So it’s over. Like I said it would be. And I’m in bit’s.

He came last night with perfume and promises of tomorrows. I made quiche (brie and bacon- perhaps I’ll write up the recipe one day) and we walked hand in hand, stopping to kiss under lampposts and giggle at houses drowning in Christmas cheer. It was  silly and perfect and it is over.  If I knew why  I would  tell you.

So this is how it is. Being grown up. Making decisions that break your heart because there are children involved and they and the security of their little worlds are all that matters. Because there are one hundred and eighty miles between us and ex partners, and babba’s and parents whose hearts must be protected. Because we can’t imagine what life would look like together and in no space at all we can’t imagine how its going to be without the daily conversations that have sustained us. How life is going to look, no, feel, apart.

Goodness, never in a lifetime and twice in the space of a year. Sorrow doesn’t suit me at all.

And so his last memory of me will be this: waving as he drives away and I stand in the porch arms wrapped around myself, a red jumper hanging off my bare shoulders and a face streaked with mascara, blotchy with bye byes. Looking a positive fright.

It’s time for Bridget Jones (Oh Lordy, try not to picture me and Bridget throwing ourselves around our messy living rooms, wailing along to "All By Myself" in baggy pyjamas!) and a can of Tizer, the only two things in the world I can think of to cheer me up right now. It’s quite cosy here tonight. Just me and my fieldmouse, twinkling at each other in the light of a Christmas tree festooned in paper chains. Thank goodness for  hugs from my Mum and chicken casserole delivered hot from the oven by Kath.

Tell me now- is this what happens when you are willing to give too much of yourself away? Do forgive me, I feel a bit bashed up.