisky with your man/partner/lover/butler etc.

Margaret's coming over later; it seems as if she and the revolting Roger have been able to save the shop being looted which in these troubled times is somewhat of a miracle. She'll hog the V+ box no doubt, sometimes I wish she'd pay out for a cable package of her own but she's far too mean.

PS - the strange title of this blog posts relates to Seb's behaviour this morning. He managed to smash seven eggs in the living room this morning and I wasn't best pleased. The place still smells, well, eggy. I hope Margaret doesn't think that I have a flatulence problem!

Nursery Graduation

Seb 'graduated' from Nursery today; I use the term loosely because he's clearly not massively in debt, has a severely enlarged liver and an ironic love of daytime television. He seemed pleased to see myself and Nick in the audience though, sitting on tiny chairs. It was a hot day so the subsequent tea party was a little stuffy but I got talking to a nice couple who are also sending their child to the same primary school, most people have plumped for a nearer one but I dismissed it because they have insufficient breakfast and after school provision.

Many of the parents got emotional, obviously not to the point that their salty tears would damage their expensive iPhones, camcorders or any other technology they waved about, or even trouble their Ray-Bans. That's a nasty thing to say, of course it is and maybe I'm unemotional, glacial maybe? Perhaps that's why I'm keeping it all inside and one day it'll all burst forth?

Seb's been asking after Daddy recently, how much does a 'soon to be four year old' understand? My own Father dropped dead when I was five-and-a-half, I still remember him, but not much. Most of the detail of his life and hobbies has been gleaned from others. Pity really, I think if I'd known him we'd really be able to get along.

Calling all women: abuse on the streets just isn't on!

I'm writing to tell you about an incident which happened last week. I was working from home and needed to pick up some of Seb's new uniform from his new school, plus I wanted to pick up a parcel and pop into the supermarket and buy a few things for dinner, hence why I decided to beat the lunchtime 'rush' and leave at 11am. Anyway, I rounded the corner from my road into the main thoroughfare and there was a man walking by the bus stop; now I'm not normally a nervous or jumpy pedestrian but something about this bloke made me feel uneasy. I walked by, trying to keep my expression as neutral as possible, but once he'd passed me he said loudly 'make sure you don't take your eye out with one of those!' gesturing towards my breasts, I shouted 'what did you mean?' and swore at him, but he turned into my road and carried on regardless. What this man forgot was that he was wearing a reflective tabard with his company name printed on the back; I made a mental note of this.

I continued my journey feeling angry and upset - why had this happened? Yes, I have a large chest and men often stare, whatever I'm wearing. Quite frankly though, this doesn't give people the divine right to comment, nobody in this day and age should be doing this. Women get a raw deal, I noted the recent 'slut walk' which took place in the centre of London which was women basically saying 'I can wear what I like and stuff you.'

When I returned home I googled it, as you can imagine it's a fairly common occurrence and there are websites devoted to it: http://www.stopstreetharassment.com/ plus campaigns to raise awareness.

As for me, well I contacted the culprit's company, who were quick to respond and I must admit, were impressive with the way they dealt with it. I answered all of the detailed questions and if the person isn't caught, at least the company will highlight the need for their staff to behave in an appropriate manner. Whatever happens, I'll keep on fighting and I'll let you know how the situation develops.

A day out with Nick

For readers who are remotely interested my relationship with Nick is going from strength to strength. Today he took the day off work and accompanied me to the Film Museum which is situated in London's County Hall. It was a good day out, especially as we had a 2for1 ticket, which saved us the princely sum of £13.50 - gawd, I'm starting to sound like Margaret now aren't I? The history of film is always interesting and Nick's offered to bring around his Charlie Chaplin collection for me to enjoy.

We wandered around the South Bank hand in hand, which wasn't easy to do as there were an awful lot of tourists milling about. In my fevered youth I used to think that relationships were puncuated by iron beds, sex, nice coffee and book fayres - sadly I was mis-informed but it's sometimes nice to dream. We had lunch in gourmet pizza, a place I'd previously visited with an ex-boyfriend who bored me to death about telephones, but it wasn't the case today, Nick was on wonderfully witty form.

