50th Birthday – Getting Trollied On One’s Own

Well, me being me, I just had to Google “trollied” to make sure I spelt it correctly.

Urban Dictionary: trollied

3. trolliedTo get so drunk that you have to be moved around in a shopping trolley. Rachelle got so trollied the other night that she woke up in a public bathroom 
Yes, you go for it Rachelle, one wonders if it was her 50th?
I can count on the fingers off one hand the times I’ve been “trollied” but I have never, ever, been carted around in a shopping trolley, it actually sounds quite fun, something I’d want to save to do whilst sober.  I have shot down the Isle of White toboggan run, on a trolley, but that was perfectly legal and above board and I might say a touch hair raising.
Right, a diversion here, I’m supposed to be cooking myself a birthday cake to share with the family tomorrow (we have a clutch of April babies).  I stuffed the mixture into, ok I admit, they aren’t 20cm cake tins, and I’ve just checked in the oven and it looks like aliens have landed.  Cake mixture has puffed up and erupted over the edges.  Don’t know if you remember the episode from Star Trek “The Trouble with Tribbles” but I think I’ve got Tribbles in my cooker.
Anyway, back to matters in hand, my Tribbles are not sun tanned enough to be removed from the oven so I have another 5 mins.  I did miss mumsy calling me at 7.30am singing “Happy Birthday to you…” and continuing with “this time 50 years ago I was…..”.  I haven’t had that conversation for 3 years (I think) and I’d give anything to go through the boredom again.  Where was I, see, the sparking shiraz is already taking effect.  What can one do when one finds oneself along on ones 50th birthday.  One looks into ones heart and one must ask oneself, what would make one happy on ones birthday.  What makes me happy is a whole bottle of previously referred to Sparkling Shiraz, a whole packet of Tyrells salt and vinegar crisps all to myself and later, just before I slip into unconsciousness, a succulent, over-ripe mango, which I selected from a leading supermarket the other day, for the specific purpose of sucking on.
Bloody Happy Birthday to me.  Goodnight.

Everything’s all ok and I’m happy

Just to confirm that I’m not always a miserable moo…… after an emotional visit yesterday afternoon, Mike has confirmed to me that things will be like they were during that hiatus time – after all the evil, but before the going away – and we will spend maximum time sharing life.  So although it is a bank holiday, it is cold, it is raining, I am happy.

I’ve forgiven Otto for being an elderly cat and costing me £75 to discover he is healthy.  I can’t go out digging up the garden because it’s wet, I will have to spend a pleasant day sewing.  Ah, don’t you just love rainy bank holidays.

Will anything be different on release?

As I cross off the days on the kitchen calendar, eagerly eye my countdown app on my phone, I get more and more down.  Not down there where I have been before, I’d be gobbling the tablets down before I got to that point again.  But sad, we’re all allowed to be sad.  Being of an analytical mind it bothers me that the closer I get to the ROTL date, the sadder I get – why?

As I clumped around the house today, mentally moaning that I’d made the house untidy to such a degree that Mike will walk in and walk back out again, I asked myself why I was in such a bad mood.  And it came to me – what if things are not different when he comes home.

I often read comments on Prisoners Families Voices (an excellent site for ad hoc comments on being on the innocent side of crime) from people who argue that the guilty party has put themselves in that situation, so why do we worry ourselves about them, from women for an against standing by their man, it’s a hot potato.  Should you wait for the guilty party to come home and expect things to be the same (without the criminal activity I hasten to add)?  Your life goes on without them, you can’t just mothball yourself until they come home.  In my case, I had to get a job,  get earning to pay the bills, get a roof over my head, keep the car running, sort out legal issues that hadn’t been resolved by the deadline of him being inside.  I couldn’t just suspend my life – and, of course, why should I.

But it makes you think, you carry on with your life, things may go well for you, you either want your other half to come out and join in your success or you don’t.  In my case, I want him home.  But I want him home a different person and I realise that is a very dangerous position to be in.  I knew when I married that it was not possible to change a person.  I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to knowing that my husband was doing some strange things way back then.  This isn’t something for any snooping lawyers to get excited about, I’m talking about the way he lined up his shoes.  I knew that if this bothered me then it wasn’t going to go away after marriage, so I decided it wasn’t enough to end our relationship and we got married.

However, here I am doing the same thing 11 years later, wishing he’ll come home a different person.  But this time I may well be lucky.  He doesn’t have the job that he was married to, that potentially ruined his and my life, that is gone now, as is the Blackberry, the laptop on holidays, the working at weekends and evenings.  All wiped away.  Will old habits die hard though?  He wants to start up again, his own business, will he carry on in the same manner?

At the end of the day, what am I looking for in a husband.  I’m going to punch myself in the face if I’m still looking for the lead romantic man – it’s never going to happen and I wouldn’t appreciate it if it did!  I suppose it’s just the company of my husband (bless you Stephanie, in case you are reading this after swearing you wouldn’t any more, love you to pieces, but think how you sometimes miss your husband….) that I want back.  His presence in the house.  His clean and tidy nature to counter balance my messy one.  His sense of humour to soothe away my irritations.  Another head to deal with life’s shitty bits that crop up on a weekly basis.  Is that what marriage is, a second pair of hands – I suppose it must be, a helpmate.  I’ve temporarily lost my helpmate and I’m building him up to be a returning hero/superman/romantic lead when he returns.

Oooh dear, I think I’m building myself up for disappointment.