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.