20. It isn’t enough to say things clearly.

So often I’ve heard that communication is the key to good relationships. It’s a fair call. It makes sense that if you’ve made yourself understood that the other parties have a better chance of helping in a situation in a way you need them to. It isn’t enough to say things clearly, or even make sure someone has heard you, but to make completely sure that what you are meaning is, without doubt, clearly and totally received.

And that’s the key I have clearly missed of late… I thought I had made something obvious and I hadn’t.

It’s easy to go down the root of “does he not know me at all” but that really isn’t going to pay off for either of us. So I’ll swallow my retorts and start again. Breathe.

I cannot be here when he leaves.

I can help him pack, sort out things he’ll need, divide the stuff we’ve gathered over the years, but I won’t help him load a van and drive away. The thought of it still draws the biggest lump into my throat. It’s the moment I panic with the weight of it all. I said it to him last night and I could barely get the words out. How does he not know how deep this pain goes?

But this is not about what he should know about me, because, just maybe, that’s part of why we are over and starting down different paths. I have assumed things that I thought were obvious over the years, but they were possible only obvious to my way of thinking. I know we think differently. I can’t say one is better than the other (well, I could, but that wouldn’t really help) but I have to learn that from this point on to make things so damn clear there isn’t room for a misunderstanding. Not to rely on the fact that he used to ‘get’ me. Maybe he never did, it just seemed like it.

So, a lesson, a painful one, learned. But at least he isn’t expecting me to wave him off anymore.

19. Who the hell takes a walking holiday just before they move house?

When is a break up not a break up? When one of the party doesn’t leave…

Ok, so I know we’re taking this whole ‘end of us’ thing calmly, nicely, gently. But it’s still happening. Isn’t it? Or have I just moved into the spare room, upset lots of people and lost half a stone just for the fun of it. Because it only seems like it’s me that’s doing anything about his choice to move. FFS! I am so confused I’m not even cross.

These are the facts that have been shared: The flat he moves into will be empty from 29th December. I am away from 29th December. Daughter is having a party in the home he is leaving on 31st December. Having discussed his moving – yesterday I even brought up my concern for his lack of planning and perhaps he’d like to get some boxes or that sort of thing – today he announces he’s off on a walking holiday from the 27th for a few days.

Have I missed something?

I’m quite ready to get to the stage when I miss him. I’m just worried that it’s not going to happen.

Who the hell takes a walking holiday just before they move house? I think I may be changing my mind on this ‘can we do this nicely” plan. Because right now I want to hit his big selfish head with a massive stick. I get that it’s hard to do things sometimes – that’s usually when you ask for help. I understand that the move may be freaking him out – I’m scared too. I worry about him, about me. But I’m trying to move forward, and I don’t expect anyone else to do it for me. Surely he knows he’s got to pull his finger out, sort the move, the stuff, his life. Has his head been in the clouds (I refrain from saying up his arse) for so long he’s forgotten that there’s a world out there that takes some organising. How spoiled is he?

And what the hell do I do about it?

18. Is it only me that’s planning what he needs? 

In my lifetime I have moved quite a lot, and most of that moving was done when I was a child. My father was in the Air Force, and every eighteen months or so off we would all go to pastures new. Sometimes abroad, sometimes not. The upheaval was cleverly absorbed by my mum, who could pack up an entire house in next to no time and have three children, a dog and a family’s worth of belongings ready to be moved with, on one occasion, just over a week’s notice. I have learned to pack up and ship out quickly. I’m good at packing – tricks shared by a busy mum are usually good ones. And I can plan the best order to shift things, what’s essential and what goes where.

I’ve been thinking about how best to divide up the things we have. There is furniture and beds, wardrobes, drawers and a sofa at the new flat. There are dining chairs around a big wooden kitchen table – I know because I built the table myself, the first proper thing I’ve ever made. There’s a cooker, washing machine and fridge. There’s nothing else.

Has he thought about how to divide our stuff? Is it only me that’s planning what he needs? 

I’ve gone through lists of bedding, towels, kitchen things in my head to be as fair as I can. I’m trying not to think about the fact I have bought nearly everything in the house. It was my spare cash that funded an Ikea trip or – and this one does irk – replaced something he broke. I have to leave that thought somewhere marked “get over it”.

