Skip to main content

This wasn't what I intended to write, but it came out unexpectedly

I was driving down from my villa this morning in search of breakfast at the nearest beach village when I realised I'd have to turn back for another poo.

This, in itself, won't come as momentous news to anybody who experiences morning bowel movements.  Which, all being well, is most people, but I'd already had three between getting up, showering and leaving the property.


For the record, I have diverticular disease.  This delightful piece of oversharing is brought to you by the formation of small bulges in the wall of the colon, which has nothing to do with punctuation and everything to do with the passage of food and its by-products through the body.  It's also hereditary, which explains why both my brother and my mother have it too; although not the fact that I was diagnosed years before either of them, despite being the youngest of us.  Here comes the science bit: Who knew I'd be younger than my mother?


What it means, in real life, is that I have to be careful when and what I eat.  Certain foods (bread, pizza, beer - basically all the good ones) eventually trigger a response in me that ranges from discomfort through to pain, and an increasing urge to jettison whatever my body wishes to offload, RIGHT NOW, no hanging around, thank you very much.


There's also an inevitable side-effect involving occasional flatulence that can be measured on the Beaufort Scale, which is another reason why the brilliantly funny, incredibly talented and irredeemably farty blogger and all-round good (if sulphurous) egg girlinoldschooljail and I should never be allowed in the same building, as it would create an unacceptable fire risk if anyone were unwise enough to strike a match.


My decision to turn the hire car around and drive it (as is traditional with rental vehicles) as if I'd stolen it, back to the villa was largely predicated on my extensive knowledge of the toilet facilities available on Greek islands.  Don't get me wrong; I love Greece.  The food.  The people.  The beauty of the coast and the countryside.  The plethora of half-built and abandoned buildings everywhere you look, like a precursor of the UK after Brexit.  But luxuries such as a toilet seat or a lock on the door, let alone a supply of 2-ply paper and adequate handwashing facilities, suggest something of a localised Spartan approach to dropping the kids off at the pool.


So as I was polishing my rusty sheriff's badge for the umpteenth time this morning, a couple of thoughts occurred to me.  As you might imagine, some days I have more sitting and thinking time available to me than ideally I'd like.


A confidante of mine was telling me recently how much she enjoyed pegging her boyfriend, and extolling the virtues of prostate massage.  Now, while I'm not entirely unfamiliar with the latter, I've got to be honest and say that there's nothing that remotely turns me on about the former, even if the strap-on is being sported by somebody as pretty and enthusiastic as she (this is entirely theoretical anyway, we're just friends, she's reaming some other arsehole).


But the fact is, such is the state of my poor, ravaged, chocolate starfish, that I fear anything inserted into it, be it a polished fingernail or a dildo on a belt, would provoke a rusty water poonami of such ferocity that Japan would be forced to raise an appeal for funds to help the stricken folk of Europe.  And there isn't a bin large enough in all the Greek islands to contain the cast-off loo roll that would be necessary for the beach clean-up.


The other thought was about a girl I dated, and lost, a while back.  She was, without doubt, the great love of my life.  My sun rose and set with her.  There was literally nothing in this life she needed to get through alone.  The sex was beyond outstanding.  She was age-appropriate, brighter than a nebula cluster, and the funniest person I've ever met.  


Neither of us is a fan of marriage, but I'd have married her in a heartbeat, even though marriage is, according to a friend of mine, one big party followed by years of indenture - a bit like picking a pair of slippers for the rest of your life.  And yet the more I tried, the harder I worked to please her, the more things went irretrievably wrong, until we reached a place so toxic that there was nothing left but recrimination and heartburn, like after a cheap sausage at a school barbecue.


The fact is, that like all the things I love most in this world, including pizza, beer and bread, the more I sated my cravings, the more poisonous the subsequent situation became.  She called it off, and it broke my heart into a billion, unfixable, pieces.  But ultimately, no matter how much you might adore something, sometimes it's better to accept the expulsion and have that shit behind you.  Even if, like this morning, it takes several attempts, and leaves behind a sting so bad you wonder if you'll ever sit down again.



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Words...Don't come easy to me. But numbers do. Or do I mean number two?

Sunday evening.

