In very late December 2024 I started chatting to a man on Tinder, let's call him Andy. He seemed nice, although his dyslexia made understanding his written messages rather tricky for me. We met up, it was very crowded in London that day, but I guided him through with my usual bossy manner! I kissed him after we'd had a couple of drinks in a cosy pub, in retrospect I wish that I hadn't, but I can't turn back time. He's a teacher so we saw one another every day in a very compressed manner during the later Christmas holidays, which was pretty overwhelming. I am still on the up cycle of my bipolar mania so I chat far too much and let's be honest, I blather on, he was more taciturn. Andy was howerver, a bit full on when it came to personal displays of affection or PDAs as the Gen Y and Z are wont to call them. Personally, I'm no fan of being snogged in the Natural History Museum. Queen Victoria would not have been amused.
Term began - Andy lives in south-west London and I'm in south-east; there's a twenty mile distance separating us. I don't drive and he doesn't own a car. His job roots him in south-west London too and it's a fixed location, a school, so there's no possiblity of him working flexibly at home. I did question whether we'd see much of one another because he filled every single one of his weekdays with a different activity and he spent the majority of his weekends supervising school athletics. Very soon I started to feel extremely lonely and pondered why I even was bothering at all. I attended the Lesnes Abbey Wassail alone, although I did schlepp over to south-west London to see him the next day. I also attended a library lecture alone - he came later and stayed for the weekend. He was always staring at me calling me "wonderful" and "beautiful", talking of a life we'd share together. This was pretty scary considering that I'd just emerged from a twenty-two-year marriage and I'm only forty-nine at the moment. He was sixty.
The second year of grief seems to be hitting me the hardest and I'm really struggling with low mood and anger. One Wednesday evening I'd walked out of the walk-in (ironic) Cruse bereavement group session because one of the members was dominating so much that I couldn't get a word in edgeways to talk about the anniversary of my late husband's death. I tried ringing Andy but got no answer. I then, in a fit of rage, said that he was dumped. Apparently he'd fallen asleep (due to the fact that he's getting on a bit, out of shape and his body cannot cope with the demands he's placing on it.)
We made up but I was always furious. In fact, I was the girlfriend from hell - constantly sending snarky horrible WhatsApps and then deleting some, but not all - many, unfortunately got through. Romantic relationships with men seem to make me crazy, especially sexual ones and I'll have to address exactly why this is. When we were together I constantly dug him out because, quite frankly, he wasn't what I wanted. He was lacking a sense of humour and mine's very developed. I missed my husband Bob's natural London wit so much, in fact, being with Andy made me feel the loss of Bob much more acutely.
Andy refused point blank to attend my forthcoming choir concert in late March because he was visiting his mother up in north Yorkshire. He wouldn't change the date. Apparently he told his mother last week about our relationship but she sounded like she couldn't care less - we nearly split up there and then because I suffer from extremely low self-esteem and I don't see why I would be a disappointment to any in-law? Andy also refused to ever contemplate travelling to the USA because of Trump; I'd love to go and I shall, one day. Sod Trump!
Last night, after hearing nothing from him all day, Andy phoned me to break up with me. I was literally sobbing down the phone, pleading with him to talk about it. He said that "he couldn't give me what I wanted." which was true, but if that was the case, why was he even contemplating a romantic relationship with a woman on Tinder anyway? He clearly doesn't have the time. My friends were all very sweet, many had listened to me talking about how badly the relationship was going and whether Andy was actually the "nice guy" that he seemed? My cat had the measure of him anyway - she pissed all over the bed once when he was staying over - smart girl!
So: no more Tinder dates for a few months; my account is on hiatus - I lied, I hadn't completely deleted the one I met Andy on. I need to work on myself though and forge through this enormous cloud of grief. Getting a job will help restore some of my self-esteem which is literally on the floor at the moment. Nobody likes being dumped, it feels shit, but quite frankly, it's a blessing in disguise really as there are genuine blokes out there.
[Edited 24/2/25 - to delete any reference to the Future Faker, aka Mr Bumble.]
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.
This month we started working with our local authority's family support service. It really helped.