But he’s mentioned nothing.

So do I say something? Even suggest that he might like to get some boxes in for the move? Book a van and even a man? If this is his new life ahead of him, to be his own man, forge his own path, then surely he’s going to need a cup for his tea and a pot for his porridge.

I think I’m going to try and shut up and see if he notices. I have tendency to take over in a situation where I know I can sort things. That’s fine when you’re together, but we’re not. It’s not my job anymore – as I keep being reminded (by friends, not him). So I’ll bite my tongue.

Ow!

17. So why is it only me that’s telling anyone?

South London parks are full of bright green, squawking parakeets. There are many theories as to how they got there. Stories range from Jimmy Hendrix letting some out of a house in Tooting, to an escaping flock from a travelling magic show. The most delightful is that they escaped from Shepperton Studios during the filming of The African Queen. Today, on a wintery but sunny day I strolled around the park with the nattering dazzling birds doing the occasional fly-past. The noise as the birds chatter to each other, whether two or three or a large noisy flock is funny and somehow, strangely reassuring.

I walked in the company of two wonderful, kind women who started off as neighbours – and still are – and have become good good friends. And we talked.

It’s really hard to start the sentence that finishes with “he and I are separating’. It feels trite to say ‘I’ve got some news’. ‘I have something to tell you’ feels overly dramatic – even though this is a big big drama. I am finding this announcements really tricky – and no one is expecting it.

They’re all being lovely. Supportive and practical, with offers of a cuppa when needed, or a space on the sofa and some crap telly if uncomplicated company is required. These friends are the family we choose, and their value is immense.

So why is it only me that’s telling anyone?

He spent an evening last week in the company of one of our local friends, a few doors away. A couple of drinks, and a few hours talking. But he didn’t say the biggest thing of all. I did ask why not, but the answer wasn’t really there. I don’t know if he’s scared, embarrassed, too upset. I’m all of those. It’s not like the opportunities aren’t there. Those one to one moments can be easy to create. If I can do it..

I know it doesn’t get any easier in the telling. I still have the hardest conversation ahead of me, which I have so far avoided, and that isn’t helping. But there are reasons – not the least that I have to do it by phone. But letting people know has to be done, the word has to get out. And people, as I often find about most things, are nearly always lovely.

16. And then I talked about our wedding.

I’ve been on a night out. Get me, socialising!

A group of people that I know on different levels, some are friends, some are good friends. A couple of newbies into the mix too. All of which made for a very fun and pleasant evening.

There was a big conversation about domestic violence. (No time for twittering smalltalk in Brixton!) It lead on to discussions on society’s expectations of women; whether marriage is still the standard for a relationship; and finally onto the event and traditions of a wedding itself.

Why is it that men still do all the speeches at a wedding? One of the men in the group said he regretted not managing the situation at his own wedding so that at least one woman gave a speech. We raged about wedding excesses, destination weddings, weekend, even week long, Hen and Stag doos, unreasonable costs and general over-the-top nature of many of todays nuptials.

And then I talked about our wedding. I was, and still am, proud and happy and touched by our wedding day. For a start we managed to pick the only sunny day in June that year – and thankfully so as we had our reception in our garden with very little option for a plan B. There were no fanfares, formalities or fineries, but a gathering of loved and cherished friends and family. My dearest and most precious girlfriend gave a speech – not because she was asked, but because she wanted to – and was very much the best woman for the job. The cake was a mountain of fairy cakes made for us by several baking enthusiasts among the guests, and placed on a large four teared cake stand I made a couple of days earlier. Our wedding car was our friend’s camper van. And the only dress requirement was that everyone wore a hat. Jeans and a t-shirt if they felt like it, but topped with a proper hat.

It was a joyful, warm and lovely day. Tears were shed, much laughter was heard and to be surrounded by those we cared about the most was very very special.

I shall always be proud of it. We haven’t lasted for ever. If I’m truthful some cracks were around even then. But it doesn’t mean it wasn’t a special day. Done the way we wanted it. Not for show, or to impress, but to have a rather splendid wedding, that people enjoyed, admired for it’s gentleness and calm.

If we can end half as well I will be proud of us all the more.

