31 July 2011

The Well is Dry: - The Spanish Student and The Lodger.

Heads, Shoulders, Knees and ...
My Shitty Ex-Husband's Saturday was a shocking shambles.  It has taken this long to come to terms with it!

Firstly he was an hour late.  Secondly, Aiden - who hears his booming Welsh voice virtually every other evening - was wildly and completely indifferent to the sight of him.  (Wish it was as simple as that for me).  So I couldn't leave them.  And thirdly, he casually informed me that 'The well is dry,' so he would no longer be paying maintenance.

No apologetic nuances.  Nothing.  Zero.  Like the amount of cash cascading in to my Bank account.  Zilch.

Not a brilliant way to start an afternoon.

So, suddenly we are awfully blessed with the company of a Spanish Language Student and, furthermore, the swift acquisition of  a so-far-so-good  Lodger.

Things could be worse.  It could be more than one non-English speaking, dinner-at-all-hours demanding person and the patience of any parent, let alone a single one, cannot really be pushed that far without a microwave, which it will now be impossible to purchase.

Heaven help us all.  After the upheaval of clearing out rooms that were in use and mopping up tears (all of ours), the changes have been a pleasant surprise.  The children love having more people around.  We are actually happier.  The pressures have shifted a little.  The effect has been enormous.

Next week-end, when 'Mr. Well is Dry' deigns to put in an appearance (assuming he can afford it), he will be met by plenty of excited chatter about our new friends, as he is displaced further by his own doing again.  He will pay in other ways.

Being a has-been-famous person has left his existence hollow, yet given the opportunity to give it more meaning holds no attraction for him whatsoever, only irrelevance.  This is his second time around to shun a family.  

Who wouldn’t want to be woken by the sound of hand-farts in ones ear and ‘ellerbows’ in the eyes and wished ‘Bon Apple Tea’ before every meal?

Who would want to miss those trips to the park, with gleeful, grateful faces on the swings the see-saws and the slides?  The spontaneous paddles in the sea, the salt in their hair afterwards, their suntanned smiles - relaxed and happy in the freedom and the fascination they so obviously delight in?  

How about hearing ‘Okayp’ all day (and talk of a haircup and swim soup rather than a haircut and swimsuit) and the stomach somersaulting pride, from the silly but quaint little sayings while they last, to them not looking up when off with your friends, showing their rapidly increasing independence and Robson's surprising sporting achievements so young?

It’s funny how he can still fund football /cricket / karate sessions for the children, but now fails to provide food for them.  Well it’s not funny, it’s peculiar.

What he might miss on the traipsing up and down the stairs when sickness strikes and the howling on the quiet when it all gets a bit too much (anything from a bin liner splitting to a nice shiner from a head butt to my right eye, thank you Aiden) is more than made up for regularly and gloriously.  

The bed time discussions involving girlfriends, lava, volcanos, trains (including Thomas, naturally), grated cheese, cats, space, guns, nits, noodles and diggers are adventures in themselves.  The kisses through the trampoline netting, cuddles with exposed neck for chomping on and considered declarations of love ‘to the moon, stars, sunsets and sunrises and whole sky and back’ will never come his way.

Yes, mate.  Your well is, indeed, truly dry!