Isn’t it just scandalous when life gets in the way of blogging?
Last week I was on a roll- blogging past myself, doo-lally and delighted by both maelstrom and merriment.
Gleeful with who knows what?
So I started cleaning. Tearing off loose covers and pulling down blinds. Swiping the skirting boards and re-arranging tangled fairy lights. Three days of hectic scrubbing, and cleaning and fixing and setting the dishwasher on fire (Yes, really. How many fires can one woman have in the space of twelve months?). Three days of misery from Mark because she who has no name dumped him and he, in his infinite wisdom decided that my freshly scrubbed twinkly pretty house was the only place he could bear to be. Three days of utter gloom dithering about whether not wanting him back in our little family was utterly selfish- never mind the fact that there was not a doubt in Liverpool that he was plainly just feeling a bit sorry for himself and that my whole world, heart, hopes and dreams have long moved beyond who he and I, used to be.
And then she clicked her fingers, Mark went scurrying back and I danced around the freshly steam cleaned carpet, half demented with relief .
But, oh how to get past our yesterdays? The guilt. The pain. The tomorrows that have to be re-invented, weaving somebody elses life into ours, hurting for what isn’t and glad, so terribly glad, that the man sitting at your dinner table the next evening is everything you had no idea you wanted, indeed needed– thrilled and scared stiff by the sheer upheaval of loving someone new.
So we are scared. All of us. Him. Me. Mark. My Mum. Navigating whole new countries and scared that tomorrow will be the same as yesterday with way too many sacrifices to be made along the way…
But for now I am happy. Happy with hope, stuttered secrets, locked precious up inside you and the permanent throb of fingers crossed.
Happy you see, is a dark cosy evening. Too many candles, and hyacinths everywhere. A plate of shortbread and cinnamon milk at my side. A child freshly scrubbed in Thomas The Tank engine pyjamas and Clare, lovely, lovely Clare on her way round to help me set the world to rights.
Happy turns out to be just the other side of misery. So it will be ok. I’m blogging again. Spilling my heart onto the screen and hoping nobody minds.
Fancy that! Shortbread is the answer to every question I ever had. I just didn’t realise it.