15. So now I have to pick my anger apart. 

Fridays are always my turn to do the early dog walk. Mondays, Fridays and Saturdays have always been mine since he gave up teaching totally and those are his yoga instructor days. I’ll have to get used to every day is early dog walk day – but that’s hardly the worse thing in the world.

Back to today, and it’s wet and windy. Lovely. You can never take a brolly on a dog walk but it would be nice if my hood stayed up.  I’m walking around Brockwell Park. It’s one of South London’s delights, lots to see and do, beautiful spaces and great views – well, not today obviously. And as I stomp around throwing a tennis ball for an increasingly muddy  dog I suddenly get cross. About an discussion I’m having in my head with the soon to be ex. I’m holding both sides of course ( don’t pretend you don’t do this! ) and his (?!) request is really making me cross. I know it’s not real. But it’s there all the same.

So now I have to pick my anger apart. 

He moves out between Christmas and new year. I don’t want to be here for it. I’ve decided to go up north with the dog for a few days, and especially over New Year’s Eve. I haven’t told him that. I am taking the car – it’s mine anyway as he can’t, and very much won’t, drive. But my anger is that I’m convinced he’ll expect me to help.

There is so much he hasn’t considered, let alone slightly planned for. He’s happy to be going, I can tell. I would imagine that he is trying to keep a lid on it. But how head-in-the-clouds can you be? Does he still expect others to be the grown-ups for him? has he even thought about the logistics, what he’s going to take, what he’ll need? What he’s going to pack it in?

I have. I’ve worked out what bedding he can have so we both have an equal amount of new stuff to get. I know we have plenty of cutlery, china, mugs to share out. I’m thinking about the pots I really like that I’ve bought over the years and which ones I’ll grudgingly part with. I look at the shelves of books and look forward to most of them going. I see virtually a wall full of vinyl going with the stereo. I have walls of pictures – I’ve taken so many over the years – and I don’t mind what he takes, I really don’t. I’ll happily help him pack.

I just don’t want to help him leave.

14. So last night I waxed my legs.

I realise that my attitude to myself is very intertwined with my ability to keep this situation as positive and healthy. “Don’t let yourself go” I can hear a little voice muttering. So last night I waxed my legs.

Because when someone wants to leave you it’s awfully difficult not to take that personally. As a statement about who you are, and, unfortunately, what you look like. It isn’t about looks, relationships never are – that’s just attraction and we all know how quickly that lives. A handsome face can soon look decidedly average when a voice like a snake on helium comes out of it.

But making an effort for myself makes me feel better. If I don’t care who the hell else is going to – and that isn’t pitying or self-depreciating. I have to set my own standards of how I want to be treated. These can slip in a relationship. As a mum, as a partner, you slip down the list of priorities, and the danger is that you get used to being there, somewhere in the middle. I can glam up in next to no time, but why do I rush? Because there’s always something else to fit in.

So I will start to take more time, because if I’m going to have more time to myself I might as well fill it with nice things for me. Not the redecorating – thought that’s planned  – but the luxuries, the fluff, the unimportant important things that make all those little, powerful differences.

Some of which only I will see.

13. Reality is a real punch to the guts. 

We have a date for the move out, and, despite the fact that i’ve organised its possibility, some how that really hurts. It’s going to be a month sooner that I expected, and it’s reality is a real punch to the guts. I’ve just had conformation by email and he doesn’t even know yet. And I don’t know how I wan’t him to take the news.

I don’t seem to be taking it well at all. Reduced to tears, on my own. A proper low point.

So, how do we do this so it’s ok for me as well? Because, while I’m trying to be ok I’m really not, not right now. This wasn’t what I wanted. I’m scared and shaky and feel as if I don’t get a say.

I do. I won’t feel like this tomorrow, I’ll pick myself up, look on the bright side, and all the possibilities ahead. Blah blah fucking blah!

But once, just once, I want him to say how fucking brilliant I’m being!

12. All whistles and bangs.

I met a friend for a hot chocolate. We had other things to chat about, but then came the “how are you doing?”.