Blog posts written:  None.  Inspiration stuck fast, like Augustus Gloop in the chocolate pipe,* with barely 400 words written about what happened after that first night in London.  Can't even tell if it's a good story or not.  
*This is not a euphemism

Cigarettes smoked: 1.  And I gave up last year.  I hate myself just a little bit more, which I've been working hard at not doing.Beers drunk:  2.  Not even enjoyed those.  They're colder than the still memorable message from The One; telling me she'd met somebody else; and every bit as welcome.Steps taken today: 19,004.  Good, but ruined by the beer.  And the cigarette.Pairs of trainer socks discarded after retreating to the arch of my foot within 50 paces: 2Pairs of trainer socks discarded in similar circumstances over the last couple of weeks: 5Pairs of trainer socks remaining in sock drawer: 0Pairs of normal socks rolled down to the ankle in the hope that I wouldn't look like a total Nigel in sho…

Honesty, kindness, and unexpected boobies

I really, really want to be kind.  And honest.

I've not always been great at it, and in my twenties ended more than one relationship horribly, in a classic remake of "If I Behave Badly Enough They'll Chuck Me" - a movie that nobody's yet bothered to make first time around.  Except me, in live non-filmed documentary form.  Because I was a bit shit at saying, "Sorry, but I don't like you as much as I used to."  Actually, worse than a bit shit. I'm genuinely sorry about that.  Especially to the lovely girl that ended up marrying one of my other good friends.  I went to their wedding.  It's OK.  Honestly.  We're all mates.  Still.  Even after my flailing arms launched a full glass of red wine over her white dress last summer.

Phew.

Honesty and kindness hadn't entirely worked with Angie, who'd been my first serious newly-single rebound relationship. I adored her.  She'd been the champion grenade-thrower at her Senior School.  Alth…

The chef that grated

There's a pub I like, just on the edge of Primrose Hill park.  And on a sunny Bank Holiday weekend like this one, I'm not the only one that likes it.  Now, given the adjacent park; I can't guarantee that every woman in the queue for the Ladies is a bona fide customer. Presumably nor can the landlord, hence his reluctance to provide anything other than the smallest of toilet facilities; which leads to insanely long queues of increasingly desperate females every time there's a hint of warmth in the air.

It's impossible to linger at a table in the same corner of the pub as the entrance to the bogs for too long, though.  As the line of uncomfortable looking women snakes ever longer around the customers and the curved corner of the bar, the build up of uric crystallisation becomes almost solid in its pungency, to the point that the wise have to make tracks in search of fresher air before ingress to the lungs is completely prevented by the formation of that scourge of Th…

The Hookup. And the neighbours.

Tinder.  The allegation I'd read was that it was nothing but a shag-fest.  I hadn't even been familiar with the term hook up as anything other than a term for meeting, but I was reading repeatedly that this relatively new app was the place where millenials were compressing what I had known as "dating" into a one-night time-frame.

For liddle ol' Gen X me, that wasn't proving to be the case.  Apart from my First Ever Tinder Date, but that itself had been an anomaly that had simultaneously boosted my bruised ego and battered my busted heart.  I'd become unexpectedly but inevitably single after a decade of joy and another decade of unspoken "staying together for the sake of the kids."  The kids were all right, which would have pleased Jimmy Pursey.*  But that winter I was swiping, matching, messaging and experiencing the crushing disappointment of a series of chemistry-free first dates.
*Oblique nod to both remaining Sham 69 fans

By the time winter …

My Love Life. A Tragedy in Many Parts. A Part in Many Tragedies.

I've been a bit blocked recently in terms of updating my own dating blog.  Mainly because:
I'm not currently datingI've written all the tales that follow my typical story arc*I can't write about having my heart shattered, because it isn't funny***If you haven't read my midlife dating blog before, it's fundamentally full of the various histories of dates I've been on that turned out to be massive disasters, one way or another.  But I try to make them mildly amusing, once I'm over the trauma **Which is basically point one.  But the rule of three applies.  Plus, I've spent ages writing & deleting all my heartache, bitterness & angst. Time has passed, I'm doing my best to let things go. Anyway, there's no angst room here. This was meant to be a guest post.
Then Alice kindly asked if I'd like to write a guest post on her blog.  And I accepted, because, unbeknownst to her, she'd inadvertently caught me at the sweet spot in the on…

Dating blogs are like chocolate - messy when things warm up

I joined Twitter just over a year ago, not long after I'd managed to fuck up the most important relationship of my shiny, new, post fucked-up-relationship, life.  While I wasn't going to write that disaster story any time soon, because it was all still too raw, there were tales I'd shared with a couple of friends of my previous dating exploits, and the urge was strong to actually write some of them down and tell them anonymously, while I surfed the wake of my broken-hearted malaise and took some time off from Tinder & Bumble.

