I'm Not Bad. I'm Just Drawn That Way

Welcome to Byddi Lee at We Didn’t Come Here for the Grass. I was having an interesting time browsing through your posts until… ARGH! SNAKE!! I forgive you though.

Welcome too, to thyme2garden at Thyme To Garden Now. I’m still trying to come up with ways to nick some of your heat. Working on it. Failing.

Also welcome to Midwestern Mama Holly at Are You Serious? Your post title – ‘I Love You Like My Favourite Dildo’? Bahahaha!!

In response to my last post, The Idiot Gardener said something in his comment that really tickled me – “Blimey, it seems that being a widow makes you a twat-magnet!”

I gave some thought to changing my name from Bub to Twat-Magnet, and in the event of more ‘episodes’, changing the blog name to The Adventures Of A Twat-Magnet, or maybe The Lady Is A Twat-Magnet, The Twat Files or The Twat Factor.

If there were enough contenders (hope not, but good for blogging about I suppose), it could even end up with a competition called Twat Idol.

I could go on, the possibilities are endless.

(I also had two conversations with my mum about it, starting with her laughing and saying she wished she could draw, as she had a mental image of a twat-magnet. My mind started to boggle, until she explained that what she was envisioning was a magnet (with eyes and long eyelashes) and numerous men stuck to it.

Phew.

The second conversation took place the next day:

Me: Um, this magnet thing. Do you know what the word twat means?

Mum: Yes, of course I do!

Me: Oh, it’s just… well… um… when you said about the mental image you had, I kinda wondered. That’s all.

Pause

Mum: Oh no. Urgh. OH NO! I’ve got a different mental image now. Ewww.

Oops.)

But then my mind went off in the direction of pantomime dames, and I started thinking about calling myself Widow Twat-Magnet and decided to turn to Google to find a suitable picture.

In the course of searching for various things – Widow Twankey, drag queens, Lily Savage, Danny La Rue - I came across a picture of Jessica Rabbit (a-ha! my double), so I specifically searched for pictures of that character.

I found something that at first left me slightly gobsmacked.

I don’t watch daytime television at all; in fact I tend not to turn the tv on until well into the evening. I probably miss loads of good programmes (I doubt it), but that’s just the way it is. Sometimes *looking round furtively* I don’t turn it on at all. For days. Sacrilege in some people’s houses.

This video clip is from a programme called This Morning, which aired in January (you may have already seen it – don’t forget, I’m the one who doesn’t watch tv that much):

To begin with, I found it amusing, but fairly quickly I started to feel uncomfortable. What this woman has done harms no-one else, but I began to feel incredibly sad for her.

We may have aspirations to be like someone else (my tongue-firmly-in-cheek comment about Jessica Rabbit being my double, for example), but to take it to this extent – to have plastic surgery in the quest to look like a cartoon character – well, I find it disturbing.

I am not against people having plastic surgery; it is, after all, a personal choice. But to have surgery because you want to look like a fictional character?

Surely there has to be a question of ethics involved on the part of the surgeon. Or is it simply a matter of ‘if you’ve got the money and you’re willing to pay, then I’ll do the op’? I suspect this is the case.

Not having had, nor intending to have plastic surgery, I don’t know whether counselling is required beforehand. If it’s not, then it damn well ought to be. The surgeon’s bank balance may not show quite as many noughts at the end of the month, but at least the patient would hopefully receive some sort of help for the real issue.

I also wonder if I’d have such a problem with it if she wanted to alter herself to look like a real person, Marilyn Monroe for example.

No, I don’t think I would. I would still feel sad that she’s not comfortable enough in her own skin to be herself, much like I do about women who have numerous breast enhancements and who end up with a bust that’s grossly out of proportion to the rest of their body.

What I am incredulous at is the fact that she’s paid money to alter her body on something that doesn’t really exist, something that came from someone’s imagination.

Good job she didn’t want to look like Bugs Bunny I suppose.

I'm A Widow, Shag Me...

…as I must be desperate/up for it/gagging. Right?

Wrong.

Before I get to the main bit, let me give you a little background first.

After Significant Other was diagnosed, amongst other things, he wanted (for his own peace of mind) to get some of the important things done around the house for me. This meant getting someone in to do them.

Enter Nob The Builder.

We had our roof insulated (which involved taking all the roof tiles off), a window put into the roof, the bathroom changed to a wetroom, the garage door changed, and a massive shed built.

All this was done over approximately three months, while Significant Other’s health was deteriorating. He also wanted the stairs replaced and the kitchen done but I put a stop to it, knowing (unlike he did) how little time he had left.