We talked about the ‘ we’re being nice’. How I still get to come home to a cooked meal – he still does much more of the cooking, possibly more so lately. If it’s out of guilt I don’t care, Because left to my own devices at the moment I’d don’t think I’d bother. I’ve stopped eating breakfast, really not much appetite. I can forgo lunch if no one at work suggests going to the cafe. I’m not starving myself, just really not interested. But I’ll eat with others and I’ll eat whats cooked for me.

It’s all still pleasant. There are silences, but they’re not too heavy, yet. There also seems to be a ceasing of hostilities between current husband and daughter, although she’s out such a lot it is hard to tell.

My friend and I talked about what means good in a relationship. I like good, I don’t even mind ok much of the time. I had ‘all consuming’ once. All whistles and bangs, not able to keep our hands off each other, not sure where the passion stopped and the rage began. The balance between the amazing sex and the fist in the wall by my head was a precarious one. That wasn’t good. And once I’d left, had some space, and healed,  I knew that I could never grow in that life. Nothing can. I didn’t want that, and I knew, have always known, that I wouldn’t go there again. Feeling safe, supported, left to be myself, is the route – should it be root? – that I sought.

The H (I really have to find a term) had one of those moth to a flame type loves. Five years of destruction that they kept going back to. I know she still appears in his dreams sometimes. (Will I, when we’re done?) Their rock and roll lifestyle (no music included) left him bruised and confused. But, in that land of passion, obsession, fixation, where nothing healthy appeared to flourish, was the foundation of what is expected of a relationship set in stone for him?

You’d have thought that these are the things we should know by now. But who picks apart the workings of a marriage when they’re in it. There didn’t seem a point at which to analyse everything, and nothing ever seemed so bad that I knew we were doomed. But may be  my choice to be somewhere in the middle, not on the edges where the ‘all consuming’ extreme lives is only enough for me. H may need the crazy times to feel that it all means something. I know I don’t. They don’t mean you love more, they just mean you’re loud about it. I have a loud laugh, that’ll be enough for me.

11. When do you stop wearing your wedding ring?

I finished work today and came home to have a much needed shower. I’m a decorator and today was a very grubby work day. Ceilings and walls to sand, messy builders about creating dirt and dust, being clean was all I wanted to be when I left the site.

In the shower, surrounded by lotions and potions, I suddenly looked at my hands to see how they had survived the day. Then it hit me. When do you stop wearing your wedding ring?

My husband had made our wedding rings. For someone who had never been one who could be considered artistic or romantic on any level, ever, this was quite an amazing and precious thing for our wedding. Mine never quite fitted, and was far from perfect, and I loved it. He had always shied away from ever buying me a ring of any kind before. An eternity ring bought for my 40th was a strange and somehow begrudging event it had never seemed to be the fun and special item I’d hoped such aa gift could be. I haven’t worn it for some years.

The whole idea of a ring is now invested with power and a history of our relationship that I’m aware as soon as I start to unpick it all the evidence leading up to now will be shining at me like a beacon on a hill. All those moments I felt that he was on the back foot, never quite fully committed. Playing defensively rather than going for it. Was that our whole time together? Did I fill in the gap in his commitment? For a wedding ring? Was what I could show people really just for show?

And so now what does it mean for me to take it off? I haven’t as yet. It feels so very final as a statement. I’d miss it.

And I do like a nice unique bit of silver jewellery.

10. It helps to have a dog

There have been some mornings when we are both up and about at the same time, getting ready for a day of whatever. Some of the mornings are delicate. Both of us are under-slept and heavy from a restless night. There is a light covering of eggshells around which to negotiate. To be nice, but avoid anything deep – because the other one is no longer there to help with the fog of a morning. We tip toe around.

This is when it helps to have a dog.

I appreciate that this is not an option for all. It comes with complications – not least of all the soon to be shared ownership. It certainly comes with expense which may well be part of the up and coming discussions.

But as an ice breaker there is no finer creature to have about. Daft on a fairly permanent level she has a special energy in the morning born of the assumption that playing with her is, clearly, the most fabulous way to start the day. Toys are brought, beds are bounced on, licks are handed out freely.  And she’s right, it does help. She makes you laugh. She makes you shout when a hearty nudge from a big wet nose makes you spill your coffee. She wags you into positivity whether you wanted it or not.

