Reasons to be cheerful.
Lots really. Have decided to get over myself and just roll with it. No, actually, not 'roll with it' - rather, make a concerted effort to enjoy life and be grateful for the good.
To this end, I have made that gigantic and terrifying leap from SMOKER to NON SMOKER. We love this.
I definately have more energy, though I do feel dizzy a lot of the time too, and vague. Not eating a grotesque amount of food though, so this is good. Allan Carr is the man. Not sure if I believe everything he says but I just went with it.
I had a sort of ephinany last week during my lunch break. I was sitting on a bench outside Asda, smoking a fag (I know, classy) and I looked at myself and it wasn't pretty. This was not the way it was supposed to be - there was concrete, newspapers and rubbish flying about - there was a tree, a big one, a plane I think, but it had been butchered so it looked like an amputee victim - at it's base, some moron, presumably from the local council had concreted it in and I spent the whole time wondering how on earth this poor tree got anything to drink. Then I started thinking that I was like that tree. Rooted to the spot and suffocating myself. It wasn't a happy comparison.
So anyway, I did it. Just stopped the following day while reading the Allan Carr book. I know this is going to make me sound deluded, because it's only been a few days, but I feel younger, and more than that, I think I look healthier- my skin is brighter. I am happier, definately.
I felt that some sort of reward was in order so a pair of perfect silver earrings have been purchased in celebration and I'm wearing them every day. They were £20 and I know that I shouldn't have, but what the hell they made me really happy. They are divinely chunky little hoops, with a tiny fat heart hanging off them (I've made them sound horribly tacky - they are actually very sweet).
Going back to my list of things to make my life better too - I now have two bags of herb seeds. I haven't planted them yet, but I've looked at them a lot and thought about it. This is progress.
Life is moving forward. Baby steps. There's going to be some writing too. Book Three, Screenplay. It's going to happen. And soon.
Tuesday 9 March 2010
Friday 5 March 2010
My world, I've realised, has divided into two camps. Those that go to Boden house sales, and those that spend the day in the police station.
I've spent a few years with my toe (only my toe) in the first camp - a kind of swarm of highlights-shearling coats-handbags-silver bracelets and rah rah privilege. Now I'm definately in the second.
In the second camp, life isn't quite like that. In the second camp, things happen to you, and I don't just mean a bad haircut or the intolerable irritation of Waitrose not stocking something that you need. My friend, for example, I'll call her Anna. We've been great mates for years. She's a single mother too and has been for 5 years now, so she's hardcore Camp B, so to speak.
Lately, I've noticed that we seem to spend a disproportionate amount of time bitching about those in Camp A - which is a real shame because we both have lovely friends who hang out there the whole time. Some of the time I'll admit it's just jealousy, because everything is so easy and problems just have money thrown at them until they disappear. At other times, it's their lack of comprehension, the unhelpful things they say. I pointed this out to Anna the other night while we were chatting on the phone. 'What's happening to us?' I said, 'we're becoming complete bitches, and so bitter - it's incredibly unattractive.' Anna was having none of this. 'You know what it is,' she said, 'You get tough, you have to, it's the only way to survive.'
God knows, Anna needs to be tough because last night at exactly 2.17am, something woke her up suddenly. 'There was that moment,' she told me, 'when you know that something is happening,' something has roused you from sleep but you don't know what it is.' And then she heard it again - the sound of breaking glass - impossibly loud, like someone lobbing windows into a skip. Only it wasn't a skip, it was some nutcase breaking into her house. There she was, all on her own, utterly and completely responsible for the protection and safety of her four children. And it's moments like that when you know you're in Camp B. Because in Camp A, firstly, the security company would have arrived with a SWAT team by the time the first brick touched the window, and secondly the husband, even if he is some bumbling patsie who couldn't fight his way out of the FT, would, inevitably be the one to dispatched downstairs to ward off the psychopath with the baseball bat. In Camp B however, you're at the sharp end. It's just you baby.
As it turns out, he fled, thank god. Leaving Anna to calm her children, call the police, clear up all the glass off the sink, the counter and the floor, wait for the police to arrive, stay up all night, call the office to say she wouldn't be in, call the insurance company, call the glazier, be interviewed by the police, wait for the glazier to arrive, have to go the police station to identify the suspect in a line up, etc etc.
A mutual girlfriend from Camp A heard about all this and called her to see if she was ok, which was sweet, it really was. Except that she texted Anna later in the day 'Anna, forgot to say earlier, but there's a Boden sale in my road - they've got some lovely things!'
I've spent a few years with my toe (only my toe) in the first camp - a kind of swarm of highlights-shearling coats-handbags-silver bracelets and rah rah privilege. Now I'm definately in the second.