Naturally enough, Significant Other, Nob and I would chat – Cornwall, tropical fish, children, cars, houses, all sorts of stuff.

A few weeks after Significant Other died, I got a phone call from Nob, who’d heard about it through someone one else, offering condolences.

The next time I spoke to Nob was when I contacted him to build me a staircase last November. This was done (which I still haven’t finished painting – sigh), he was paid, off he went and that’s the last time I had any contact with him.

Fast forward.

I’d been out shopping the other day and had been home literally two minutes, when there was a knock at the door.

Nob The Builder.

NTB: Hi! I’ve been working in the area today, and thought I’d pop by to see you.

Me: ???
What I Actually Said: Hello.

NTB: You’re looking really well, how’re you doing?

Me: Did I contact you to do work? No. What. Do. You. Want?
WIAS [folding arms]: I’m okay.

NTB: I just wanted to see how you are. I haven’t worked in this neck of the woods for ages, so I thought I call by.

Me: What’s that smell? Oh, I do believe it’s bullshit.
WIAS: Uh-huh.

NTB: I was thinking of you in April [anniversary of Significant Other’s death].

Me: I think he wants me to say, “ohhh, how sweet of you. Thaaaank you.”
WIAS: I wasn’t here; I went to Cornwall with Youngest Daughter.

NTB: Did you? But I was thinking of you.

Me: So? I actually couldn’t give a squeaky rats ass.
WIAS: I was thinking of Significant Other.

NTB: Oh. I’ve finally sold my mum’s house [in Cornwall – she died a couple of years ago].

Me: And?
WIAS: That’s good.

NTB: We’re thinking of moving down there, even saw a place we liked but they wanted too much for it. You’re a strong, independent woman, who knows her own mind; you’d do well on your own in Cornwall. Are you still thinking of moving down there?

Me: I may start exploring the contents of my nose to show you just how independent I am.
WIAS: No, it’s not the same there for me anymore.

NTB: Yeah, well I don’t think we’ll be moving there. [sigh] Business has been quite slow this year and money’s been tight. Me and Wife have been arguing a lot lately over money.

Me: Hang on, one minute you’re telling me you’re thinking of moving there, and then the next you’re not. Hmm. And why do I need to hear about your relationship? Ah wait. Could it be a ‘my wife doesn’t understand me’ line.
WIAS: Well, money can cause arguments, but now your mum’s place is sold, that’ll help.

NTB: S’pose. So, what do you do with yourself, you know, er, during the day?

Me: What do I do? Why, I fill my days by having rampant hot monkey sex*. Come on in, you’re next. Is that what you want to hear?
WIAS: I keep myself busy, sorting through Significant Other’s stuff, meeting friends. Yup, just keeping busy one way or another.

NTB: You’re not lonely then?

Me [narrowing eyes]: ten…nine…eight…
WIAS: Nope.

NTB: Hmm. I see you’ve still got The Beastie. I need to change my car.

Me: Where are you going with this? Seven…six…
WIAS: I love The Beastie, and it’s special to me because Significant Other bought it for me.

NTB: I like Beasties. I was thinking of getting one, and even looked at an estate, but Wife didn’t like it. She's not like you, she said it was too big. She’s weird like that. I don’t know what’s the matter with her.

Me: Dissing your wife to me. Nice. Five…four…
WIAS: Not everyone likes driving a big car.

NTB [another sigh]: Me and Wife really aren’t getting on, we’re arguing loads. Mostly over Step-Daughter [she’s 20], she’s a nightmare. She’s causing so many problems, I can’t see us staying together for much longer.

Me: three...two...one. I’ve had enough of this. You need to fuck off. And you need to fuck off now. And if you think I'll be contacting you for any more building work - think again.
WIAS [hard, no nonsense voice]: Kids don’t stay at home forever, they leave home. Then it’ll be the way it should be, and you and Wife will be back to normal. Right, I’ve got shopping to put away. Bye.

And I shut the door.

Dumbass.



*Just to be clear - I DON’T!

A new follower to my witterings - welcome to Sam at I Don’t Mean To Be A Bother. In the past, I have written my welcome at the top of the post, but in this instance, given the title, I didn’t want you to think it was an invitation.

Also, I’m not sure, but I think UDG at Urban Dirt may be following me too. If you are, welcome. If you’re not, well, you’re welcome to pop by anyway! (As is anyone else of course.)

The Woman With The Inner Dragon

My inner dragon usually looks something like this. She occasionally lets off a bit of steam, but she’s generally content to be in a world of her own. She can be a little shy, but that’s not a bad thing. At least she’s not one of those annoying inner dragons that get right up your nose.