And there’s the walking – regardless of mood, tension or weather. That really helps. After five minutes of being forced out of the house you know it was a good idea.

She was right again.

So borrow one if you can. Because they don’t take sides. They don’t judge the relationship. They’re better than having children around for quenching an argument with their big brown eyes and their flat ears.

And they are all a very good size for a hug,

9. Is trust enough?

We’ve been together for twenty one years. Yes, there has been ups, downs and probably all sorts of directions. But, despite the fact that we are not going to be together any more, there is still trust.

But is trust enough?

Because we need to talk about the big, financial things. And those are the areas that seem to me to be the sticky points. How do we have the conversations about what’s fair when it can’t be just split down the middle? I appreciate that no matter where you live this isn’t easy. And we’re lucky, we have a home to divide. It’s at least a problem to solve, not just a problem.

The plans we lay out now point the way to making this real. Real, and so very permanent. And that, today, feels very painful. It lays down a future that I didn’t think was coming and I’m not sure that I’m ready for, although I know I’ve no choice and I have to stand up and take it on.

It isn’t enough to have a ‘gentleman’s agreement, although I wish it were. Because he is a gentle man. But I need to feel safe, and it’s not even just about me. Child, dog, cat, Father-in-law downstairs – they’re all going to be up to me (well, not really the father-in-law, he’s quite self sufficient) and it’s going to be hard. I’m going to be broke. But broke is one thing. Insecure is another matter.

We’re going to have to get advice. Make things legal.

Christ – as if things aren’t depressing enough!

8. Today is a wobbly one.

Not all days are the same, a truism that’s a constant no matter how the world is doing. But today is a wobbly one. Feeling worried, anxious, scared – you know the sort of thing. Knot in your stomach, tears threatening, throat feeling tense.

To look on the bright side we’re still chatting, nicely, about stuff. I mean not the serious bit – moving out details, finance (oh, the dreaded finance). Just about the dog, my photographs (currently in an exhibition, good to be sidetracked by something positive that isn’t just work) would you like porridge. There’s a friendly atmosphere – if a little tentative.

So the subject of ‘restorative yoga’ comes up. Yes, I know, not your usual topic for a Thursday morning. Well, it could be, I’m not one to assume. It’s not usually top of my list, that’s all. But while I do yoga fairly frequently – or practice, as I think you’re supposed to say – I find that fairly gently yoga is lovely, but lying around hugging a bolster is not my favourite. “That’s because you don’t relax.” he says

Don’t I?  Really? Well not at the bloody moment, I think. I don’t say it out loud of course. I don’t feel that there’s a lot to relax about. But have I been like this for a long time? I’ve always used my energy to do something – often paint something (walls not art!) or garden or just be active in some way. I don’t think I’m fidgety, just that there’s a lot to do. So I often just do it. But in the months, and, possibly years that things have slowly been peeling apart between us maybe I’ve lost my ability to chill. Just be.

And that makes me feel wobbly too. Because my tension is useful sometimes. It can be a good energy. It’s made me do things I probably wouldn’t have done under the cover that it’s better to act then stand still.

Deeds not words, she says while writing.

But even this writing is an action. It’s an outlet, albeit an action of the mind and fingers alone. But I can’t knit so it will have to do. And maybe, after I’ve taken the dog out and finished painting the door I won’t feel quite so wobbly.

7. Is he having a mid life crisis?

The thing is, I’ve now told a few friends. The situation just called for it. I’m in a space, a gallery, and people are coming in to see the work. And some of those people are supportive friends, and the conversation seems to be so apposite, so the words have just come out.

There’s shock, and questions, and discussions. Then there is the comment. Not exactly the question, not even a criticism. Just ‘Is he having a mid life crisis? and it’s a bit difficult not to agree. But are they a good thing in the long run? Can it really be called a crisis? Is it just that a moment is reached when all the things you put away because there are others to take their place come out again. And you want that life that goes with them. No responsibilities, no job you hate, no things that make you unhappy.

May be it’s something I should try myself. Work out what it is that I want. Put myself at the top of my own list. But I’m not sure that it’s something I want. I like a challenge, I thrive on a problem to solve, another plate to spin. I just want to pick my plates.