OK, so there's February which was yet another shitshow. On Tuesday, 6th February I had to go to my local NHS Polyclinic for a hysteroscopy which turned out to be much more painful then I'd expected (although the letter did say to take painkillers beforehand, but my bloody mother poo-pooed that.) A coil was inserted which would reduce the intensity of my periods and provide birth control. I did say that I was forty-eight and recently widowed, so I had no need of the latter.
Afterwards I went back to my parents' house for a 'posh coffee' - ie one of those milk powder dehydrated ones. Mother started her high pitched barking coughing, told me that when she'd previously had panic attacks and wanted to die as a result. I started crying and my dad drove me home.
I registered Bob's death on 9th February. It was in the same venue my friend married her second husband back in summer 2022. It's also located in my Borough’s premier park.
I made an effort to get out more on guided walks around other woodlands. The verdant greens make me happy.
I ensured that I became Master Logic's DWP appointee. That was pretty painless as the EO made a home visit. On the same day I had the lock on the garage door replaced as I'd lost the key. The proprietor remembered Bob and expressed his sincere condolences. He also admired the house's high ceilings and enquired whether I wanted to remarry, which was a nice touch I thought. Of course, I didn't mention this in the subsequent 5* Google review.
I bought myself a whole load of Percy Pig merch from M&S to cheer myself up on St Valentine's Day. The mug is especially jolly.
On the 15th February I had an appointment with my solicitor; Dad came along too. It was regarding the will and the ongoing issues with my brother-in-law's care home. Luckily as everything was bequeathed to me, the estate didn't go into probate.
On the 16th February it was my Mother's birthday. As we weren't speaking it was extremely tense. My brother and his family took Mum and Dad to a local cafe. We were due to visit Chislehurst Caves but Mum suddenly went walkabout sans phone. We thought that she'd topped herself. It was all bloody awful. She was fine but upset and confused.
On the 17th February I attended a talk in the library concerning local flight pioneers Alcock and Brown. I was particularly pleased to see the speaker open a picnic sized bottle of wine whilst stood at the lectern.
I attended an initial meeting at a local charity which supports people with disabilities and mental health challenges to secure work. It went well, but soon it all unravelled. At their advice I went to a Job Fair at my local job centre. It wasn't hugely productive - merely a chance for potential employers to hand out a clutch of weblinks. I did, however, manage to show an EO from the DWP my CV, but he merely stroked it and handed it right back to me, advising me to apply for vacancies on the Civil Service Gateway instead.
My house was valued on 22nd February. I was impressed. I later made the decision not to sell. Along with my Dad, I viewed a rather dilapidated end-of-terrace house which was located a mile away from my parents' and brothers' respective houses. It was also smack bang in front of my old primary school and around the corner from my secondary school so the parking would be horrendous. The owner had gone into a care home, so the whole place needed thousands thrown at it. But, this was looming over it ...
Now, I cannot recall whether I said that I used to be a member of the local branch of a national mental health charity's online regular quiz, music and general chat sessions? Well, I was, but I won't name the charity in question because it'll be outing. I left it because I got fed up with certain members' actions within the group, became bored with moaning about it to management and quite frankly, I think that I'm ready to be released back into the wild. My bipolar and autism dual diagnosis doesn't seem to cope well with too much contact with other people with mental health problems nor others with autism. That said, I do have a couple of excellent friends who have MH issues and we understand one another very well and I'd never abandon them, but I know them IRL and they've both known me for way over a decade. I am a spiky person - like those darn spiny things on Mario:
There was one woman, let's call her Shaz, whom was a long-time member of the quiz group and who later on joined the music appreciation sessisons. I really liked her and we had bantz - although it was an online group and we'd never actually met in person. Until her recent retirement she was working, although thinking back, she might have been a permanent homeworker, but who can tell these days? The morning session of the time before Easter that I decided to leave altogether, which wasn't a particularly nice day as the Police turned up on my doorstep following my report of sexual assault (see earlier posts ...) I offered her a book my son was gifted once on the Titanic as this is one of Shaz's passions - she had various framed photographs and diagrams of the doomed vessel hanging on the walls of her flat. Now I think about it ... MH problems? Special interests? I think that you know what I'm inferring but I won't say it ...