Now and again she can be found doing this. Or shopping for shoes. A female inner dragon can never have too many shoes. Ever. She may occasionally sort out and set fire to some shoes, but that’s so she can buy more (preferably ones that fit). Note how my inner dragon knows how to colour co-ordinate and accessorize.

Once in a while, she feels like this. Looking a little bewildered and sad, she sometimes feels a bit sorry for herself, but every inner dragon has days like that. Buying another pair of shoes soon sorts that out.

                        

However, this is my inner dragon’s usual state. She’s happiest when sleeping, dreaming of George Clooney and ice-cream. But not the two together (er, maybe once. Okay, loads twice).

Today my inner dragon was woken from her peaceful slumber by someone who shall remain nameless (*cough* The Widower *cough*).

She was most definitely not happy.

 In fact, my inner dragon was distinctly angry. She’d had enough.

More than enough.

 

She let out an almighty roar to signify how enraged she was. She took a deep breath and…

Then she let rip.

My inner dragon is currently drinking milk and taking anti-acids for all she’s worth, because she has rampant indigestion (later, she'll be drinking wine; sod the indigestion).

But oh boy, was it worth it.

Which Came First - Mouth Or Brain?

Welcome to Kyna at Crystal Coast Gardener. She loves the way I write, I love the way she writes. A whole lotta mutual admiration going on there (I was going to type whole lotta lovin’, but felt that was a bit too up close and personal, seeing as we’ve only just met).

She also kindly allowed me to steal the cancer logo from her blog, one that she stole from elsewhere. As a receiver of stolen goods I will, in future, to protect my new friend, deny all knowledge of where it came from.

Something I wrote in my last post got me thinking about something I’ve been aware of for a while (hmm, two something’s in one sentence – [shaking head] my vocabulary is poor, very poor. Oh no [sigh], did it again).*

Let me start again.

There was something I wrote in my last post about something that

In my last post, I wrote something to do with something about

In the previous post I wrote, I said something and it got me thinking about something to

Oh stuff it.

I wrote:

“…I’m wandering off topic. I seem to do that a lot, I can’t help it, it’s the way my brain’s wired.”

I do find it’s vastly easier to contain any meanderings while typing, than to curb them while talking. I read what I’ve written, think ‘eh? you what?’ then backspace until RSI sets in, thereby saving you the bother of thinking wtf?

(Actually, I was being disingenuous (heh – now there’s a word). What I really do is cut, paste and save it to another file if it’s not relevant, but I like it. The file is named ‘Bank Or Lose Later Otherwise Could Keep as Substitute. I’m thinking it’s a bit wordy though. I’m thinking I need to find a way to shorten it.)

Over the years I have unconsciously and accidentally mastered the art of distracting myself, but not only do my thoughts wander while writing, they take a stroll while in the middle of conversations. I other thing I excel at, is engaging mouth before brain.

A friend once said I should come with some sort of warning. I was insulted for about a nanosecond, but then decided to be flattered. It was easier.

I will give you examples. First off, we have distraction during conversation.

Talking to Wise One on the phone:

WO: We’ve got everything ready for [grandson’s] christening on Sunday.

Me: That’s great. Hope the weather holds out for it.

WO: The forecast is good. There’s over forty people invited and the house isn’t that big, so we’ll be able to use the garden.

Me: If the forecast is good that’s… Oh! You’ll never guess who I bumped into while I was shopping today.

WO: ???

Me: It was [someone we used to work with]. She was with her daughter.

WO: Oh, how is she? I haven’t spoken to her for ages.

Me: Me neither. She’s fine, looking forward to her holiday in a couple of weeks. She’s getting really fed up working at the school. Says it not the same as it used to be and she's thinking about looking for another job. What were you saying before?

WO: Er…

Another example (although, I think I can be forgiven for this one).

Talking to my dad on the phone:

Dad: I’m waiting for the plumber to turn up to put the radiators back.

Me: When’s he due?

Dad: Well, he was supposed to come Monday but…

(I was in the living room and while he was talking I heard a crunching noise.)

Me: [squealing loudly] OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!

Dad: ???

Me: [still squealing] Grumpy’s got a bird. A BIRD!

Dad: Oh good grief.

Me: [Shrieky voice] GET OUT! GET OUT!

Dad: Is it dead?

Me: I BLOODY HOPE SO.

I chased Grumpy through the house into the back garden and shut the door. Then looked out of the window to see her eating the bird.

