Epilogue....

Have you missed me then? Well, I suppose it's not actually been that long in the grand scheme of things, but for me the last couple of weeks have been character building at best. As one of my friends kindly pointed out, she thought I had enough character already. Well now she knows why. I was sure that the man at the clinic had assured me that he had removed the 'MUG' tattoo from my forehead. You know the one, everybody else can see it, but when you look in the mirror it's invisible to you.  In fact he had actually replaced it with one saying 'STUPID MUG'.  But before we get into that particular tale, perhaps we should have our thought for the day. 'There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.'  Or possibly, 'A good laugh is sunshine in a house'. You'll be getting one of those in a moment.  But what of our song for the day? ' Easy' Sheryl Crow, or have we had that one already?  What about 'I am Woman' Helen Ready, or 'Letting you go' Christina Aguilera ( I know, I was mortified as well!)  Anyway, take your pick and off we go.

To business first, we think we've sold the house for the asking price.  After a bit of a false start with an absolute idiot, a very nice Australian and his girlfriend made us the offer. I will let you know how nice I continue to think he is after his surveyor has been round tomorrow. It was the gas hob and plumbed in shower that did it for him, apparently!  Whatever floats your boat.  Still, not bad, two asking price offers within two weeks of it going on the market.  It remains to be seen if it's too good to be true.  But I'll celebrate with the rest of you just now!

The reason for my scepticism is that recently I seem completely incapable of achieving anything but folly.  This evening, for example, I am struggling to persuade the water for the pasta to boil. I know not why. It's on the hob. The gas beneath the pan is lit. Why on earth it won't boil I cannot say. Still I'm sure the pasta will get there at a gentle simmer. Eventually. But then, as all of you know, Patience is not my middle name.  Even if it was, I think I would now change it to Mercenary.  Why? Because it seems to stand many other people in very good stead, so perhaps it's time for me to give it a go.

So to my tale of woe.  I have to say that on occasions I can almost persuade myself that it was merely a nightmare, or that the whole thing was my fault and that I should have seen it as an opportunity to push my boundaries. To move out of my comfort zone. And any of those other patronising statements that people make when you feel as low as you can go and they don't want to be implicated in any way.

As you may remember,  Anita and I were due to go to Chamonix for a few days, ostensibly for some CPD, but my understanding was that it was more about a girls weekend.  I have been more that a bit fragile this year (had any of you noticed? Or is that the understatement of the year?) and Anita has just got divorced.  I know, I can hear it now, someone in the background yelling 'recipe for disaster', but at the time I thought it might be what was needed.  Now, Anita will no doubt maintain that it was all for my benefit.  If I was to redeem anything from my on-going folly,  the best outcome would be from direct contact.  I wasn't very convinced, and never thought anything would come of it, longshot at best, indeed I thought a miracle more likely.  But hey-ho.

Getting to the airport was no mean feat, as it involved an unscheduled stop at Anita's parent's home as her father hadn't been very well.  Can you see the writing on the wall yet?  So, having left their house at the time we were supposed to be checking in, and having done some last minute packing in the carpark, not having enough time for a coffee, and being the last to board because we couldn't possibly use the loo on the aircraft, we arrived in Geneva.  The transfers were great, very nice driver, severe lack of snow, but nevermind, Jiri met us with the key to the flat.  All seemed fine. We were about to unpack, get a coffee and then contemplate supper. A plethora of restaurants and bars beckoned.  Two girls could have a very sedate evening indeed. Then Jim rang to say he was waiting for us in a bar.

 Who's Jim I hear you cry? You might well ask, and cry is something I certainly did quite a bit of over the next five days.  Jim, as I understand it, is the ex-boyfriend of a friend of Anita's who died recently. The friend, not Jim (sadly). Seemingly they became 're-acquainted' at the funeral, and have been 'in touch' ever since. Jim, it transpires lives in Switzerland and teaches golf. If you imagine Gordon Ramsay gone to seed, you'll have pretty good picture. No I don't like him in case you were wondering. It was one of those 'dislike at 50 paces' moments.

So, to cut a long story short, we had a rather unusual evening, the three of us, including Jim nearly having a seizure when Anita was chatted up by some other random man, and me wanting nothing more than for the whole uncomfortable evening to be over. At least Jim did pay for dinner. Bless him.