I don't think I've ever described Nick in detail - i.e. what he does, what he looks like, where does he live etc? Well he's about six foot tall, he sports a full head of thick, dark hair, has faded blue eyes and a cheeky grin. Clothes wise he likes to wear patterned/flowery shirts, Levi's 501s, suede desert boots and cord jackets. At work he wears a suit but I can tell that he's not a natural fan of formal outfits.

He's a civil servant, a Grade 7 to be precise, a position he reached after spending a few years in Department's ADP fast-track scheme. He's laid back, intelligent with a wicked sense of humour. He's currently living in a Victorian conversion flat situated in London's Wood Green, a surburb he could afford after splitting from his wife back in 2005.

Right, that's about it for now, I'd better stop typing and fix myself something to eat.

Seb's school settling in scenario

Well, that's a load of alliteration for you! Seb's due to attend a 'settling in' session at his new school this afternoon; it's drop off at 2:15 and pick up by 3:10 (I wonder whether I've enough time to nip to the shops during the 55 minute child hiatus?) I went to a school meeting last week and one of the rules is that no child should sport a temporary tattoo, so guess what I've gone and done? I must say the rose design looks rather natty on my right wrist! At least it'll make me blend in with the other parents a bit more (meow!)

It was strange leaving Polly in the house last week, not that anything untoward happened but I'm not sure if I'm happy with the lodger arrangement, especially since Roger's bequest. She's a very intense girl - I can't put my finger upon it, but there's something really odd about her, she hasn't any friends of her own except the lugubrious Roger Reynolds and she's totally self-obsessed. I'll keep you informed of all happenings on this score.

Seeking Sunshine by the Sea

I'm sorry that I haven't written for ages, it's a combination of my recent bereavement, which I've no doubt cousin Margaret has elaborated on, and the fact that I just can't find the correct words to say, but I'll have a go. The funeral and all of the aftermath went as well as could be expected and the upshot is that the mortgage for the house has been paid off, so I can stay without fear of being repossessed. I feel a bit numb really - the death of one's estranged spouse is somewhat difficult to deal with because there's so much bitterness mixed up with the grief. I returned back to work soon after the funeral and I've now taken a fortnight's leave to enjoy the last year before I'm constrained by school holidays.

I'm holed up in my parents' seaside bungalow with Seb, who loves nothing more than throwing most of the stony beach into the sea at regular intervals. Nick's coming to visit on Wednesday which will be nice. We may venture out to the local museum, a place which boasts a series of rotting fishing nets, some plaster figureheads and a great deal of material about bathing machines. I suppose it will be of interest after a short interlude in a briny seaside pub beforehand.

Helen Leckwith-Smith - a woman of substance?

I was truly honoured yesterday - my mother-in-law Helen Leckwith-Smith (HLS to her friends, enemies and the window cleaner) decided to do me a great honour and visit her estranged daughter-in-law and youngest grandson, so with that in mind I ran the Dyson around the laminate floor, plumped up the cushions and removed the squashed fairy cake from behind the TV. HLS was accompanied by Simon, a disabled man she befriended whilst carrying out voluntary work for a charity called 'Patrons of the Disabled' or 'Patronising the Disabled' as I like to call it. Simon clearly doesn't get out much because he says very little and is almost constantly plugged into his tiny radio, mind you, I think I'd employ the same tactics if I had to spend any more time in HLS's company.

We had good day of sorts. My brother Ollie turned up with his two daughters, my nieces Salamanda and Cassandra, who are fairly undemanding and cute. HLS fawned over them more than her own grandson and mentioned on more than one occasion that she would rather have sired daughters. Saying that, I can understand her dilemma because my ex Roger apparently spent the first five years of his childhood saying 'bummy, tummy, mummy' on repeat and his older brother Gideon once set fire to the local scout hut so in retrospect, perhaps a daughter would have been a blessing.

They departed via taxi at 7:15, I was glad to see them go and nearly threw their coats at them.

Nick's taking me and Seb out tomorrow for a drive to the coast. This is great, I hope he doesn't mind my tuppence 'Flipper Winner' addiction - Roger used to hate it.

A day in London

Now that Seb's at nursery on a Friday I often find myself popping up to London for a break and that's exactly what I did today. I walked around the City a bit and marvelled at the Swiss Re building close up; I also took a bus ride to Hackney to see what all the fuss is about, thought it very 'urban' and caught a different bus back to central London again. I met Nick for lunch in the Civil Service Club, it's a much nicer place now it's been refurbished and the large television removed from the bar area. We sat in the corner and talked for ages until he had to return to work, but luckily he's off on Tuesday because us mighty Civil Servants are granted an extra two point five days off per annum, I suppose this makes up for the piss poor salary - who knows?

