It’s the first day of annual leave and I have done precisely fuck all.
Ok, that’s not strictly true. I’ve sent a letter to my letting agent about the mud patch outside the back door. It’s not that it’s horrendous, it’s just that the dogs insist on using it as a main route back into the kitchen, and I would rather that it was covered before Artax’s remains surface and I find Vengeance gnawing on a horse leg.
There have also been a large number of photos taken of my dogs. I can’t be held entirely responsible for this. They are perfect. It’s like living with the dog versions of Tom Hiddleston and Catherine Zeta Jones. Flawless, the pair of them.
“Oooh you post a lot of pics of your dogs on instagram don’t you!” says a muggle to me. Little do they know that not only do I merely post a tenth of the pictures I actually take, but the dogs have their own Insta accounts.
A lot of photos? BITCH, YOU THOUGHT…..
Other than that? Fuck all.
And it’s MINT
See, a few months ago I was faced with the prospect of living alone with the dogs and in my experience, I hate this. Having said that, the last time I had to do that was in 2014 when my then partner was in prison. I realise that sounds like a wanky thing to say, but I’m bored of being coy about it. I was in the Forest of Dean, isolated from family and friends in Bristol because I literally could not afford to rent in my home city.
Thank fuck for Jo. I will, however, never forgive her for getting me drunk on wine and then texting me chipper photos of herself the following morning while I embraced my porcelain friend. Damn her youth. Damn her.
Anyway, I’m sure there was a point to this pre-amble. Yes. Yes there is.
In December I was told I had to move out, in no uncertain terms (uncertain terms had definitely been the order of the previous few months)as my ex’s dad came round to the house we were living in and made him say it, and it broke me because of my fear of loneliness. I was also humiliated beyond belief that I wasn’t respected enough for someone to have that conversation with me without an arbiter. I worried I wouldn’t be able to rent with the dogs. I was petrified I would have to rehome my best friends. Anya has saved my life twice; she has also eaten my leather passport holder, one of a pair of stunning shoes, and a pair of my glasses, but the life-saving thing negates all that. I was prepared to live in my car with these two.
I was scooped up and saved by a team of the best women you may never meet, and a Dave and a Dan and a Ryan (not *that* Ryan. that Ryan is a bona fide narcissistic tosser. This Ryan is the son of one of my besties and is a diamond).
The whole story is for another post, but I ended up living on my own in a lovely area of the city, actually within city limits and not those of the outskirts.
I lost 12kg in 3 months (that’s just under 2 stone, seriously – we’ve been metric since the early 80s, get with the programme), and the dogs are so happy.
I took a chance and installed Tinder…and that is DEFINITELY a post for another day, but (spoilers) it’s a good one.
I started my phased return to work, and was supported every step of the way.
I applied for a vacancy that will complement my clinical job.
I found out that I am absolutely freaking awesome and I am lucky to spend every minute of my time with me.
There is no anger or sadness that surrounds the way that this situation came about but more that I knew at the time I would have to endure the pain in order to heal. One of my midwifery managers (who taught me an excellent bit of Irish last week) spoke to me about our paths. Sometimes they are painful beyond words, but you have to go through it in order to strengthen yourself.
It takes more than what has been thrown at me to take me down completely; but I had to go there to find out – and now I am back.