Like father, like daughter

This craziness has got to stop. In all probability it only exists in my own head, and it’s making me miserable rather than happy. So it has to stop. Surely, surely, it’s a simple case of mind over matter. Surely, surely, my heart (if it is indeed my heart and not the female equivalent of men’s balls) shouldn’t be allowed to have things all its own way.


The fact of the matter is, I’m losing sleep, and that’s making me bad tempered. I’ve been ratty with my husband, and not very nice at all to poor Anna. I’ve wasted far too much time with my head stuffed up my own arse, thank you very much. Goodbye Owen, thank you, and good night.


‘Aha’ a voice whispers, ‘that’s easy to say when you haven’t seen hide nor hair of him for a week.’

Yes, but if he’s so easily forgotten, then it shouldn’t be a problem.

‘But you haven’t forgotten him, have you?’

‘I can if I put my mind to it. I’ve got a marriage to concentrate on here. A marriage to a man I love.’


And instantly I am on iTunes, buying an old song called ‘Torn Between Two Lovers’. I play it, and it’s so syrupy and kitsch I feel a bit nauseous.


Faisal is right, it’s a tendency to romanticise stuff that’s causing all these problems. My late father suffered from the same personality flaw, and in the end it did for him. Oh, he’d had affairs all his married life, but at the age of 79 he decided he was going to fall in love.


Her name was Ruth, and he met her at a literary festival. He was a poet, you see. Fancied himself as a modern day Thomas Hardy, but he needed a muse. In reality he was elderly and decrepit, and very easily misled by a woman not a great deal older than me.


Ruth adored his poetry, and, it seems, was a very affectionate person. She gave him several big hugs and he was smitten. (Now, isn’t this beginning to sound a little familiar?) But then, calamity of calamities, he lost her address. There was an outpouring of poems, a letter to her local newspaper, and bang – he found her again. An exchange of letters, more love poems, and my mother found out. He told her he’d never really loved her anyway, and that their marriage had been a sham. He died a year later (a year ago this week, in fact), broken hearted that she never forgave him. But he still didn’t take the poems he’d written for Ruth out of his final collection.


I wonder if he’s coming into my dreams so very often to try to tell me something.

  1. Its time to move on. Perhaps he comes in yr dreams to warn you not to make the same mistake he did.

    Every writer has a romantic in them.. that is a given but they must let it out when writing only. Unless they live in a mills and boon novel instead of life.

    To be honest you are a good writer, a very good writer but try to separate that person from the real life person and you will be ok.

  2. wow… that story – as painful as it might be – has potential to be a great novel..
    interested in writing?

    I do feel sorry for your mother – the sacrifices women make are…innumerable…

  3. I’m certainly interested in writing a great novel – in fact, I’ve been trying to do so for a couple of years now. Maybe sometimes the answers are closer to home than you think.

    And batster – my mother did suffer tremendously. The real shame of it is that he didn’t tell her he didn’t love her sooner, then she could have made a better life for herself.

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