Me: URRGGHH! SHE’S EATING IT! (Why I was surprised I don’t know – she’s a cat. Duh. That’s what cats do – catch things. Except Dopey. She couldn’t catch a cold.)

Dad: Is it dead?

Me: Yeah, ewww, wait, I’m going to get it off her.

I put on gloves, got it away from Grumpy and flung it into the field. Some fox probably came across it and thought it was its birthday. Grumpy wasn’t impressed though, I got the ‘what the hell did you do that for?’ look.

Me: Urrrrgh, gross, gross, gross.

Dad: She won’t go and get it will she?

Me: I hope not. What were you saying before?

Dad: Er…

Moving on to mouth-before-brain category.

There are loads of instances of this, but I’ll pick two favourites – ones that people still recall.

While sitting in the staffroom when working at the primary school, there were three of us having a girly chat about shaving legs during the winter.

I’d never given any thought to how hairy some ladies legs are. I now know I’m lucky to have legs that are not particularly hirsute.

Friend 1: I can’t be bothered to shave during the winter.

Friend 2: Neither can I, unless I’m going out for the night.

Me: I know what you mean. Especially as I spend most of my time in trousers.

Friend 2: Yeah, there’s no point is there?

Friend 1: I should really though. They need doing.

Me: That bad?

Friend 1: Look.

She raised her trouser legs.

Me: HOLY SHIT, I’VE NEVER SEEN LEGS THAT HAIRY! (Brain to Mouth: Good one. How to win friends and influence people.)

Luckily enough she has a very good sense of humour and she is still my friend.

My second example:

Last year I had to have an operation on one of my feet to remove a lump from the ball of my foot.

On the day of the operation there were two other patients and each of us were to be operated on under local anaesthetic. I didn’t feel nervous about the procedure at all. Although maybe I was without realising it.

I was sitting in the chair next to my bed trying to read a book, and the nurse was talking to the lady who was across the ward. I reckon the patient was fifteen to twenty years older than me.

It was so quiet, I couldn’t help but overhear what they were saying.

Nurse: Just going to check your blood pressure.

Lady: Ok.

Nurse: That’s fine. Let’s just check your temperature.

Lady: Ok.

Nurse: How are you doing now?

Lady: Not too bad. It’s been nine months since [husband] died. What really annoys me though, is people telling me time is a great healer.

Me: [loudly] That’s a load of bollocks (Brain to Mouth: Nice work. You've never seen these people before, and you're swearing. You disgust me.).

Both of them looked at me.

I apologised, sank lower into my chair and didn’t make eye contact with her anymore.

The nurse was bustling around doing what nurses do. I was in my chair, trying to become part of it, when she asked if I was ok, as I looked petrified. I was surprised and told her that no, I didn’t feel scared, but I was very tired due to having to get up at stupid o’clock to get to the hospital. (Hmm, so now I know that when I’m tired, I look scared witless.)

Enter the consultant surgeon.

Mr CS: Morning ladies.

The three of us chorused a ‘morning’ back.

To me:

Mr CS: How are you this morning?

Me: Well according to the nurse, apparently I look petrified, but otherwise, apart from being tired, I’m fine.

Mr Consultant Surgeon, with a concerned look on his face, sat down on the footstool in front of me and said:

Mr CS: Are you nervous?

Me: If I thought this was the first operation you’d ever performed, then yes I think I would be somewhat nervous. But I’m sure it’s not (Brain to Mouth: Way to go Mouth. Did you just sort of question the surgeon’s ability?).

Mr CS: I can assure you it’s most definitely not the first surgical procedure I’ve performed.

That told me then.

Mr CS: Did you not sleep very well last night, or do you often get tired?

Me: Depends how much wine I’ve drunk (Brain to Mouth: The correct answer was ‘I got up very early this morning’ you prat. Mr Consultant Surgeon probably thinks you have a drink problem now).

The nurse then told me it was time to get changed into the hospital gown. She drew the curtains around the bed. I’d just turned to place my bag on the chair when:

Mr CS: Mrs D’Lub? Is it ok to come in? (Yes, that’s right, my name is Bub D’Lub – sad but ‘true’.)

Me: Yes of course.

He appeared from the other side of the curtain and said:

Mr CS: I’m sorry, I just wanted a quick word and I wanted to make sure you weren’t in a state of undress.

Me: I have been known to shed my clothes quite quickly on occasion in the past. However, the nurse has only just drawn that curtain and even I’m not that fast (Brain to Mouth: SHUTUP SHUTUP SHUTUP).

Mr CS: Hur hur.

