Rochester was coming North this week. To say my head is fucked by what is going on with him is a huge understatement. Recently there has been flirting (he has shared some very sexual dreams that appear to involve me prancing through a buttercup filled meadow in white cotton knickers). There has been rare tenderness from him and the usual wry teasing. Amazingly though, all of this renewed intimacy co-incided with the admission that he has very recently moved back in with his wife. I asked him to explain that. He said he would tell me about it, but would rather discuss it 'face to face' on his visit.
"For 'face to face' read 'horizontally'." quipped Madam Noir.
You know, I try to be a good person. I know that sounds rather tepid and lame, but I do try to live by Christian values. Meeting up with a married man goes against all of those values. I absolutely agonised over it. But, I do love Rochester. He just makes me smile. He just feels so right. Men who aren't Rochester just don't measure up. And generally, men who are not Rochester just don't tend to 'get me' like Rochester does. So, after much contemplation I emailed the rogue to tell him I would indeed meet him for a cliff-top walk or a cup of tea. He was due up on Thursday and was staying for a few days. I began to feel almost childishly excited about seeing him again. It was all I thought about, schoolwork went untouched, I drifted around John Lewis in some sort of lovelorn daze, utterly immune to the siren call of the Bobbi Brown and cashmere departments. I even lost my appetite for scones.
By Friday I had heard nothing and began to feel slightly uncomfortable. I had the troublesome feeling that I wasn't going to see him at all. This gloomy realisation was shaken from me when an 80 year old tree fell on my next door neighbours' house. It was terribly dramatic, a few more feet eastwards and I could have been killed. I snapped a picture and emailed it to the rogue. No response. It is now Sunday evening, he is no doubt back in Bristol and I haven't got a fucking clue what happened.
This has been an interesting lesson. Madam Noir and I had have discussed the 'Rochester issue' many times these last few weeks: could I handle being 'just friends', could I handle 'an affair' etc etc. I thought I was pretty strong at the moment, but this weekend has truly shown me what dangerous territory I am inhabiting. I couldn't handle either. All my life I have suffered with horrific depressions, mood swings and insecurities. I may do a fucking wonderful job of hiding this, but it is true nevertheless. At times these depressions have been absolutely crippling, resulting in hospitalisations and overdoses. I think the equilibrium of my mind is so incredibly fragile that little knocks like this weekend can leave me utterly bereft and terrifed. It's just not worth the risk. The last couple of days I have felt dizzy and weak. Rooms have felt as if they were swimming around me. I can only assume this is a physical manifestation of all the stress and worry I've been feeling. Of course, knowing Rochester, I shall eventually get a dryly sardonic and wry email, one that doesn't even acknowledge his slight. And I shall probably reply, in a witty and carefree way, giving the impression I barely even noticed his absence.
I was thinking last night that Rochester truly is everything want in a man, but also fails to offer anything that I need. I think what I need, possibly more than anything else, is someone strong, decent and totally, totally dependable.
A New Section of my Blog - Middle Class Injuries
I was inspired to start this section yesterday, I suffered the most appalling middle-class injury. So. Here we go, this will be the section to list the kind of accidents and emergencies that could only happen to the middle class (and the middle-aged). For example:
- Getting a paper cut on the Guardian Weekend Review supplement
- Slipping on a Fair trade banana skin
- Grating your finger into the parmigiano reggiano
Well, my stupendous middle class injury occurred when I burst my lip open whilst sniffing an up-market scented candle in John Lewis. Let me tell you the tale. Are you sitting comfortably?
Madam Noir spirited me out yesterday afternoon for a little distracting shopping. We were browsing the John Lewis household section. Madam Noir was queuing up to buy a carved Bhudda's head for her mantlepiece (I would have thought she would have gone for something a little more lezza - like a sculpture of Martina Navratilova's arse in frilly Wimbledon knickers, but what do I know)? I was amusing myself by sniffing the scented candles. They had a lovely range of creamy, aromatic candles in heavy glass jars. I was trying to choose a favourite: Pear and Sandalwood or Ricky Martin's Crotch. . . hmmm. . . which did I prefer? Just at that moment two JL shop assistants came blustering past me. Apparently there was a bit of a kerfuffle as a customer had smuggled a Pomeranian dog into the store in her clutch bag. Just at the very moment I was lifting Ricky Martin's Crotch to my nostrils for a second sniff I was bumped. The heavy glass jar smashed into my mouth. Oh, the agony! Of course, I was far too repressed and British to complain to anyone. My mouth was seductively swollen and Nastassja Kinski-esque for the rest of the afternoon, and very cut and sore.
'That's it!!! I'll not be performing any fellatio this evening, Madam Noir!'
I loudly proclaimed as we got in the car park lift.
Note to self: next time check lift is not full of family shoppers before making such an explicit proclamation.