In the afternoon I had a mosey around the shops and bought Seb a rather natty duvet cover from Next which had colourful transport images on it. He loves it. I am now suffering the strains of In the Night Garden, a programme I thought he'd grown out of ages ago - sigh!

A school fayre, a mystic and a conundrum

Yesterday I went to Seb's prospective school fayre with mum in tow because she loves that kind of thing and my son can be a bit of a handful at times. Alongside all of the tombola stalls, doughnut decorating and plant sales there was a mystic stall so I decided to throw caution the wind, pay my £5 and have a reading. It was odd, as with most things, mystics seem to provide some very general information - the sort which can be interpreted any way you wish, apparently I have a great deal of love coming to me from those in the spirit world and those below, still on earth. The really odd thing is that she stated that she was getting a clear picture of a man, formerly close to me screaming out in agony, a huge set of snarling animal's teeth and then blackness. I don't know quite what to make of that one.

There was a stall featuring owls - a tawny, long eared, snowy and barn - so frankly the whole set. I wasn't so keen on the series of tattooed women pushing through but this is a regular feature of this somewhat chavvy suburb I live in so I let it pass. I couldn't imagine being an owl trainer - a life keeping owls in a box and transporting them around childrens' parties, fayres and country shows. That would be a very odd existence indeed. After I'd fed Seb on the various goodies available I ventured home.

I received a call from Nick at 8:15, he's very thoughtful and waited until I'd got Seb into bed and settled down on the sofa with a glass of wine. We chatted for ages, there were no gaps in the conversation so all was good. Polly came in at some point, dripping all over the laminate. Apparently she'd been 're-birthing' in the local park's lake. I do hope she doesn't develop Wheal's Disease - the whole windsurfing community went down with that a few years back.

Nick Brazier and the Brunels' Tunnel

I thought you may want to hear about my date, well I'm going to tell you anyway, so there! I met Nick at Bermondsey tube which I have to admit is located in a really rank area full of council estates and tramps. Nick was dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a jacket with a small peep of chest hair emerging from his shirt which I, and probably other women find very sexy indeed. He paid for both of our walks and we set off with the guide and twenty or so others towards the river. It was an interesting meander through some very historic areas and knowing that a riverside pub was possibly haunted by Judge Jeffries was fairly amusing.

The highlight of the walk was the Brunels' tunnel itself (named after Marc and Isambard) as we climbed down the temporary staircase Nick was keen to lend a hand, not in a pervy way you'll understand, but in a gentlemanly fashion. We spent fifteen minutes or so down in the shaft which is situated directly above the London Overground, so we could feel the rumble of trains underneath our feet. It was a little cold though and I'd wished I'd worn something a little warmer but Nick was a total star and gave me his jacket for additional warmth.

Afterwards we boarded the London Overground at Rotherhithe Station and travelled to Lewingham where we shared a curry. Nick laughed when I said I was addicted to poppadoms but after I consumed five of them he merely smiled and suggested I may have a medical condition called 'poppodomania'. We caught our respective trains home at 10:30 and Nick asked me to call him when I got home to check I was safe.

Saturday Sigh

I wouldn't say that Polly is annoying lodger but she is; at 6am this morning I heard her practising her vocal scales in the bathroom, which isn't the ideal way of starting my weekend I must admit. I banged on the wall until she stopped; I don't mind her singing as I practice myself around the house but it's the unearthly hour I have an issue with. Anyway the upshot of all that was that Seb woke up and demanded his breakfast - gah!

I don't think I've told you but I was sitting in the Civil Service Club the other day enjoying my copy of Grazia and a glass of white wine when an old colleague of mine called Nick Brazier walked in with a small group of besuited gentlemen. He noticed me in the corner and we soon started chatting, Nick having excused himself to the wider group by then. It transpired that Nick separated from his wife a year ago because she got romantically involved with a clown from a travelling circus and decided to chuck in her job and follow him around. I told him about my situation and he sympathised stating that he'd never really liked Roger because he'd insulted him during a 'bring your husband to work day'. Anyway, the upshot of it all is that we've arranged to meet up for a date on Tuesday, we're going to explore Brunel's Thames Tunnel and go for a meal afterwards - how fab!

