Anger and Grief

I celebrated the first anniversary of Bob's death on New Year's Day 2025 and it's hard to really understand just how angry I am. The main issue is that, a year on, I can't get a job. I mean, I've had some crappy ones during 2024, including the Care Home one which ended in an ACAS conciliation case. 

My Vanquished Nemesis

When I was nineteen I used to work for the Metropolitan Police civil staff up in New Scotland Yard. Back in late 1994 they employed 150 staff to undertake back record conversion in the criminal records office. This is where I first met Mr Greenwich/Bromley borough - let's refer to him as Mr GB. He was twenty-two and a recent BEng graduate in aeronautic engineering (second class honours if you're interested?). He had a girlfriend though, whom he met whilst working part-time in a south-east London branch of Sainsbury's.

We were friends for ages. Eventually his relationship ended. I asked him out for a drink. He agreed and he picked me up in his blue Ford Escort. To put it bluntly, it was quite a physical Sunday afternoon and that particular model has quite a small cubic capacity. He stated that he "didn't want a girlfriend." We didn't have a second date. I then found out that he was stepping out with a female member of his friendship group and they'd got together whilst holidaying abroad. So, he'd basically lied and used me.  I called him out on it and we fell out.

Let's fast forward to the late 1990s. We still work for the Met. He's now living part-time with his girlfriend in central London. There's a leaving do, we both get hammered. He walked me back to Charing Cross Station. We got off with one another. At work on Monday I couldn't look at him in the face, an incident which he shouted right back at me in 2012. His words were: "I was in love with you but you couldn't even look at me!?"

For better or worse I become this guy's side piece during the late 1990s. It makes me feel totally worthless. He once said "if you get pregnant, I want you to have an abortion." My friends despised him. In March 2000 I met the man who would later become my husband. He told me never to meet Mr GB again. I agreed. 

As the years went on I blocked and unlocked Mr GB. Even when I moved back to south-east London from south-west we didn't see one another. He was always there, waiting to pounce. We kept in touch though. He left the Met, gained a MSc in IT and ended up working for a bank. He started coining it in. This is where he met his future wife, whom he married in 2006. They went on to have three children. He had a dalliance with a much younger woman at some strange, he split with his wife, but they soon reconciled - well, the family house was worth a cool £1.2m.

I once met him for a drink. Things happened. I regretted it immediately. My marriage was sexually barren. He wanted more - it was just physical though. When I challenged him I got shouted at: "we were never in a relationship! You're merely a friend I've known for nearly thirty years!" I was once arguing with him on WhatsApp in September 2022 whilst on one of my mental health online sessions and I'd forgotten to mute my mike. Apparently I'd been sobbing hysterically. 

When my husband died I unblocked him. Mr BG was kind. Well, in a manipulative way. He wanted to videochat and by that, I mean ask me to strip. His idea was that he'd be able to 'help out' and provide me, advising widow, with sexual services in my own home.  The very place my husband had dropped down dead in. Like I said, he's a thoughtful guy. I admonished and blocked him.

One Sunday afternoon I got pissed. I was so angry that I told his wife all about it. I bizarrely did this via LinkedIn's messaging platform. Cue me blocking his number and then receiving messages from her, him - the whole shebang. He threatened me on the messaging system, which I duly blocked. He then sent a letter to my home address stating that he had to physically restrain his wife from driving over to my house. My son was terrified so the school's Safeguarding team were duly informed. The heartbreaking thing was that my son thought that this man was his biological father. He wasn't, he's my husband's child.

The contents of the letter blamed me for splitting up his young family, I'd be  named in the divorce papers and stared that he knew where my parents lived and had evidence of my 'affairs' with two of my male colleagues. He then told me that it was illegal to share any intimate images of himself with his wife/others [due to the fact that my marriage was physically moribund, we'd exchanged photographs] I contacted the Police. After a bit of chasing, a PC contacted me and then duly spoke to Mr BG. I was assured that if Mr BG ever put any of the photos I'd sent him into the public domain that it was an offence.

A year has now gone by. According to Companies House they're still together. How nice for them - I wish them the best. 

Sex and Grief

There's a phenomenon called 'widow's fire' which means, in layman's terms that the sudden death of one's spouse makes the widow or widower feel incredibly sexual. It's normal. I've been under Its clutches for at least the last six weeks or so.

