The phone is not my friend

I don't like the phone, and I don't really know why.

It's fine in a work setting, part and parcel of our day to day.

In my home life, I don't like it. I put off calling people. I put off answering or returning calls. I haven't had a land line for four years now.

It doesn't feel like a thing I want to do, call people that is. I email, I send cards, I arrange to meet folk by text message and see them face to face.

As a teenager I spent hours on the phone, often to people I'd seen a few short moments before. When did my aversion to the phone appear? I'm not certain.

There are a very small handful of people I actively call. Even then, I prefer to call them rather than be caught out. I don't mind if it's a purely practical thing, but the notion of calling just to chat isn't something I enjoy.

I never quite figured it out. It's impossible to read people in the same way as it is face to face, but the same can be said of email.

A ringing phone should be a nice surprise or an opportunity to catch up with someone you haven't seen for a while. Instead it just seems intrusive. In a world of mobile technology calls can be screened, and I do.

Boyfriends seem to be the exception to this. There's a excitement in getting to know someone, knowing chat is just chat. Knowing they want to talk to you. Knowing you can do just that, and nothing else. There is an anticipation or, further down the line, comfort in hearing the voice of someone you want to be close to.

Despite my reluctance to communicate this way, I've just spent an hour chatting a friend and it was lovely.

Decisions, decisions....

I'm just back after a lovely week or so of a conference, visiting friends and another wedding – the second in two weeks. I've also just agreed to a week's holiday for a friend's 40th and I am number 13, the only single person.


What do all of these have in common – I was the token single girl in amongst a multitude of couples. It stings a bit. Not because I am unhappy or jealous but because as others bring their plotting and planning to the table, I only have my voice. Being the minority isn't much fun.

There's a trip afoot for Hogmanay to a tiny Scottish island off the west coast. I'd love to feel the bitter cold sea air on my face and walk the island's paths and hills.

But, there's a but.

The group is, once again, made up of couples and the token gay man – too I become the gay man's substitute partner at social occasions. I love these people, they are my friends but I don't love an unmixed group.

It makes me feel lonely.

As others turn to kiss each other and welcome in another year, I will wait in line until someone remembers I am there.

Of course, I can host another party here at home or be amongst different friends. I wish I didn't have to decide now. A deadline is looming.

If don't go I know I will be sad to miss it. If I do, I know I will be sad that there is no one to kiss me a happy new year. I know I'd be fine. Feeling left out, no matter how unintentionally on the part of others or self indulgently on my part, is never much fun.

Letter to the man who is not my lover

I saw you last night. I didn't expect to. In amongst the friends, there you are with your girl. I was caught. I knew this could, would perhaps, happen at some point. I just didn't know how it would make me feel. Leaving my friend would create questions. I stay, pleased to see you and utterly unnerved by your presence.


I have met her before only in passing. I know who she is but we are not friends. She is skinny, pretty and child like, and friendly to the person she doesn't know.

I tried my hardest to behave as if nothing has passed between us. To ignore you would be strange.

As we chatter and mull over quiz questions, there is your gaze, held a little too long, as we talk amongst our friends.

There is a look of knowing behind those eyes. Those bright, pale eyes which I cannot deny. We cannot speak of what has been said, but it is there and present.

I am shocked by how I feel. I am full of jealousy, confusion and a little pity for her, knowing what you have said to me. But you, well, you are under my skin.

I do my best to be normal, whatever that is. But my heart is racing.

I had put you and your words out of my mind. I had resolved that, as flattering as they are, they are ultimately meaningless without action and that I deserve someone who can do as well as say. I write it off as a surreal episode, a dream.

Yesterday evening has undone it.

When you look at me, talk to me, it is as if you see all of me. There is no hiding who I am from you. For a change, I don't mind this. I try not look at you or think of your words but they are there, hanging between as we talk.

Very recently I rejected a man who I once loved. He is married and a father. After fifteen years, we have found a great friendship but a drunken night left him asking for more. I said 'no' with ease. I don't want someone else's man. Could I do this with you?.

This is not something sexual or frivolous, there is a fire in my belly, at my very core, that wants to reach for you and know you will hold my hands.

I know you are not mine, and are unlikely ever to be. I will not chase you, or seek you out. But, if you came to me, I could not turn you away.

A little success

Less than four months into my new job, today I got a new job title. I'm not even out of my probation let alone on a permanent contract. I became 'Head of....' rather than the manager I've been for the last two jobs and in a fantastic organisation.