Monday Morning Madcap Musings

It's Monday and conversely is always a good idea to sort out the housework so I have done two loads of washing, the window cleaner's here and I'm taking some time out of my busy schedule to do some writing. Seb is currently wandering around the house dressed in a shirt, a pair of pants and my chunky boots whilst munching on an apple; he's a bit eccentric, but I love that about him. The Wheels on the Bus CD is playing, I'm not sure quite how nursery rhymes mix with world music but they've given it a go anyway. Readers will also be pleased to learn that his toilet training's going well, he's mastered weeing in the potty, poos are another thing though.

Polly's been living here for about a week now, she's an odd girl I must say. She likes lighting joss sticks in her room, soaking in long baths, practising yoga facing east in the garden and writing. In fact, I found one of her notebooks in the dining room earlier, here's some of her efforts.


The Shop Girl Mystery by Polly St Germain

I had always known that I was born to better things; working in a second-hand clothes shop in surburban London wasn't all it was cracked up to be, the customers were on the whole, polite but distant but I always wanted more. One day a distinguished gentleman walked into the shop and I knew that my life would change forever.....

Right....ok. She makes Margaret seem sane, which is a tall order, I must say.

Margaret moves out and musings regarding parenthood

Margaret moved out today and I've just finished helping her shift her stuff over to her new flat. I've got a few hours spare until Polly moves in so I think I'll do some writing. I find that it often helps.

I don't find parenthood easy; I never did, I suppose it's got worse since my husband Roger left but writing about it helps. Seb's a lovely child, affectionate and lively but with the undercurrent of the possibility of him being autistic clouding it all. I don't think he is, the professionals are undecided so it's an uphill task of tests, observations and never-ending forms. People without children don't really understand the sheer amount of guilt which plagues the working woman these days even if, as I do, choose to work part-time, it's never quite good enough.

I suppose I could blame the media but that would be wrong so maybe peer pressure's to blame - who knows? I guess it depends on your background/where you live/your expectations in life etc but it's never easy and feeling an outsider's the worst thing of all. Even taking Seb to one of the local playgrounds is a complete nightmare at times, I find it difficult to communicate with other parents and appear stand-offish as a result, hiding behind my huge sunglasses in the summer and a hood in the winter. I also find it hard to relate to other people's children; my brother's brilliant at this because he's a real kid at heart but I can't quite find the right communication style. As for teenagers - they're a completely different breed, I can't bear the ones who race their bikes around the playground and/or play their music out loud on the top deck of the bus - who can?

Well, that feels better, a load off my mind. Having one child is also a bonus as we can form a tight family unit of two. I suppose Polly will make three, I can't imagine sharing a house with somebody I barely know but time will tell.

Another bank holiday!

Well, it's another bank holiday and hurrah if you enjoy lazing around and 'blow' if you don't. The house needs loads of TLC/DIY/Whatever spent on it but I just can't be bothered if I'm honest. Margaret mentioned that Roger et al may be popping around once the shop closed but I put my foot down this time stating that the grass sorely needed cutting and Roger had mentioned a rather pernitious bout of hayfever which put the mockers on things somewhat.

Margaret spent the whole morning ordering things from the Betterware catalogue for her new flat - goodness knows why? Apparently her parents have gifted her £4,235 from the sale of their house to a local builder [who can address the subsidence issue and sell it on for a huge profit no doubt] so she's added some to her vast ISA/savings/whatever and to save on tax they've strangely provided her with £250 worth of Betterware vouchers to spend on total rubbish I doubt she'll ever use and will forever clutter up her undersink cupboard. Here's what she purchased:

Lace modesty panels [for use with low necked clothing] - pack of 3 - £5.49
Meercat bin stickers - £2.99
Paint your own gnome - £8.99
Floral washing bags (2) - £4.49
Shoe-shaped shoe-shine - £3.49
Swan 3D ornamental puzzle - £7.49
Satin lace nightcap - £3.49
LED flashing shoelaces - £7.99
Glow in the dark keyrings - £5.99
Cotton tabard - £5.99
Topster milk carton pourers - £2.49
Onion keeper - £3.49

Seriously, I wonder about her sometimes....

So much for a quiet Saturday...