Sex equals guilt for me. My Mother is puritannical, thus it was referenced at home but her moral lectures as the late Mr L used to call them were frequent and oh so cutting. Apparently 'women dropping their drawers' was the crime of the century as was fornicating in her house (if piles of crap and stacks of  ten Fray Bentos pies turn you on then you're in luck.) Kinky. As Mr L said, whilst a bit drunk "she hardly held herself back when she was servicing that American Airman in the late 1960s." Naughty old Mother.

I'll be completely honest and say that my intimate life has been very dull for a number of years. I guess that it's par for the course when one marries another civil servant, especially one fifteen years your senior?  Personally, I always relished the juxtaposition between the boredom and technicality of meetings with the absolute filth fest which was going on in my mind. Edging was one: that's that delicious gap between the build up and the climax of an orgasm. The best orgasms are always achieved solo I have found; if I leave it for two or so weeks the release is unbelievable - so many deep contractions. Utter bliss.

Today marks the first anniversary - he fell down dead in the sitting room at noonish. Master L, sixteen at the time, was there too. There were no ambulances available as it was New Year's Day. He had no pulse. He was stiff and his body, grey. 

I miss him every day, but things change. I feel an awful sense of guilt, but he's never coming back, is he?  If he did it would be the ultimate prank. Mind you, I wouldn't put it past him. Git. 

Bob - I will always love you. 

Autism and Grief: January 2024

My husband of twenty-two years, Bob, died suddenly on New Year's Day aged sixty-three.  He expired in front of me and our then sixteen-year-old son, Ted.  

This is what happened afterwards ...

I immediately decided that he should have a direct cremation.  This was mainly because of cost and because there's no way that me and Ted could cope with a funeral etc.  In retrospect, I'm not sure whether Bob would have actually wanted, but he's not here to ask, is he?  Due to the sudden nature of his death and the resulting postmortem, the cremation was delayed anyway.

I sold the car.  I don't currently have a licence and there's no way that I could afford to keep running it.

There was resulting electrical work to be completed on the house to install a smart meter.  I ensured that that was completed.

Then the leeches started - first was me getting back in touch with Audi Man, a bloke I'd known in the past.  Let's face it, he's either autistic or a psychopath (well, he is an IT professional so you make your own decision.)  Basically, he wanted to 'bridge the gap' for me, sexually and insisted on carrying out explicit WhatsApp video calls with me a mere few days after Bob passed.  He also wanted to use my house as some kind of sexual pop in parlour.  His long-suffering and quite frankly, bloody stupid, wife and three kids wouldn't know about it though.  I got very pissed one Sunday afternoon and told her via the medium of LinkedIn - a bizarre conduit I think that you'll agree?  But hey!  Then he started calling and leaving messages, she started replying and well, the threatening letter turned up and guess what - I called the Police on him.  Nice.  What a gent.  He was warned off.  

My severely disabled brother-in-law, Uncle C, lives in sheltered accommodation up in north London.  Bob dealt with his finances.  It was difficult enough working out Bob's byzantine system of spreadsheets without that added problem.  I initially thought that it was a joint account, but it wasn't.  The manager was always hassling Bob to come up and visit Uncle C and caused the former and awful lot of stress.  I honestly wanted to ring up Mr Manager and tell him to leave Bob the hell alone, but it never came to that.  To cut a long story short, Mr Manager wanted me to empty the bank account and bring up Uncle C's half in cash.  Yep cash.  All the way from south-east to north London.  How very safe.  I complained to the Care Company about him and then the local authority, which was the London Borough of Camden.  Everything got ignored for months and my complaint was upheld.  I broke off all familial responsibility straight after Bob's death as I can't and won't cope with it.  

I spent an awful lot of time with my brother and parents who live in the same road.  They initially wanted me to sell this house and move the two or so miles south of the borough.  I am so glad that I never did this.  

I restarted the Welling Community Choir; gawd knows why I did because Bob was the latest member to die - there's either a curse or the membership are so fucking old that they fall of their respective perches naturally.  It of course, ended badly.  I tend to take a great dislike to certain people in life and they always end up being stupid baby boom women.  This one was called X.  She was and I expect still is, a total and utter cunt.  November will herald more cunts in another choir so keep on reading.  

The Trouble With Tinder

So, Tinder. I uploaded a series of photographs, some of whom were deliberately full length to show that I am plus size. One example, taken on my fortieth birthday up in the home of Viz Comic, a prettu suburb outside Newcastle called Jesmond is shown below. I'm 5ft 9in and am wearing a UK size 16.