My mouth's final moment of glory that day came during the operation itself. As well as the surgeon and myself, there were also two theatre nurses present. There was a bit of chit chat, and then:

Mr CS: How long did you say you’ve had this lump?

Me: About ten years.

Mr CS: It’s much bigger and deeper than I anticipated.

Me: Oh.

All went quiet. Then:

Mr CS: It’s a boy!

Me: Blimey! I thought I was here for an operation on my foot. I had no idea I was… You’ve got really gentle hands. (Brain to Mouth: I give up. You. Are. An. Idiot.)

Much laughter from the theatre nurses. I hid my face under the blanket.

In a file drawer somewhere are my notes. And on the cover of those notes I strongly suspect this might be stamped:

                        

* In my last post I wrote a sentence which made me think about something I’ve been aware of for a while. (HAH!)

UPDATE: Not only have I pinched a logo from Kyna, I've just realised I've also sort of [ahem] 'borrowed' one of her post titles. This was totally unintentional and I apologise unreservedly. Plus I can't be arsed to change it.

♫ Those Su-ummer Ni-ights ♫

Stars can be named after people. I wonder if constellations can be named too.

On warm summer nights, I often sit in the garden drinking a glass of, er… water (yeah, that’s a good one; we’ll go with that – [snigger] water).

It’s so peaceful - seeing bats flitting around at dusk, hearing the occasional screech of an owl, observing foxes warily observing me and listening to the horses fart contentedly (sorry Mum, I meant to type ‘blow raspberries’, but fart slipped out instead) in the field next door, then listening to them relieve themselves (I reckon they must have bladders the size of a small pond).

(Mind you, you know when you’re on a night out and you’re drinking? After a while, you begin to feel the urge to pay a visit to the facilities, but you just know that if you go too soon you’ll be visiting those facilities A LOT after that. So you hold on and hold on until you feel you can’t hold it any longer. And then when you give in and go, you find you too have a bladder the size of a small pond. Which then shrinks to the size of an amoeba for the rest of the evening.)

When it gets dark enough and the skies are clear, I start to star gaze. Apart from The Plough, the only other constellation I recognize (and have bothered to look up) is Cassiopeia. It’s the one that looks like a ‘W’ (well, looking northwards it does from my part of the world, others may see it as an ‘M’ or perhaps a tilted ‘∑’).

Significant Other and I first became aware of Cassiopeia while on holiday in Cornwall one year. We didn’t have a clue what its real name was, so we dubbed it ‘The Big W’ (oh, how imaginative!). With a glass of… water each, we’d go down to the beach at night and look in awe at the amount of stars we could see.

Returning home after this particular holiday, we looked for and found The Big W. Its position in the sky made it look like it was over our neighbours house and garden.

Let me detour a little here.

Our next-door-neighbours on one side where we used to live were lovely. Salt of the earth and all that. The neighbours on the other side however, weren’t.

There was Mr Tosser, Mrs Tosser and their two daughters (got no idea what their names were, but I draw the line at calling innocent kids tossers – I do have some boundaries).

Amongst other things, both Mr and Mrs Tosser were very territorial about the parking space in front of their house. It didn’t matter to them that everybody else who owned a car had paid their road tax and was therefore entitled to park there. Oh no, as far as they were concerned, God had allotted them that space and plagues of locusts would be inflicted on anyone who left their car there.

Another neighbour further down the road had a visit from his elderly father once, who parked outside the Tosser house. When he ended his visit, he returned to his car to find an A4 sheet of paper had been glued to the windscreen on the driver’s side with the words ‘DO NOT PARK HERE’ written in black marker pen.

We never used to hear the children in the house. You’d expect to occasionally hear shouting, laughter, the noise of feet running up or down the stairs, but there wasn’t a peep.

We used to speculate about what they did with the kids to keep them so unnaturally quiet. It was decided that Mrs and Mrs Tosser put the kids into pods as soon as they walked through the front door.

Whenever I saw Mrs Tosser in the street, she had a face like a slapped cats arse. Come to think of it, in response, I may have too.

I was chatting to our other neighbour over the fence in the back garden once, when she lowered her voice and said, “Look. Up there. Look at Mrs Tosser’s bathroom window.”

When I turned and looked, Mrs Tosser was pressed up against the frosted glass, had one knee perched on the window sill and an ear up to the open fan light window. Obviously the frosted glass meant we couldn’t see her. Right?

To give her something worth listening to, my neighbour and I started talking about what we considered unusual sexual practices to be – “Nah, I’ve done that – it ain’t strange at all. You should try it.”

