I've been looking back over my short series of blogs and with the exception of the first, marvelling at how remarkably bouyant I must appear.

I don't feel bouyant now. If a psychologist ask me to draw myself, I should imagine I would fashion some kind of road kill on paper. It's been a tough few weeks.

There's the relentless worry about where we are all going to live. The division of equity translated into some kind of dwelling with enough bedrooms for us all, does not give a happy outcome. Then I'm worrying about how I will get the children to school, and me to work. How I will manage without the help of my neighbour who picks up my daughter from school on the days that I work. Where we will be. What it will feel like. The unknown.

And then there's work itself. I've lost my confidence, I feel like an imposter, like I don't know what I'm doing. And the job is so vital. No job, no schooling for my son. No job, no little bit of extra money at the end of the month to buy food.

My car broke down too. £125. Then there's the MOT looming at the end of March. I'm hoping that my application for child tax credit will have been processed by then and that there will be enough to pay. But there's no certainty of anything.

I rush about the house turning off lights. The heating is only on for six hours a day, yet I am still behind with the gas payments. The fridge isn't working properly. The top half is warm so everything has to be shoved into the drawers below. Precious food goes off because of this. It's exhausting.

Then I got copied in on an email from my younger son's school, sent to my ex. He is behind with the payments there too. Yet every weekend that the children spend with him is just one big buying spree. Toys, complete new outfits, restaurants, outings. It makes me despair.

Then, on sunday, I get this text.

'Hi, just to let you know that I've told the children that I have a girlfriend and they are absolutely fine with it. In fact they suspected it. Her name is xxx'

The children come back and my youngest daughter innocently spills the beans in the way that only an innocent eight year old girl can do. They bought her a present apparently, for mother's day. For mother's day.

No, no, no. Resolutely no.

I've googled her. She looks like a really nice woman. Well-groomed, precise, accomplished. Everything I suppose, that I am not. She looks like she and my ex will be very happy together. I can see it all now. Even I, from my skewed and dysfunctional vantage point, can feel a sense of them finding one another after their years in the wilderness, the sigh of relief, the recognition.

But my children's mother she's not. I want them to have a good relationship with her. I truly hope that they do. But then I also know that it will only last until she has her own child. And then it will all change. And then as the years roll by, one day, maybe one day, he will finally know and understand what I have felt. And why it had to end.

For the first time since he left, I feel very tearful. Like if i let myself, I could sit down, place my head in my hands and just cry myself a river.

Chic Mama has asked me to record my 5 most memorable moments of 2009. Because I am so flattered to be tagged by such a sweetie, and in spite of my appalling memory for anything that happened more than five minutes ago, I am going to do my best. In no particular order:

1. It is the very end of May and I am sitting in the my glorified shed amid the green sweetness of my early summer garden. It is Sunday and my son starts his CE exams in the morning. I am wretched with guilt and hopelessness because I feel I haven't done enough to help him. There is enormous pressure on him to pass and my helpless desperation overwhelms me. I am listening to The Killers, Everything is Going to be Alright and I'm having a lengthly and private weep. (He does pass and he is happy and everything is fine.)
2. Summer again, but August this time, in Sussex. My first born's graduation. Beautiful blonde in sweeping gown, all the misery of dissertations and finals behind her now. A grown woman with life rolling out ahead of her. Such pride.
3. November. O2 Arena with daughter number one, three and a friend. We are there for Muse. We are wildly excited but evening ruined by this low-life sitting next to me, trying to chat me up but getting progressively drunk, then aggressive at my rejection, before slurring relentless but incomprehensible apologies into my ear then a grand finale of spilling an entire pint of beer into my lap.
4. December. Picking up daughter number 2 from Heathrow as she returns from travels. Snow on the ground and bitterly cold. Daughter number 3 is with me, along with traveller's loyal boyfriend. We have coffee together while we wait. Suddenly, and the to bemusement of the other two I stand up 'we have to go now, she's coming now!' Just as we walk toward the arrival area, there she is. Flowing blonde hair, impossible tan, hareem pants, flip flops and the most beautiful tattoo on her foot. It is a divinely happy moment.
5. December 16th. The defining moment when I knew my relationship was over.