It's an odd thing. My job is the same, as is my salary, but somehow that doesn't matter. I'm not concerned by status, but my last proper boss (before the self employment) and I had a very poor relationship. It undermined me, and all of my confidence. It helped destroy the shaky and dwindling sense I had of who I was.

I don't care what anyone calls me, but what I do care about is that not only have reminded myself that I am actually capable, but that other people trust me too. I'd forgotten what that felt like.

I didn't know my title was changing before it was announced to all the staff. It's lovely to have a little validation and excitement about my future again.

I can do, and be good at, what I love and believe in. I feel very privileged and pleased.

Unstuck

Last night I saw the musician. The man who three weeks ago blind sided me with his words. Words that I didn't, couldn't, see coming.

We sat in my car in the small hours of the morning like teenagers. Not going home, not wanting to leave each other. The last time I saw him felt like some strange dream. I had no idea how he felt.

I don't know how to capture the intensity of this emotion, his words, my feelings. I am tired and confused.

Our hands tangled and untangling, foreheads pressed together, just sitting. Desperately trying to figure out what to say.

He tells me he is at risk of falling madly in love with me. He tells me I am in his head, his thoughts. He misses me.

I love these words. This time I believe him.

What to do?

He is in a relationship. He is not married and has no children. They have been together for a long time. I suspect he stays because it is familiar and settled. We daren't talk about it. I don't want to know.

He asks me if I could cope if there was a transition from there to here. I don't know if I answered. It is pointless. These are just words.

I will not be a mistress. He doesn't want this from me anyway, but still I need to say it. I tell him I deserve a whole relationship, that I am angry that he can tell me how he feels without any thought to what I am to do with that information. I won't have my heart played with.

No matter how hard I try to fight this, and stop his words, I can't. He asks me if I feel it too, and I can only say 'yes'.

There is only one other man in my past who has spoken to me so intenesly. One man, who truly and passionately loved me. I ran away from our relationship because it was too much when I wasn't ready. That was a decade ago.

The musician is talented, clever and attractive. He is a well known face in my little corner of the world, so I was always surprised when he took the time to chat to me. I am surprised to discover that he comes a little unstuck around me. He's wondered why I'd bother with him. He tells me he is nervous and excited when he sees me, that he babbles and fumbles for words whilst trying to impress me. It looks like he and I are a little in awe of each other. Blimey.

Eventually, we agree we must go home. We agree we need to think. We agree that we need time to find out if our thoughts are just madness.We agree that we will not have an affair. We agree that we will let each other know if minds are changed, risks run from.

I suspect, however, that we may freeze. Neither of us pursuing the other because he is someone else's.

The thought of him is dangerous. He makes my heart sing and it terrifies me.

A Journey

Somehow two weeks have slipped by without me writing a word here, and as I now sit in front of my laptop, I still don't know what is is I have to say. But, I do feel like typing.


It's been an odd couple of weeks which culminated in a very unplanned day out. A morning coffee turned into a day of confessions, sharing of heartaches and much fun.

I have a friend whose heart is broken. We found him on his own in the pub on Saturday afternoon in a pitiful state. He was brave and tired.

He met a girl in the US a few months ago. A relationship and anticipation began. He's just returned from her. When he set off he never doubted that a plan would be made, that he'd found he girl of his dreams. His 'one'.

He told us his story of days at the zoo and walking in new places, of promise and the future. Tears so close we couldn't hug him, he had to just keep talking without interference.

This vision was quickly robbed from him as it all started to fall to pieces. The girl sounds unsettled, insecure. The reasons why of the tale don't really matter.

What matters is that he tried. He believed in the dream and travelled thousands of miles to find out if she would share it with him. He still believes that one day he will be loved in the way he so much wants. Despite the failed relationships of his past, he's moving towards that person.

I admire him. He is scared and still keeps trying. He is braver than me, who hides from the very risks that are worth taking and doesn't really believe that she will ever be loved.
 
We ended the evening a group of single frineds, relying on each other for solace and companionship - an alternative family - laughing.

Trust: Reality and Blogging again

I've always written this anonymously. It's a private diary: a recording of days, feelings and memories that make up my journey. Part of me needs an outlet, writing lets me figure out what is going on in my head, to process , make decisions and find my voice. The other part of me wants to mark my way, like Hansel and Gretel dropping pebbles to leave a trail The path from here to there.


There are people who I've never met who have read my thoughts and moved on, others stop by leaving their words and drawing me into a community of sorts.