Back to Cassiopeia.

Our discovery that The Big W sat over their house was, as far as we were concerned, a sign.

In ‘honour’ of what we thought of our neighbours, The Big W thereafter became known as The Wanker Constellation.

I now sit in my garden at night, drinking my wi... water, say hello to Cassiopeia and think of Significant Other, hoping wherever he is now, he’s ok.

Therefore, in loving memory of Significant Other, I think I might request Cassiopeia be renamed The Wanker Constellation.

Hang on, something doesn’t feel right there, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

I Think I Need A Man

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

You know sometimes the germ of an idea manifests itself in your brain and the more you think about it, the more it takes shape and the more you think it’s going to work.

It. Is. The. Answer. Isn’t it?

It can’t fail, can it?

It’s brilliant, isn’t it?

Well.

There may possibly be a solution to The Widower problem, but I’m unsure as to whether I should set it in motion. It could backfire.

He phoned again yesterday morning asking if I was free. I expressed my ‘sorrow’ that unfortunately I wasn’t. I had to go and dig a big pile of worms up from the garden.

He then asked about today. Again, I spoke of my ‘regret’. I had an appointment at the zoo to do a spot of snake charming (but trust me, I ain’t never gonna be charming The Widower’s snake).

It transpired that New Lady is out of town until Friday, his mum is in hospital and he wanted my shoulder to cry on (shoulder eh? That’s a new one).

I visited my friend, Pink Crystal, today and we spoke about the pain in the arse this problem. As a throwaway remark, I said I need a man. A fake boyfriend.

Now I’m thinking maybe that’s not such a bad idea.

I need a fake boyfriend, but a man who really exists, one who’s willing to pretend to be involved with me. He has to be a real person so The Widower can meet him. Just the once.

I was talking it over with my mum; she also thinks it’s an excellent idea, although she said it would have to be someone I trust, and someone who I wouldn’t get into difficulties with. So I wouldn’t find myself jumping out of the frying pan into the fire, as it were. Between us, our thinking caps were on, trying to come up with a suitable man, when:

Mum: What about Dad?

Me: Ewww, that’s just icky. Ewwwwww. Ewwwwwwww.

Jokingly, I suggested I should tell The Widower I have a girlfriend.

Mum: NO! He might want to watch!”

Bugger.

Hadn’t thought of that.

I have it.

I need a gay fake boyfriend.

Yes, I know this all sounds ridiculous, but I’m getting really hacked off with it now.

If The Widower thinks there is a man on the scene, that I have a companion and I’m getting oodles of… hugs (you can remove your head from the bucket and stop gagging now, Eldest Daughter), he may back off.

Or.

And this is where it could backfire.

He may not.

He may just see that as being open season – he may think, as far as it goes, I’m up for it (the only thing I could be up for, is pushing him off Southend Pier. Hurrah! Southend Pier has a use after all).

Hmm.

What to do?

I’m having lunch with Wise One tomorrow, so I’ll run it by her and see what she thinks. She may even know of a willing victim have a suggestion for the ‘new man in my life’.

If I don’t do something, I will be pushed into turning into something I rarely do anymore:

I don’t like doing that, it unsettles me.

And it gives me indigestion.

If Sensitive To Swearing - Do Not Read

The Widower has reared his head again.

I’ve managed to avoid a lot of his calls by simply ignoring the phone – I have caller display. If you haven’t got it, get it. Veeeerrry useful.

(I’d like to issue a warning here. This post is going to involve an abundant use of the ‘f’ word. In previous posts where I’ve let off a bit of steam, I’ve restrained myself, but I’m not going to today. Yes, I know it's not big and it's not clever, but I don't care.

If you are of a sensitive nature, click away now. Go and Google raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens or something.)

The Widower turned up unannounced the other afternoon.

Fucker.

He was in the area and wanted to check up on me (hot weather = less clothing = increased perving opportunities methinks).

Fucker.

Apparently, he promised Significant Other he’d ‘keep an eye on me’.

Lying fucker.

He wanted a progress report.

Oh fuck off.

“Any inroads made in the garage?”

Yes, I have been in the garage, you fucking irritating bastard.

“I see you still have the vans. Any movement on those?”

There will be - they're going to get shoved right up your fucking arse.

“What about the sheds?”

If there’s room, the contents of the sheds can go up there too.

“It’s important not to shut yourself away”.

How many times do I have to say it? I haven’t fucking shut myself away, you fucking moron.

“Do you get out much?”

Yes I do, and that would come under ‘I haven’t shut myself away’ you fucking dozy pillock.