So, the good thing to come out of this – although I’m pushing myself to focus on the good, it isn’t quite coming automatically yet – is may be I can make different choices for different reasons, with fewer people to consider.  I, somehow, will make it more about me. I won’t have to compromise. And more importantly, what I want won’t get put on the back burner all the time.

Because it’s not going to help if I try and take responsibility for someone else choices. I have to let go, not try an solve a problem that isn’t mine to solve. Not condemn his actions because they aren’t, immediately, what I want.

It’ll all work out in the end. Somehow.

So, I shall focus on the lining, not on the cloud.

6. So why was that ok for me and not for him?

Its a strange thought that all this ‘normal’ is going to be over. The ‘stuff’ of a relationship. The together, the compromises, the disagreements. Different tastes that somehow muddle along together, choices agreed over. Have we just spent the past twenty years not getting what we wanted and putting up with the results?

So why was that ok for me and not for him?

This wasn’t my choice, but I just gave up the fight to keep it being ok.The consequences of the decision are now starting to hove into view. I don’t imagine that it’s an easy set of sums for anyone. One does not divide neatly into two. And it’s not two as our daughter is very much still at home – and why not. There’s also the cat and the dog. So we have the what to do, how to do, what comes – or, very probably  goes first. This is where I test my resolve. Because, this really isn’t what I want to do. I’m home. I’ve made it home. I’ve painted and sanded and bought things and hung things. The walls are full of pictures I’ve taken (more of that another day) and the garden is full of things I’ve grown. I re-read that and it looks like it’s all been me, but actually, it mostly has. It’s what I do, and here, where we’ve lived for eleven years, it’s what I’ve done.

Therefore my next challenge is how to break this home well, because right now I can’t see how that can be done. I don’t, more specifically, want to do it. Being difficult isn’t going to help, but we are going to be talking money and value and worth. And that’s a whole world of complication and unpleasant that is hard to be nice about. Does the fact I spent my time painting balance out the money he put into a pension that, now, only he will benefit from? Does the time out of work for having out daughter, and rebuilding a new career to fit in with her give me a baby bonus? Or do we now find out how sexist the system really is. Because I am living in my pension. It was always going to be that way.

All these tentacles of a relationship are entwined around everything. This is going to be a delicate operation to pull them apart.

5. An Evening Alone

We have a chalk board, well, in fact a whole wall, on which we leave notes. Things we’ve run out of, reminders, I’ve fed the dog signs. There’s been one on for a week or two saying BFI 8pm. When I came in from work today, about 4pm, there was an arrow pointing at this message.

So it appears that it was me and the dog tonight.

And I’m tired. Really – lay down on the sofa, under a blanket, speak to no one – tired. Sleep at night is currently a rather intermittent affair. Podcasts and audiobooks are being consumed at quite a rate. So lie on the sofa is exactly what I did. A good doze, a catch up on a backlog of things recorded (see How to watch telly )

It’s a strange feeling because I should be doing things, There’s a whole table full of pictures and mounts that need to be sorted. Stuff I have to read. And always house doings. But I feel the need to hibernate. I wish I could. Miss out winter and the festive nonsense and wake up when it’s all over. Now there’s a thought.

Because the weight of what is to come feels like a mighty snow drift. And I don’t want to just be left arrows pointing to things.

4. We Need To Tell You Something

And now on to the next person.

Downstairs we went to tell my father-in-law, my one day to be ex husband’s dad. This one really hurt. Even now I keep welling up, getting that awful pit of the stomach feeling. Because this good, kind, annoying, funny, practical man won’t be my father-in-law, and that breaks my heart. That moment when I realise that this huge family that I’ve been part of for twenty one years won’t be mine has hit me badly, and even now, especially now, I want to say more, to fill in the gaps, to make it make sense.

But it doesn’t really make sense. It’s just two people wanting the same things, but just not the same way. Wanting better. He just gave up before me. And I don’t blame him. I want better too.

But to say it out loud is really, really hard. And there’ll be more soon. More shocks, gasps, whats?! Because no one has seen this coming. Or have they? Soon find out I suppose as the news slowly seeps out through the branches of the family and friends. So the test of our relationship (that was) will now be in the way we can still be as we were but in a new way.

