Tag: walking

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.

27. And there he was, gone.

And there he was, gone – as my Grandfather used to say.

Today, he left to go on his walk bright and early – well, not bright as it was still dark. But most definitely early. Before I was up. Before I’d even known he’d gone before I had. It feels most strange. And not in a good way. But there you are.

I shouldn’t be surprised really. No matter what the order of first out the door I would be upset. I imagine he is too. So this way he gets to not have to deal with it. He has, after all, got his own shit going on. Would I have left extra early? Probably. It’s not like either of us have been sleeping well so you might as well be off as lie about waiting to start you life over.

So now it’s my turn to do that. Open other doors now that some of them have closed. Look to the future and what lies ahead.

But first I have to get through this morning. Because, quite frankly, it’s a hard one.

A dog walk in the company of a good friend is a wonderful thing. Walking, generally, is a good thing. You never come back from a walk regretting that you went, no matter how wet and windy the day. So that helped.

A coffee with his dad, who through all this has been a source of sadness and support. ( I think of all the hearts that have been broken that his is the hardest to bare. ) We get on well and revert to conversations on practical issues of jobs that need doing. Not such a bad thing to do.

And then on to some packing. I’ve filled 4 big bags with a fair share of pots, pans, china, cutlery. I’ve divided up the wooden spoons, potato peelers, ladles and bottle openers. All the double bedding from the spare room and his much loved slow cooker. The daughter sorted tupperware and cookbooks while I piled his chess set and boxing books. Years of accumulation all shifted in a busy hour.

So I’ve done a bit to help. And that will do. The rest is his to manage and box.

And the rest of the rest is mine to rebuild.

26. We sort of had a practice ‘final goodbye’ today. 

I’m alright until I think about the leaving bit. Really, I can be calmly discussing how he needs to take the stereo because it’s really his. I can make helpful suggestions about what order will be the easiest when he talked about the new place and what he’d like to do to it. I laughed about how the dog is going to have to get used to different smells as there’s a kebab shop so close.

But the moment I think about watching him go I just hollow out. It feels like tomorrow is the day of the funeral. The dreaded day that, I know, once it’s over I can start the other life, we both can, but until then it’s the dread and the weight of it presses down.

So, strangely, but nicely, we sort of had a practice ‘final goodbye’ today.

I was trying to do some work on the laptop, with not much success and very little enthusiasm. And he came into the room where I was working, and just stood. ‘Are you ok?’ he asked. ‘Not really’ I replied. “you?’ ‘No, not really’. And then that hollow feeling filled me.  ‘We ought to do some of the sorting together, because I don’t want you to come back and find empty spaces. It’ll be horrible’

So we talked about stuff. And it was ok. Not great, but ok. And I think we both felt understood and appreciated. It helped. He then made some soup so we ate together. It felt calm. Sad, but calm. He said he was setting off early tomorrow – an early dog walk for me then. And tonight he was going to the BFI to see a film. ‘I’m going to walk there’, (it’s only a couple of miles) ‘Do you fancy joining me for a bit of the way?’

That may seem an odd request, but it’s something we’ve done before. It’s a 20 minute walk down to Brixton so it’s a good stop off point for me and I hadn’t moved from the flat all day. So we walked. And slowly talked. About Christmas. About the daughter – how good she is with the generation above us when we both get so impatient. How much better you feel when you’re happy and why people (especially members of the family) seem to think their illnesses and allergies are THE most interesting thing about them. We talked about holiday plans, work coming up, even the weather.

And then came the point when I needed to go home. We needed to go in different directions. So we stopped.

Hugged.

Parted.

I walked home alone. With a pocket full of freshly damp tissues.

It won’t make the real thing any easier, but at least I’ll know how many tissues I’ll need.

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?

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.