Brilliant, I returned from shopping to find that Margaret had visited Roger's Relics and seemingly invited the eponymous Roger over to the house this afternoon along with his shop assistant Polly as the shop was going to close at 1pm and they had no outdoor space to enjoy the sunny weather in. This is, of course, along with her tiresome friend Emma and her tattooed wannabe pop star boyfriend, the truly dreadful Connor.

If it wasn't for Seb being in the house I think I'd be hitting the chardonnay about nowish. Do you think the sun is officially over the yard arm? Right, let's just download these Napster tracks and I'll head towards the fridge...

Easter Break

I'm grateful for the Easter break as I'm getting very fed up with work at the moment, I work in a very dull, quiet office. Very few people speak and if they do eyebrows are raised. Music keeps me sane, which is brilliant because I've done two 'taster' classes this work - musical theatre on Wednesday and rock singing yesterday; the latter was much more up my street and the former, well let's just say that I'm physically dyslexic when it comes to dance!

My estranged husband Roger (not to be confused with Margaret's new landlord who shares the same forename - doesn't the person writing this have any imagination at all?) left a strange rambling message on the landline answering machine last night. Apparently drunk, he purports to still love me and has sworn off all other women. Hmm. I don't think so, do you?

Saying that, I'm more than aware that I'll have to put this house on the market at some point as I'm starting to get into mortgage arrears despite my parents stepping in to the breach. Perhaps I should see whether Roger Reynolds has any other flats available for rent but from Margaret's description he sounds really creepy so maybe not>

Taking back da house

This weekend was a good one for me because I went out with a selection of friends on Saturday night and left Seb with Margaret babysitting. Apart from him getting in the way of VH1's Top Forty Bubblegum Pop Moments and smearing banana on her cardigan, she seemed to cope very well. She told me yesterday evening that she's managed to find a flat above a shop near the station which is a good and a bad thing; I admit that I like the company but can't really cope with her for much longer, she's a lovely woman but I'm fed up with her unrealistic cleaning expectations plus her excessive labelling of food items. She'll be off in the next couple of weeks if all goes well, which is good because Uncle Jim has found a place in the Retired HumanEarthworm Sanctuary in Dorset and Auntie Pat is buying a Majorcan villa with her lover, you know the one, he looks like a heady mixture between Phil Collins and Leonard Rossiter.

I have joined the Departmental choir! Yes, after Easter I'll be singing my little heart out once a week. I love singing and since my beautiful rendition of 'My Old Man Said Follow The Van' at Butlins during the 80s I've always hankered to perform. Sadly my brother outdid me on that holiday by dressing up as a Roman Centurion and lifting the female Redcoats' skirts with his balsa wood sword.

Margaret et Wilf

The scene – Eleanor’s spare room, which includes a double bed, some wardrobes and an awful lot of unwanted junk she’s yet to throw away.

Wilf - I needed to see you Margaret, there’s so much I have to say and none of it is easy.

Margaret - (tearful) Right, please go ahead.

W - Well, it’s Mr A, he’s gone. You’re sad, I can’t bear you like this.

M - It’s a consequence of his death and other things, you know me, an old stick in the mud, resisting change from all angles

W - I know Margaret and although I love you, but we can’t be together if your heart is elsewhere

M - Please don’t say that, I couldn’t bear it.

W - I hate to leave you Margaret at such a difficult time but we have to stay true to ourselves and part before one of us gets hurt

M - (grabbing the cushion) I keep seeing his face, his smile, his high-waisted trousers, even during my dreams

W - That is as may Margaret, but you never really knew him; you spent very little time together

M - That’s true, but we had a connection

W - That’s all very well but did you ever bicker about the price of Ginster’s Pasties during a routine trip to Asda? No, well that’s real life and your fling with him was pure fantasy.

M - (dramatically) Then leave me to my dreams and visions, they have no place in our fractured relationship

W - You mean, former relationship. It’s over, for good.

M - (throwing herself on the bed) Fine. Please go now. (dissolves into tears)

End of act one.

Black Wednesday for Margaret

Yes it was, bleak as hell. I received a call from Marcus Durbridge today at work who is Margaret's former beau's, Henry Arbuthnot's former colleague (there are too many 'formers' in there for my liking!) Anyway, he asked whether I'd heard the news? Apparently Arbuthnot's lifeless body was found floating in The Thames, according to the post mortem he'd been dead for a week or so. Nobody seems to know the circumstances surrounding his disappearance and subsequent death but there's a possible MI5 Spooks angle which I guess, but its very nature, is very 'hush hush'.

