Berlin wall

I thought I'd go and buy my laptop today. I also decided to combine that with some physical exercise, and cycle there. The other side of town, across the canal. Estimated overall distance, about thirty miles.

I live inside my head nowadays. My legs were cycling but my mind was somewhere else. Up and down the hills, across the cattlegrid, and along the canal. Dark green, still waters. Barges lulling alongside, dozing in the early afternoon and grey fading light.

The cycle path is as narrow as a peasant's mentality.

I wish I could give a reason why it happened, but I can't. I simply do not know why.

I fell into the canal.

Not the bike. Just me.

I didn't scream and I didn't call for help. I was so embarrassed, wet, cold and scared that for a second or two I thought I'd just let go and stay in the canal. There was nobody around.

I must remember that falling into very cold and dirty water with a heavy coat on, clothes, trainers and a backpack is a challenging experience. However, I am fit...So I managed to hurl myself out of the water and onto the grass.

You should have seen the state of my hair. I looked like bloody Medusa.

Not bad for my first day of 'me' time. I wonder what I can do tomorrow to make it more exciting.

London.

Yes. Definitely London. It'd be foolish not to.

The whoosh of a train, a thousand heels on the platform, a jump and a dive. To be lost and never be found.

That's it. I decided.

I am using some of my time-for-myself to go and buy a laptop. As I have absolutely no idea about which one to get, do you think I should risk the nylon shirt-infested waters of PC World on my own, or enlist the help of someone who has a clue?

And since when looking (and being) hopeless has been an endearing feature?

I shall be on my own for the next couple of days. My Soon-to-Be Ex is taking the boys to see some friends up North.

Not for me the sudden opening of the bedroom door in the morning, with two little faces beaming as they jump into my bed and push their icy-cold feet into my tummy.

Not for me the whining and whinging about whose turn it is to hold the remote at breakfast time (yes, I allow them to watch the TV during breakfast, whip me if you must).

Not for me growing ten arms like Kali, the Hindu goddess (and fangs too), as I warm up pancakes, pour milk, mix Nesquik, make myself a cup of tea, do the washing-up, open the fingers of Pest n.1's hand grabbing Pest n.2's hair, help find the remote, show Pest n.1 what cereal we have, help find the remote again, throw away my cup of tea because the milk has gone sour, help find the remote, resist the temptation of killing them both...

Not for me the post-breakfast ordeal of washing hands and private bits, brushing milk teeth and finding pants and socks (I have enough trouble finding my own, thanks).

Not for me finding something to do for the day, a little food for their brain and plenty of action for their bodies.

Not for me the dinner time, arguing over whose turn it is to choose whether to have chicken or beef, and which vegetables are less likely to make them sick (beetroot is an all-round winner).

Not for me the bathing time, reading-a-story time, and getting up in the night if one or two beds get wet.... It is rather unpleasant to have a child arrive into your bed soaking wet and smelling of urine: I wash and change him into fresh PJs before allowing them in.

Alone!

Much as I love my children, is it really bad to feel a small wave of relief and a secret joy, looking forward to the next few days?

I poured it, and it was carelessly spilt. The magic is, it just replenishes itself.

He came out of his car, and I came out of mine. I frisked myself for pain, the flooding-in of memories. I know every inch of his person; my eyes wandered over jacket and trousers, the ancient wallet and the trusted wristwatch. Everything as I knew it.

When I tie up the numerous strands of life as we lived it, all those years ago, I am not really sure about what to expect.

It is not hurt. Sorrow or regret. It is not resentment, and - in a way - it is not even love.

I have smoothed over the sharp edges of loss and despair, and managed to hold on to what made me feel alive then.

I feel affection.

A long lunch with the man who strung up my soul and left it to dry out.

And all I can feel is warm affection.

There is hope. If I can forgive him, I can forgive myself. If I can do that, I might even eventually love myself, the UNCHANGEABLE segments of me.

I might manage to replicate that... apply it to fresher wounds, younger hurt. To accept and move on. Never understand, and never try to change it. Just accept.

Beyond and above fermenting envy, the exquisite embroidery of revenge, asthmatic threats and the laughable rolling of adipose egos, the truth has an unerring habit of emerging. One day.

We all have our ghosts to deal with. I stashed most of mine deep into my closet, and jumped up and down on the pile to keep it compact and avoid release. Many hold me in their invisible silky net. A few, I have conquered. One of these, I am even meeting tomorrow.

I find dealing with other people's ghosts a much more palatable option. They can't hurt me, and they feel my lack of fear. I can unlatch their cold fingers from people's souls without recoiling from contact, a little like sweeping the cobwebs away from a dark corner.

I draw the line here.

I got a text this morning.

'I'll burn a disc for you. And I now have a fridge AND some sugar.'

Do you think Mr Single wants me to volunteer the soap?