I have to say I was exhausted at this stage. I'd been up since 6, and had only had one bag of maltesers and a rather sub-standard coffee on the plane, so by the time we got to the restaurant at about 9 I had a headache and speech was somewhat beyond me.  Eventually I was deposited back at the flat, whilst the pair of them went for a 10 minute nightcap.  Need I say more?  But at least Anita did come back.  So, the next morning Anita and I were having a heart to heart (well mainly my heart, she caught me before I had my armour on, and made me cry), we were still in bed - I should perhaps add that the flat was so cold the only way we could keep warm was by putting all the bedding on one bed and sleeping in it - when the phone rings. Ten past nine. I ask you. We were on holiday, and adjusting to the time change.  Jim.

So despite my rather fragile state, we leap up, ready to rush off to meet him. I was thrilled. Then the phone rings again.  Not Jim.  Anita's sister-in-law saying her father is very ill.  So off we go, meet Jim for a rather insubstantial breakfast, I like porridge and lots of strong coffee, none of which was in evidence.  I was then told that he had bought two, two day ski passes (I don't ski) so that he could take Anita skiing. Lovely. Off they went, saying they'd be back in time to meet me for lunch.  4.15pm they arrived back. I was starving, having decided to wait for them. My headache was back. I was not at my sparkling best.  Then I was told that Anita's father was so ill that she wanted to go home. OK. Lets get things sorted.  At which point Jim took over completely, and it was decided that it was best to go to Geneva that evening to sort a flight out.  The 'good thing' to come out of this, according to Jim, was that I would get to stay in the swanky hotel he had booked for himself, rather than the cold flat, because he didn't want to stay and ski by himself.  But it was perfectly OK for the pair of them to screech off in his Audi and leave me in Chamonix by myself.  So by 5.30, I was stood in the lobby of a very posh hotel, tout-seul, as they say, clutching a ruck sack and a plastic bag.  Apparently Jim managed to 'calm Anita down' over night in Geneva.

I have thoroughly explored the delights of Chamonix, such as they are. I've been up the Aguille du Midi, I've been for a hike in the forest and I've been up to the Glacier.  The Grand Hotel du Montenvers is fantastic, full of old world charm, roaring fires and splendid isolation. Great for a romantic escape at this time of year.  I've discovered that I can eat in a restaurant alone, I'm good at the 'enigmatic woman' and that I can cope on my own.  All be it with the support of my friends at home via facebook and text. THANK YOU. And for having the dustpan, brush and super glue at the ready.  That's not to say I wouldn't have been very pleased to see a familiar face, friendly or otherwise.  The tale does become more surreal, and involve some fantastically selfish behaviour, along with a widower and a dog, but we won't go there.

I did do a lot of thinking though.  I have decided to consign the past 365 days to the 'never to be reopened' box.  And I do mean 365 days.  This time last year I was so excited and thrilled. I had allowed myself to believe that there may be someone who 'got' me, everything was possible.  Sadly I now know that it was 'sport flirting', and I misread it all and let myself be hurt in the process.  In short, I was the sport. There is no possibility of reconciliation on any level, due to stubborn stupidity and the fact that my self-destruct mechanism has surpassed itself this time. Will I stop wanting, or wishing I'd played a different game? I can't say. So for now I will continue to live, until I become alive again.  Am I frustrated? Yes, on every level. So much for following my heart.

I should perhaps say, that Anita's father is fine now.  Seemingly Anita and I are drawing a line under the whole sorry tale. And that is why I know I've got a new tattoo.

On the subject of tattoos, Joe has now had his completed, if you want to see what it looks like its on my facebook.  I resisted temptation. Mutton and lamb springs to mind. Although I did read quite an interesting piece by Tracy Emin on the subject of age. I could even empathise with some of it.  A whole new concept for me.

I think it may be time for a whole new approach. I'm not quite sure what yet, but I'll keep you posted.  2013 was supposed to be a year for change, or so I was reliably informed.  But as ever, I've come late to that party.  Maybe 2014 will be my year. Who can say?  But I shall continue to plunge through life, happy to know that I can, and in the hope that maybe, one day, all will be resolved. Or at least no longer worth worrying about.