I passed on my deets (as the kids say) via the group leader and received a call a few days later (which I missed because I was napping). This led to a text exchange which wasn't hugely friendly as Shaz stated that due to her physical disability she was unable to leave the house and that if I left the book in the charity's offices, her husband would pick it up. I agreed but felt a bit, well, cheated. I was kind of hoping that we could meet for a quick coffee but clearly she didn't want this. When I dropped the book off this morning even the charity's receptionist seemed surprised at Shaz's rather odd behaviour, also believing that meeting up for a coffee and chat would have been much better than this rather strange way of operating. I then WhatsApped Shaz to confirm that I've dropped the book off and then blocked her. I know this sounds a bit odd, but if that's the way she is then I don't need or wish for any more contact as I don't want to start a row.
Things will be better once I'm back at work as I'll just go to work, come home, contact my existing friends and then concentrate on my son. That's the way it is.
... well, I don't. It would have taken place on a day next week which would have been his sixty-fourth birthday. I just cannot bring myself to clean this house and prepare it for people to visit - I know that it's only really close family but I don't even really want them here if truth be told. We would have scattered some of the ashes in one of the Royal Parks and the rest in a ruined abbey but there are so many of them that I've decided to scatter a flaskfull in each location and then either bury the rest in our back garden or line ceramic pots with them and grow nice plants on top.
Why? Well, that farrago that was Easter Sunday still rankles with me and I've got the grazed finger joints on my right hand to prove it. One of the sofas is in the front sitting room and the other is in what I've called the laundry lounge - ie Master Logic's space, formerly used as the dining room/laundry/gym/art studio. Actually, what is the point of dining rooms in today's modern world? Surely they hark back to a time when families used to eat together, something we never do and totally alien to Master Logic's strange autistic world.
My sexual assault case is NFA which means 'No Further Action' which is fine by me. I was advised by the PC who visited me this morning to contact Victim Support to submit a Victim Impact Statement, which I will do tomorrow. Apparently Victim Support have been attempting to contact me, but as my voicemail has been off because of all of the hassle I was receiving from Camden Council regarding my late husband's brother's issues.
Anyway, this is where that particular thing ends. It's also the conclusion of my involvement as a volunteer with the Friends [environmental] group. As two of my reports to the Police were directly related to there, I think that I can conclude that it's a pernicious place and I'm not suited to being there in an official or semi-official capacity. I was never one of the chosen ones anway and despite having a BA in Medieval and Early Modern History, my expertise was never welcomed nor utilised.
*Update*
Victim Support referred me to a charity called the London Survivor's Gateway. I tried phoning them and ended up in a huge queue. It was painful holding on, so I eventually hung up. There was no email address earlier so I left it there. Clearly such charities are overwhelmed and my case just didn't seem worthy enough.
Yesterday I visited my parents, having cooked a splendid (even if I say so myself!) toad in the hole and a Bird's trifle in a box. Clearly my recent bereavement has made me even more arsey, but my temper is very short these days. Arranging the day was a pain in the arse - apparently I must be as explicit as possible in regard to planning my visits(!) Dad picked me up and helped me pack all of the food up but hey, as soon as we arrived my brother and his over-enthusiastic golden retriever, Honey, were there and if you know that breed then you'll no doubt be aware that they're very bouncy indeed and we almost dropped the trifle as a result. My brother is very like his canine housemate in so many years, despite being in his mid-late forties at time of writing.
It was the usual festival of odd chez parents. We were just finishing our lunchtime meal (aforementioned toad-in-the-hole, boiled frozen veg, watery gravy ...) when my brother rang the landline, suggesting a trip out to the largest park in the borough. As you might already be aware, my mother's mobility is seriously compromised by her balance and resulting lack of confidence in walking. Look - it was hideous - it was horribly muddy due to all of the recent rainfall, my mother had a hiking pole in one hand and my stepfather's paw in the other - all of the time the family (consisting, additionally of my brother, sister-in-law and two teen nieces) So - we decided to move both cars and head for the nearest road, which meant covering a huge boggy area. My mother struggled, my brother offered to give her a piggy back(!) and I fell over and then gave them both a piece of my mind. I then escaped, walked to the nearest exit and was picked up in my stepfather's car - I said to my eldest niece "your father's a complete idiot!" Harsh, but fair.
My stepfather later told me that we should have gone to a much more suitable park with a nearby car park and proper concrete paths. He, as ever, was absolutely correct.