Anyway, late one Friday night I saw a series of photographs and blurb of a bloke whom I'll refer to as James. He was older than me by more than sixteen years, but as my late husband had been fifteen years my senior I was already attracted to older men [father complex and insecurity]. He'd already swiped right on me and as I had too, we had a match. I sent him a cheeky opening message; he responded, immediately stating what he wanted!? We exchanged numbers early on Saturday morning.

One hour later James called me. It was akin to an interview and was basically his way of determining whether I was a time waster. Apparently because I'd also worked as a civil servant and was suitably impressed that he'd had a book published etc etc that I was deemed a suitable candidate for his amarous intentions. I sent him a link to my LinkedIn. That's due diligence for you. 

James wanted to do a videochat in the afternoon but as I was attending Drum Club, I couldn't. He later called me from the bath. I did say that I didn't really want one of those kind of videochats and he said that it wouldn't be. It wasn't and the camera didn't deviate from his face. Later on, we chatted when he was travelling back from London and he then insisted on another videochat, but this one was much more explicit - basically he wanted a free peep show. He was very demanding.

The next day he wanted me to drive from south-east London up to Hertfordshire to his home. On a first date? Are you mad?  I don't drive anyway. I was volunteer litter picking at my local Abbey so I agreed to jump on the Elizabeth line and meet him in Farringdon, which I did. He was very full on from the start - he presented me with a bunch of lillies which are actually a funeral flower. He was attentive, charming and incredibly tactile. I didn't hugely mind at the time. We walked hand in hand around the City of London. He was incredibly intelligent and autistic. Great. He wanted to know everything about me, especially my love life, which in retrospect, was rather odd

We parted at Farringdon a few hours later. He got a snog and a sneaky grope. Lovely. Surely that contravenes the Conditions of Carriage?

The week went on. He was very attentive. We videochatted each evening and some mornings. Then he booked an STD test and wanted me to do the same [as we're clearly a load of old rotten old slags down in south London]. Yikes. I did order the online one, but it brought up past trauma from the 1990s. 

On the Wednesday evening he was in a bad mood and basically admitted to sleeping with a woman abroad on Tinder's travel mode. I was a bit taken aback about that and retorted that "I'd see what I could find on Tinder myself" He got angry, saying that "it was lucky that he wanted me because nobody would be interested in me because I was so mis-shapen in the Viz photograph." I hung up on him and then cried myself to sleep as my weight is my archilles heel. 

I admonished him by WhatsApp the next day. He apologised wholeheartedly but I knew in my heart of hearts that it wouldn't work. He'd reacted badly when I'd expressed concern about him having unprotected sex with a Tinder match abroad. I mean, it's dangerous isn't it? As a result, I was in a bad mood all Thursday and had a go at someone on a MS Teams workshop. I later apologised in writing to the person concerned.

It limped on during Friday. He is a cradle Catholic and therefore has an issue with condoms. I was raised Anglican and believe that safe sex is the best way to navigate through one's sexual partners. He was really obsessed by his own semen. Ick. Maybe I should have just asked him to express some into a suitable bottle and post it to me? He wanted to book a hotel room during the next week and kept asking whether my period had ended. I am currently menopausal, so there's no way of knowing.

I didn't hear from him much on Saturday and not at all on Sunday. He is a world leader in his particular field, bully for him. Thus he's always beavering away 24/7. I must admit that I sent far too many messages to him; I'm an idiot like that. 

This morning I got dumped by WhatsApp. All of my mates who'd been helping and advising me along the way were sympathetic. I did have a blood pressure, height and weight check at the GP this afternoon and I am too fat and my BP is too high so I've been referred to the NHS's Steps To Health gym scheme, which I'll be undertaking during 2025. 

Grief, autism and dating

I'll admit it, I'm lonely. Yes, after being in a relationship with the same man since March 2000 I'm not used to being alone. As the year drew to a conclusion I thought that I'd seek companionship via dating apps, after all, a close female and close male friend had found happiness, following a bit of a bumpy ride. Maybe I jumped in too soon?  In retrospect, I think that I did.

Anyway, I was on Bumble, the female-led dating app, although it's less so now. I chatted to a couple of blokes and one I'm still in contact with now but we've never met in real life (IRL.) I chatted to another via WhatsApp and phone and we agreed to meet in my local branch of Wetherspoons (yes, I am a cheap date). He showed up really late, was incredibly boring and yep, he was autistic. Blah. I know that I am, but at least I have a keen sense of humour. The date was so bad that I orde

Then I tried Hinge (I couldn't understand it, so I gave up.) I then tried Tinder ... 

Autism and Grief: April 2024

 This month we started working with our local authority's family support service.  It really helped.