“New Lady stays with friends for a few days occasionally. When she’s away, I’ll give you a ring and I’ll treat you to lunch.”

I don’t fucking think so.

“Are you keeping yourself occupied?”

Yes, I occupy myself by thinking of how many ways there are to get you to fuck right off.

“And what about company? You must get lonely.”

What the fuck has it got to do with you? Fuck off and mind your own business.

“You must miss… hugs.”

Billy Connolly will express my sentiments at this point:

And off he will fuck indeed.

Mind Your Own Damn Business!

Or should it be 'Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here'? Ah well, whatever.

I've found that since acquiring widow status, aspects of my life now seem to be up for discussion, with me, by people who I would class as acquaintances. People who are on the edges of my social circle and with whom I do not, and don't want to have deep and meaningful, personal conversations. I have family and close friends to do that with.

The main culprit is a retired widower, who feels particularly qualified to talk to me (or rather, at me) about 'moving on', because he knows exactly how I feel (er, no you don't, see 15 Things Not To Say point number 2) as he's been there, done it. 

I also get the impression that being female (i.e. weak and feeble), Widower thinks I have shut myself away and sit here weeping and wailing all day - well pal, I haven't and I don't and trust me, I use the term 'pal' very loosely. Also, just to clarify, there is no sign above my door that says 'Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here'. I am however, considering a sign saying 'Sod Off!' for the door, to be used as and when necessary.

I've been given unwanted and unasked for advice on when and how I should sort through Significant Other's clothes, because "the best way is to sort through things like that is as soon as possible".  

Other topics recently have included sorting and clearing the contents of my garage and shed (which are mammoth tasks - another day, another post perhaps) and Significant Other's ashes. They should all have been dealt with by now, after all, it's been over a year since Significant Other died. Oh, how stupid of me, I hadn't realised there was a time limit.

Then it moves onto the biggie. As a weak and feeble female I shouldn't be on my own, I should now start a search for a new man.

As an aside, I firmly believe friendship and love are to be found when they're least expected and can be found in the most unexpected of places. I have a friend who was desperate, with a capital D, to find a life partner. He tried bars, clubs, online dating - you name it, he tried it with no success. What happened? He went shopping in a supermarket and met a lady with whom he is now very loved up. Not unusual enough? Try this. I know of a couple who met while they were both patients staying in hospital. They've been together for years now. So you see, don't go looking for it; when the time is right, friendship and love will find you.

Enough of that, back to my spleen venting.

I have been told the time is right to move on. 

I have been enlightened on the fact there is nobody decent to be found in a pub, or a club.

I have been warned online dating is a big no-no.

I have been informed the way forward is to look at personal adverts in the Telegraph because "you get a better class of person there, rather than one of the red-top newspapers".

I have been regaled with stories of who he met and how unsuitable they were for him (eh?). 

Guess what? Widower met a lady, who he now lives with (well, isn't she the lucky one...), not through a personal ad, but by pure chance at a golf club. See? It comes back to the point I made above.

But anyway...

Excuse Me? W...T...F...??

Why should I search for a man? Putting that to one side, the bigger question is, what business is it of his? I'm sitting here trying to coherently write my thoughts on this, but all I can think of are numerous expletives, varying from the mild to the outrageous, although truth be told I'm leaning heavily towards a stream of the downright offensive.

I will sort through the rest of Significant Other's clothes - a few months ago I went through them and took several bags to a charity shop. There are still some items to go through. The garage and shed have been started.

I almost scattered Significant Other's ashes a few weeks ago in Cornwall but it was too windy - I would have ended up wearing them. I had visions of being asked what I was covered in and replying, "my husband"! Cue horrified faces and much backing away. How to clear a bustling harbour in thirty seconds or less. Forgive my black humour.

When I am ready I will do what needs to be done. I have no intention of living in a time capsule, but I do not need to be told what to do, particularly by someone I don't know too well. I know myself and I know when the time is right for me to tackle things. Anybody who possesses more empathy than a toenail clipping would understand that. I will not be pushed into anything by anyone.

End of rant. Phew.

15 Things Not To Say

There are many things said to someone who has been bereaved to offer comfort. I've had all sorts of things said to me. However well-meant most of them were, some of them just rubbed me up the wrong way. Big time in some cases. If you find yourself faced with a newly bereaved person, I can't tell you the 'right' thing to say, perhaps apart from "I'm so sorry". But I can tell you what not to say.

Everything listed here has been said to me;  I think many of them are pretty much bog-standard words of consolation given to someone who's grieving. Bereaved people are very sensitive to what's being said, particularly in the early days.