Many of our friends are intertwined as neighbours and also people himself works with. And thats complicated. Oh! it’s all complicated I suppose. So do we tell everyone together? Stick it on the street email group, pop it on the community facebook page? There has been a strength and a gentleness about telling people together. But I am joking about the facebook page.

3. How To Watch Telly

There were a gaggle of teenagers for dinner. Lovely, loud girls and the conversation bounced. We talked about listening to podcasts and watching tv. And a point was made.

“My dad won’t sit and watch things me and my mum want to watch just to be together and I watch things with my dad that I don’t really care about. He just won’t watch something he’s not into.”

Now theres a thing.

“Yes,” says current husband (ok, I need to think of a new term) “It’s such a waste of time. You could be doing something together. Why not make a cake together rather then watch Bakeoff, it’s just crap lazy telly. It’s a waste of my time”

And I think of the football I’ve watched, just to share. Or the fact that we haven’t done things together instead, because, quite frankly, I can’t be arsed baking at 8pm when i’ve been on my feet all day and I like a bit of Sandi and Noel of an evening.

But it’s good to know that it’s not just us. That many make separate viewing choices. It’s finding the common program that’s the challenge. So, of the things the other watches here’s My ‘Nope list’ – Boxing, League Football, Horror films, Anything with Larry David. Here’s His (I’m fairly sure of this) Strictly, Most comedy – especially Stand up, Virtually all Reality stuff. Common ground appears to be the occasional series, and, curiously, Dragon’s Den.

So this evening we sat on the sofa, in that familiar, comfortable way we have, and watched the last episode of Get Shorty.

And I wonder if we’ll find another. Which makes me feel terribly sad. Because now I don’t know if we’ll try.

We’re going to be sharing the house for quite a while yet. This split is not a quick one – is anyone’s? And we have one living room. But it’s the thought of taking off to watch what you want on the laptop that feels strange. To not make the ‘together’ effort anymore. If we have decided not to be is that what we have to start doing now? Practice so that when he leaves we have developed a new normal, and it doesn’t feel as bad? One thing doesn’t feel as bad.

How do we watch telly? isn’t one of the questions I thought would come up.

2. Am I imagining it?

I listen to the radio at work. I’m on my own most of the day and I usually need a distraction of some sorts. BBC London out of preference, if my usual presenters are on. Bit of 6 music, occasionally Radio 4.

You know the usual people of a certain age type stuff – news-ish. bit of music. chat.

But am I imagining it or was all the music about leaving?

Yes I know, I’m being oversensitive. It’s like seeing pregnant bumps when you’ve had a miscarriage. Like I’m tuned in to it. I am going to make an effort not to care. Or keep a count.

And now onto other matters. To tell the next person. His dad, who lives in the bottom half of the house no less. Separate, but not that separate. (I’ve just clocked that the adjective and the verb are spelled the same – what a difference a bit of emphasis makes.) But downstairs we must go, because, now comes the conversations we must have. And to have them without pointing fingers, without getting each person to take a side. And quite frankly, details are nobody’s business right now. And will they help, make each telling easier to hear?

We’ve not been angry for months so there hasn’t been shouting to hear. There hasn’t been floods of tears, things thrown, doors slammed. We have had calm, things done together, even the odd laugh. A recent family wedding where we were the life and soul of the reception. Just back from a holiday which we carefully enjoyed. We have hidden things from ourselves, so there’s no reason for anyone to guess.

But downstairs we must go. Together, for now. To continue the process, and include the others.

1. Can We Do This Well?

There is a thought that many of us have, at different times, for different reasons.

I can do this better. 

So on the first step of this strange and unknown journey we have, together, put it out there.

We uttered the words “Dad and I are breaking up”. They are not 6 words with which you want to start a conversation. The three of us that have been will now be…. what? Three but different? Two and Two? Three times One? We are family, just not exactly a family unit. Except we are. And will be for quite a while.

So how we manage this, to be kind, to be supportive, to be nice, will be the test.

Can We Do This Well?

As these blogs unfold, in order, we shall see the path we tread. 

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A relationship breakup, often referred to simply as a breakup, is the termination of an intimate relationship by any means other than death. The act is commonly termed “dumping [someone]” in slang when it is initiated by one partner. Wikipedia