There are a few people in my real world who know how to find this place, none where I live. Three of them are amongst my closest girlfriends, and they are abroad, and I know won't judge. Two others I shared this with on a whim. One, an ex boyfriend, has read perhaps more than he'd like about himself over the months. Another is new and I've yet to discover if he'll ever stop by, remember how to find me here or keep this trust. Can he keep my secret? It makes me nervous. However, I must remember that this place is important to me, and mostly of little interest to others.

Sharing my blog presents two risks;

1.Someone will read about themselves and be unhappy. Some people would not want these stories told or like what they read. But, it's my place and my thoughts and I won't tailor events to suit the sensitivities of the reader. I need to do this.

2.By allowing in people I know in flesh and bone, I risk other people from my everyday life finding what is here – my secrets, anger or sadnesses. Is that so bad? Or, would I find myself editing the things I most need to scribble about? It takes things dangerously close to reality, and equally enables some folk to see the real person. Sometimes happy, sometimes reflective, sometimes angry and venting.
I don't trust so easily and sharing this takes me one step closer to opening up and showing the world who I am. Trust inherently involves risk, and it's something I need to learn to do. I want to be able to trust enough to continue to write freely.

It makes me feel very vulnerable.

Comforting, mundane

There is a strange bond of understanding and friendship that grows amongst those whose paths only cross in hospital wards.


As our parents and spouses ramble, wail or shut down, lost in alternate worlds trapped by dementia, we do our best to find some kind of normal. Amidst the chaos or stubborn silence we dare not voice our losses, instead holding on to the daily pleasantries that help to make us feel better and connect beyond neurological meltdown.

Behind the painted on smiles for our loved ones and each other, there is only grief and memories they can no longer share. We all see the sadness and smile with each other nonetheless. There is no other way.

Words, believed or otherwise

I've known him a while but it's been ages since we've seen each other. We skirt around different edges of a group of friends. It's great to see him. He is attractive, cheeky, and so very easy to talk to.

It is still early-ish and no-one is drunk yet. Well, apart from the guy who's been asleep at the table after peaking way, way too early in the evening.

We talk about life and love and all that stuff, and he tells me I am feisty, clever and sexy. I am surprised.

We all carry on to another pub and a band, and still we only really talk to each other. He flirts, in front of our friends. I try to dismiss his chatter as affable sport. He apologises for flirting, and continues nonetheless.He tells me 'you've got me'. I don't know how to respond. I am so very curious.

He is a musician whose songs were part of my teens and twenties. He's bohemian and creative. We go home and he plays the guitar bought for an ex, a present returned.

I like his mind, I like his hands.

His words keep coming. Words of attraction, connection and flattery. I want to believe him. I want to be all those things he tells me I am. 

I am not sure I believe him. Perhaps I am some of these things?

If he is telling the truth, it was passionate and dangerous territory. If he is spinning me a line, he is a convincing bad boy and I have enjoyed his game.

Either way, I was tempted and he is not mine.

Letter to an ex flatmate, former friend

I don't know what to do. You write or email every few months. Your last, a month ago, telling me you had dreamt about me twice. I don't respond. I don't know how to.


Still, you keep trying.

You don't understand why we don't speak any more, and I doubt you ever will. I wish you could, but you are too self absorbed.

I was excited when you moved to Scotland. I looked forward to getting you back. I looked forward to rediscovering the fun and talk of hopes, politics, dreams, men and history that we'd had as flatmates, university chums from the start. I introduced you to my network that you adopted as your own. I found you a room in a house with my friends. It was wonderful to have you back.

I listened to you for hours with patience and kindness as your relationships fell to pieces, minor blips happened at work, all sorts of 'dramas' occurred.

I didn't mind listening and counselling you. We trusted each other and it's what friends are for. But, eventually it, you, became a burden when I couldn't even carry the weight of my own problems.

When my life changed, you'd ask after my sick parents but you didn't ask me how I was. Not that I remember anyway. I moved to my home city and we spoke often. You visited me too.

When you did come, you could only talk about yourself. You couldn't listen.

I was falling to pieces and you didn't see that one of your best friends was coming apart at the seams. I don't know if I knew how to tell you. I still struggle to tell people now when I'm all at sea. That is not your fault.

I tried to tell you I needed you, and you didn't understand what that meant. I tired to explain why I was upset with you, you couldn't see my point of view. I was always the strong one, the care taker. The shoes didn't fit the other way round.

It has been two and half years since I last saw you. Less since we last spoke. I miss you, but I don't know if I will ever write back.

I think about you often.