What also inspired me to write a bit, after I finally came out of my miserable funk for long enough to start to read what was going on in the outside world, was that there were a few other people out there on Twitter linking to their dating blogs.  And they were (mostly) good.  And they were (mostly) anonymous, and other people commented on what they'd written and followed them on Twitter.  And although it sounded slightly like a massively nar…

Is it too early to talk about cunnilingus?

It probably is, because look, we barely know each other.  I've only been blogging for a few days.

But, if we do somehow end up naked together, there's a chance it could happen, sooner rather than later.

Because, er, I like you.  And you like me.  That's how we got here.  And I'm turned on by you, and I want you to be turned on by me.  And the state of awkwardness peculiar only to those who have removed their undergarments in the horn-infested presence of another for the first time is mutual, so why don't I* take a lead here?

*Unless you've really got a frisk on and have already set the pace, so to speak.  I'm easy like that.  If we're already en le frottage, then let's be comfortable with each other.  I'll roll with it.  What goes around comes around, etc.

Michael Douglas probably wouldn't approve.  But then I worry if I wear a cotton v-neck, in case people think I'm copying his style.  Which of course I may be, subliminally.  Is this my …

I can't stand (other people) up for falling down

I had a first date arranged this evening. Quite low key; a quiet early evening drink on the edge of Soho with Olive, a Tinder match. Olive seemed bright, funny, interesting and attractive. A similar age, with children older than mine and a sense of humour all her own. We've been chatting for a week or two, not intensively, but a few times most days.  I know, deep inside, that I’m not entirely over “The One”, who I’ve loved and lost months ago but still ache for at inopportune moments, like most of the time that I'm awake. But she’s never coming back, so if only to prove to myself that I’m not going to become a complete recluse and spend every evening sitting on the sofa in my pants, spooning lard into my mouth from a giant tub while tears course silently down my cheeks, I’ve arranged this and a couple of other dates. You never know. I might meet someone nice. 

It won’t be Olive though. Two hours before the appointed time, I received a text:



Now this isn’t the end of the world. P…

My Love Life. Part Two. Virgin on the Ridiculous.

If you haven't read Part One, and you're not being deliberately contrary, you should probably click here.  We'll wait for you to catch up.

While the other boys were playing tennis ball football in the playground during both break and lunchtime, I could be found in the library.  I probably still have my "Librarian" enamel badge somewhere.  And there's still nothing you could teach me about the Dewey Decimal System.  My pants are off right now, girls.  Come at me, in orderly fashion.  Ideally alphabetically, well-thumbed, and with unbroken spines.

Strangely, the library wasn't where I encountered any kind of vaginal enlightenment.  Even from the books in the locked cupboard, for which you had to sign for the key.  I wasn't that unknowing.  And the decade during which I went from 9 to 19 was the peak of that horticultural phenomenon known as "hedgerow porn."  I was already awarethat naked ladies sported an immense tangle between their legs, as …

The Ghosting of Christmas Past

I invented ghosting.  I didn't mean to.  But hindsight suggests that, shamefully, unwittingly, I may have been the original initiator of passive-aggressive let's call this off without actually speaking because I'm not ballsy enough to tell you this isn't working.  I did this first to my childhood best mate.  Come at me, haters.

His name was Jake*.  We'd been friends since we were about 10, when we played tennis at the same club for a couple of summers, but we really bonded when we met again at 16 or 17, both working at a well-known supermarket while pursuing our A Levels at different sixth forms.  Actually, come to think of it, he was doing BTECs, so I should probably have known no good could come of it.  Winky face.

* Well, it wasn't, actually, but I have a name-changing convention that I'm gonna stick at, because you can't be too careful when writing an anonymous dating blog whose sum total of readers could fit comfortably into a medium sized provinci…