What's written below is geared towards the death of a spouse. I cannot comment about talking to someone who is grieving the death of a parent, sibling or child, because that's outside my experience, although I would think a few of the points listed may be said and the reaction would be similar.

I've written how I felt about these comments to show you how easy it is to unintentionally cause offense. After speaking to other widows who received similar comments, I now know my thoughts match theirs. Please, please, please take note of the list below and don't say any of them.

1. Time is a great healer
Someone said this to me in the presence of another widow. We both looked at each other and said 'that's bollocks'. Yes, somewhat curt, but very succinct.

Time gives you the opportunity to adjust, to learn to live with it. It does not heal.

2. I know how you feel
No. You. Don't. You have no idea how I feel, the same as I would have no idea how you'd feel, if it were you. We are all unique, we all feel things in different ways.

From the relatively newly accquired perspective that I wish I didn't have, I now have an inkling how another bereaved person may feel if their spouse dies, but I would never presume I know what they feel.

3. Everything happens for a reason
You know this personally do you? Who gave you the authority to make this assumption? If this 'happened for a reason', explain it to me, because I sure as heck would like to know what it is.

4. You're still young and attractive, you won't be on your own for long
I have big, big, major issues with this one. It made me want to slap people. Hard. I found it extremely offensive, insensitive and insulting.

Incredibly, the first time this was said to me was just over a month before Significant Other died. Yes, before. Made my jaw drop. Significant Other was laying in our bed, not quite morphined up to the eyeballs, but still very much alive.

The next time I heard it was at the funeral. And in the weeks after. All by different people. Was this supposed to make me feel better in some way? Give me something to look forward to perhaps? If people want to speculate about this with their husbands/wives/partners/boyfriends/girlfriends, then fine. But do not have that conversation with me. Ever.

Eventually I started responding by asking if they thought Significant Other was equivalent to a goldfish who'd died, been flushed down the loo and should therefore quickly be replaced while shouting, "next!"

5. You've been so strong / amazing
No, I'm not, I'm just winging it.

6. I couldn't have coped the way you have 
I've had to cope, I wasn't given any option or choice.

7. If it happened to me, I'd die
Hang on, does this mean I didn't love Significant Other very much, as I am still alive and so therefore you must love your husband/partner/boyfriend that much more deeply to not be able to survive his death? There must be something wrong with me.

8. You've lost weight / You're so slim now, I wish I could be as slim as you
My response? I call it the 'I'm Sorry, Your Husband Is Terminally Ill Diet'. I really don't recommend it. I'd rather have the two and a half stone and Significant Other back than be the weight I am now.

9. How are you / Are you okay?
Duh.

How do you think I am? Do you really want me to tell you, or do you want me to tell you "I'm fine" to make you feel better?

Do you think I'm okay with all this? Of course I'm not okay.

Stupid questions.

10. If there's anything you need, let me know
While I understood the sentiment behind this, it wasn't helpful. My thoughts were: what I need is Significant Other, but that ain't gonna happen. Apart from that, at times I can barely remember my own name, or how to brush my hair, let alone think of something I need.

11. You're doing / coping so well
Again, just winging it.

12. Will you move house?
Said shortly after the funeral. Move house? I'm having trouble moving my head off my pillow at the moment.

13. I'll help you clear Significant Other's shed / garage out
Timing not great on this one. The 'offer' was made three days after the funeral. I politely declined. Even though I felt like I was wading through treacle that was above my head, I recognised what they actually wanted was first pickings. Haven't heard from that particular person since. No loss there.

14. You're lucky, you've experienced the sort of love that many people don't, I've never had that
Might as well say 'good for you. Even though you've witnessed the deterioration and death of Significant Other and your life has now changed forever (and sucks), you've still had it better than I ever have'. Thanks, so glad you feel envious of me. Makes me feel so much better about it all. Not.

15. She lost her husband (on being introduced to someone)
No, actually I wasn't careless enough to lose him. I didn't misplace him. He died.

I know it's difficult to know what to say. A few months ago, even I, when faced with trying to find the words to say to someone grieving for their father, struggled with it. But I knew what to avoid saying.

Lastly, but also as important, this last bit of advice is for any male readers out there:

Don't hit on a grieving widow

I'm not entirely sure or convinced on the motivation behind this. Another way of offering 'comfort'? Yeah, right. I called them Offers To Console A Grieving Widow (and that's the polite version), but all I can say is: Just. Don't. Do. It. Or you'll be labelled a twat of the highest order and treated accordingly.