The source of the recent random aggression from the impulsive-dumper has been identified: he believes that, during my manic 18 hour days, and only a few weeks after he walked out, I have met and introduced a new man to our son…
This would be an incredible feat so soon after being rendered a single mother, but whilst I remain a big fan of the motto ‘the best way to get over a man is to get under another’, to come over all Katie Price and introduce the kids after the first sight of a new penis is not quite my style.
It’s also somewhat out of character given I have the adopted guilty conscious of Fred West at even the slightest thought of wrong-doing. (I once pinched a half-penny jelly teddy sweet from a post office and after a sleepless night of shame I wrote a heartfelt apology letter to the post office owner with the coin value attached – not that this was successful in reversing my criminal guilt).
And the source of this altercation? This apparent burning rage was triggered by a comment that I’d “had a friend round”. It’s tricky to have avoided the misinterpretation here given that I had….. had a friend round.
Rapidly this female friend of over 30 years becomes a man who I am singing duets of ‘A Whole New World’ with and allowing to play non-biological-dad with our son and his pet hamster Linda.
I have visions of the twin-exhaust Vauxhall Nova (the mid-crisis purchase of the fleeing ex) being flung sideways around roundabouts amidst visions of a new man baking Fireman-Sam-themed cupcakes and making true-to-life sand sculptures of One Direction, as our son stands in ore, unquestionably emitting thought bubbles of how this new man is up there with Chuck Norris when it comes to male-on-male admiration.
Further twisted inception is evident as the visiting ex picks up a plastic bag and asks me what I’ve been buying. “Cereal.” He’s relieved. “I thought it looked like a wine bottle imprint”.
Who the Falcon Crest looks for these things? And more to that matter why do you care, when you’ve supposedly left someone less tolerable than Shingles?
In a combination of keeping the paranoia at bay and entertaining myself, I go out of my way to explain every action and object’s presence within my flat. It just gets silly; “this marmalade is just what I had on my toast”, but thankfully the internal rap of the interrogator is clearly quietening down. (That is until a soiled pair of pants waddles into the kitchen aboard our two year old and is deemed a deliberate act of spite towards his father….).
I find myself bypassing the annoyance of the accusations and instead praising this trait: I am suddenly rendered totally void of any feelings of loss and instead feel grateful for the bendy girl who ploughed my man – and now has the joy of managing the lunatic.