Tag: planning

60. I was supposed to know where we were going. 

It’s strange how something suddenly pops up and you realise what was happening at some point in the path. Usually something you hadn’t thought about. Not even something particularly relevant. Just something a time ago. And then you’re faced with the gap between then and now.

This is by way of trying – and subsequently failing – to sit down and tackle my tax return. The deadline is looming heavily. I’m surrounded by paperwork and records of jobs I’d forgotten and paint choices I remember – I may not always be able to put a name to a face, but I can always remember a colour scheme!

I leaf through my diary for additional reminders of the things I need to include so nothing slips through the net. And suddenly, in the pages, there’s a shout of Rome! and I’d forgotten we’d been. A big (his) family gathering for a birthday which was quite fun but glad we were not staying too close to them all. It was sunny, we were really lucky with the weather with the exception of a family trip to tour the Colosseum where we were soaked by impressively Biblical rain. It was a long weekend where we walked miles (always the best way to explore) and miles. And the sad, overriding memory is that I was supposed to know where we were going. 

I often didn’t care, was happy to have a bit of a guess, use Google-maps where needed, mooch. I knew we’d get there – I know I’ve got a good sense of direction and I could always find the metro. But If you’re that bothered about getting somewhere, why not plan the trip yourself?

I’m often a ‘last-minute’ type. I hate planning. Find no joy in it. I love the accidental happenings of taking a slightly different way, of looking at a map rather than being told where to go. But one of the phrases I remember hearing over this weekend, and so often after it, is “Are you sure?”

No. No, I’m not sure. I wasn’t sure. I just thought so. Why did I need to be sure? Why wasn’t he sure? But is was said so often. About everything and anything. If I started a sentence with “I think…” I’d still get asked. But what did it matter? Because it was just what I thought, or what made sense to me. But the question kept popping up everywhere. When looking for something, going somewhere, answering something. If I gave an opinion, if I had an idea. Are you sure?

I’m sure now.

I’m sure that, hard as it was, that it was right to part, to not settle for someone else who wasn’t ever sure. Because all the time I was supposed to be certain he never was. And I’m glad I didn’t ask, and I’m even more glad I didn’t keep wanting to know. One hundred percent is an awfully high call. Is he sure now? I never needed the answer. I still don’t. It’s a question he’s going to have to ask himself instead.

And it gets really annoying.

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!