It is often said that women's emotional lives are dictated by the happiness of those we love. Definately true.

I'm thinking about clouds of the potential silver lining variety.

I've just had a wisdom tooth yanked out. It's right here on the table next to me, floating happily in a glass of bleach. I'm actually quite fascinated by it in a morbid and ghoulish way - not so much that I'll wear it on a chain around my neck, but even so. The dentist insisted I took it home with me to show the children, but I imagine they'll be horrified, it's way too reminiscent of those gory posters for SAW IV - and a piece of me, on exhibition - too wierd and self involved, I don't want to be like those people who fry up their placenta and have it with scrambled eggs.

My face is still half numb and I'm still biting on this big chunk of gauze he rammed into my mouth, which, according to my aftercare notes, needs to stay in until tonight. There's all manner of things I'm not allowed to do, even talking is restricted, however the final admonishment reads:

STRICTLY NO SMOKING FOR 24 HOURS

If I have to stop for 24 hours, then maybe I could just keep going and going. And I would be healthier, and have more money, and the facial ageing process would slow down to a normal rate, and all those happy thoughts and hopes.

The trouble is, I'm gagging for one already. All smokers know that any sort of unpleasant activity is always compensated with a cigarette and it's always really good. It's just the natural order of things. So now I'm grievously missing that one already. I feel robbed. Compensation number two is always a lovely cup of tea. I have one next to me but I can't drink it until it's practically cold and even then it has to be supped through a straw with my head tilted to one side. I feel like all life's pleasures have been unceremoniously ripped from me - forget the cloud/silver lining analogy, I'm not seeing it anymore. I'm going to bed.

I have a job, miraculous, but true. A friend telephoned me in a fever of excitement, telling me about this job she had just heard about through a friend. I called them straight away, got an interview and now I have the job.

The really incredible thing about this piece of news for me is that should I have written a list of things I want from a job, this one would be it. It's two days a week, working in marketing and PR for a gorgeous small company, selling gorgeous things. I started last week and I love it. The office is all whitewashed walls, old oak floorboards and ethnic rugs. There are enormous windows and apple macs, squashy sofas and fresh coffee. It's gorgeous.

I feel like my old self too. Thinking about my work and what I need to do. Scanning newspapers and magazines with a renewed interest. The funny thing is that had I seen this job in the newspapers, I would probably never have had to courage to go for it. Yet here I am, doing it - challenged, definately, but doing it.

Of course, there's always a flip side. I always knew that the money I earned would not exactly go on fripperies (there are a pair of Russell & Bromley studded ankle boots that if there were any justice in the material world, should really be mine), but even so, you can't help making little plans. Anyway, I got home from work after the first two days on a real high and the following morning I received a letter from my son's school, basically saying that if the school fees were not paid in full then he wouldn't be able to return to school after half term. I've known that they haven't been paid and have been worrying about it more or less incessantly. My partner had always paid half of them before now, and he hadn't responded to any of my emails asking him about what was going to happen now. I managed to pin him down finally and basically he said no.

Out came the calculator and the funny thing is that my job will pay for my son's school fees, more or less to the penny. I'm so grateful that I've got this job - had I received that letter with no form of income, I would have wanted to fall face down into a ditch and never get up. I don't care about the boots anymore, what I'm getting out of all this is so much more important. Month by month, I can keep the most important thing for my son. And I'm doing it all myself.

Feels really good and one thing ticked off my Things I Can Do To Make Life Better list. Failing miserably with the giving up smoking. By failing, I actually mean not trying, but I will get there sometime very soon.

For the sake of economy, I have started smoking roll ups. There is something spectacularly seedy about this activity. You 'ash' yourself constantly for one thing and have to screw your face up in a gargoyle like manner to draw on them because they are so small. They're also very high maintenance - constantly needing relighting etc and rolling them in the first place is an epic undertaking of dexterity and organisation - there's the tobacco to find, filters, papers, it's endless. I don't know why I bother.