Coming over to tell Margaret was dreadful, I accompanied her home but that's not a safe place to be either because the subsidence is really kicking in. I've now put her up in my spare room, it's quite nice really and Seb and I could do with the company. I'll keep you posted.

Ann Summers, here I come

Sorry I've not written a great deal recently, but as you know, things have been rather difficult of late. My estranged husband has now rented a flat in the vicinity so access to Seb is all well and good. I'm slowly getting there, it was a shock but sometimes these things are necessary to extracate you from a comfort zone. The pre-sale renovations on this house are commencing next week because, according to my errant spouse, 'it's an awful back biting world of property sales out there.'

I'm co-hosting an Ann Summers party here tonight in conjunction with my friend from up the road Jane Turner-Smith. JTS as she's known is a strange woman who lives with her husband and five rescue cats all named after members of Take That. She doesn't really like children though and suggested that I attach barbed wire to Seb's safety gate to stop him from descending the stairs at night. People without kids, aren't they weird?

Talking of odd, I can't believe that I've invited my cousin Margaret along tonight, she's such a bore! I don't really care that she's been bequeathed a tortoise by her friend Annabel or that she's still stepping out with that tedious Wilf. Note to self: must spike her drinks.

Whhhhhhaaaaaaaahhhhhh

Seb in bed, I've had nearly a whole bottle of wine - what's going on? Arrrrrggggghhh - going through old email accounts has proved that the ex was carrying on for months, gawd, with some RANK women from various dating sites. Plenty of Fish? Plenty of Fecking Ugly Fishwives. Raaaahaahhh

When, oh when will this anger go????

NCT reunion

Readers will be pleased to learn that I've made suitable arrangements with my estranged husband regarding custody and funding for Seb. Therefore he's staying with his paternal grandparents this weekend in their second home 'PeaceVille' which is anything but when my Mother-in-Law starts opera singing!

Last night I attended my National Childbirth Trust (NCT) antenatal group reunion which was held in a local Indian restaurant. There are seven of us which doesn't include a woman called Fiona who dropped out yonks ago. They're an ok bunch, but as with anything of that nature, they're obsessed with material goods and 'one upmanship'. My recent separation was the whisper of the [Facebook] village apparently but there were concerns that I'd be a threat to the cosy ethos of the organisation should I proceed with the divorce. The restaurant was trendy, loud and brash but I'm no fan of the surrounding village as I believe it to be overpriced and snobby. The waiters were downright rude and shouted our orders and thumped the dishes down onto the table so violently that the sauce spattered everywhere. At the end of the evening, a 20 surcharge was levied on the bill for groups of six or more but myself and Moira stood firm and refused to pay it. This made the others uncomfortable but they didn't complain too much when their individual bills were rebated.

In the taxi home I felt very alone and returning to an empty house was awful. I do hope life gets better soon.

Potty training boot camp

Well, it's been over two weeks since hubby left and apart from a dog eared cheque I've not heard hide nor hair of him which is a shame because he hasn't even asked after his son. Talking of the latter, I'm potty training him by guerilla tactics now as he has to start school in September and he's not out of nappies yet. Obviously this means loads of washing but I can cope, it gives me something to do anyway!

I'm out this weekend, Mum said she'd look after Seb whilst I have a mooch around London.

Goodbye hubby, hello 2011!

Well, here's a thing, I start the new year/decade (whatever) a separated woman. It's all been too much, I was sick of him wandering off, so I left Seb with my mum and followed him. He travelled to Old Street and disappeared into a seedy club which I had to pay a tenner to get past the doormen. I think you can guess that it was a strip club and the pair of kickers I was wearing didn't really suit the occasion, but there you go. I saw him in the corner, surrounded by scantily clad women and was so disgusted that I threw a drink all over him and stormed out. To add insult to injury (literally) I suggested to the bouncer that he'd insinuated that he was a little too fond of dogs and left them to 'sort it out'.

The next day I cleared all of his stuff out, hired a taxi and had it sent around to his Mothers. He hasn't reappeared and assuming he's still alive, I'm guessing he's holed up there.

Goodbye and good riddance. I've also listed his golf clubs on eBay - sweet revenge!