In the second camp, life isn't quite like that. In the second camp, things happen to you, and I don't just mean a bad haircut or the intolerable irritation of Waitrose not stocking something that you need. My friend, for example, I'll call her Anna. We've been great mates for years. She's a single mother too and has been for 5 years now, so she's hardcore Camp B, so to speak.
Lately, I've noticed that we seem to spend a disproportionate amount of time bitching about those in Camp A - which is a real shame because we both have lovely friends who hang out there the whole time. Some of the time I'll admit it's just jealousy, because everything is so easy and problems just have money thrown at them until they disappear. At other times, it's their lack of comprehension, the unhelpful things they say. I pointed this out to Anna the other night while we were chatting on the phone. 'What's happening to us?' I said, 'we're becoming complete bitches, and so bitter - it's incredibly unattractive.' Anna was having none of this. 'You know what it is,' she said, 'You get tough, you have to, it's the only way to survive.'
God knows, Anna needs to be tough because last night at exactly 2.17am, something woke her up suddenly. 'There was that moment,' she told me, 'when you know that something is happening,' something has roused you from sleep but you don't know what it is.' And then she heard it again - the sound of breaking glass - impossibly loud, like someone lobbing windows into a skip. Only it wasn't a skip, it was some nutcase breaking into her house. There she was, all on her own, utterly and completely responsible for the protection and safety of her four children. And it's moments like that when you know you're in Camp B. Because in Camp A, firstly, the security company would have arrived with a SWAT team by the time the first brick touched the window, and secondly the husband, even if he is some bumbling patsie who couldn't fight his way out of the FT, would, inevitably be the one to dispatched downstairs to ward off the psychopath with the baseball bat. In Camp B however, you're at the sharp end. It's just you baby.
As it turns out, he fled, thank god. Leaving Anna to calm her children, call the police, clear up all the glass off the sink, the counter and the floor, wait for the police to arrive, stay up all night, call the office to say she wouldn't be in, call the insurance company, call the glazier, be interviewed by the police, wait for the glazier to arrive, have to go the police station to identify the suspect in a line up, etc etc.
A mutual girlfriend from Camp A heard about all this and called her to see if she was ok, which was sweet, it really was. Except that she texted Anna later in the day 'Anna, forgot to say earlier, but there's a Boden sale in my road - they've got some lovely things!'
Wednesday 24 February 2010
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.
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.
Thursday 18 February 2010
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.
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.
Friday 12 February 2010
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'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.
Saturday 6 February 2010
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.
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.
Thursday 28 January 2010
Occasionally, children can suprise you.
I'm talking about daughter number 2, who's 21. We have had more than our fair share of problems over the years, my girl and I. We're very similar personalities and have had vicious, screaming rows aplenty, which must have entertained the neighbours within at least a 200 metre radius. She's hopeless around the house, (she wouldn't mind me saying this), does virtually nothing in fact. Her bedroom, which she shares for much of the week with her boyfriend, would not look out of place on the set of Withnail And I - curtains never opened, empty wine bottles, overflowing ashtrays, mouldy cups and plates, clothing strewn all over the place, no visible flooring at all - you get the drift. She recoils in horror if I ask her to pick up any of her younger siblings from school, yet has absolutely no hesitation in asking me to drive her anywhere at any time.
And yet, in many ways, she's become one of my greatest friends - we confide in one another and talk about everything and anything. The summer before last, she read my second novel and came to me and hugged me and told me she thought it was briliant. She understands how tormented I've been by this whole writing/rejection hamster wheel I have found myself on, amid everything else that has been going on. But now her life is moving on - away from me, and it's both a sadness and a joy. She's just come back from her travels, is now finding work in television and will soon be moving out as soon as she can get together a month's deposit for the rent on a squalid studio in Soho to share with the bf. And good for her, I say. Live life, take chances, be young. She's determined, intelligent, beautiful and strong. The girl will go far.
Anyway, the point of all this is that a few days ago, she and bf told me they had installed some writing software on the desktop of my computer. My computer's been out of action since then as the charging cable died and I haven't had the money to buy another. But now I'm back in business. I turned on my computer, and there was the software. They had chosen their own title for it, it read:
NEVER GIVE UP
I could have wept.
I'm talking about daughter number 2, who's 21. We have had more than our fair share of problems over the years, my girl and I. We're very similar personalities and have had vicious, screaming rows aplenty, which must have entertained the neighbours within at least a 200 metre radius. She's hopeless around the house, (she wouldn't mind me saying this), does virtually nothing in fact. Her bedroom, which she shares for much of the week with her boyfriend, would not look out of place on the set of Withnail And I - curtains never opened, empty wine bottles, overflowing ashtrays, mouldy cups and plates, clothing strewn all over the place, no visible flooring at all - you get the drift. She recoils in horror if I ask her to pick up any of her younger siblings from school, yet has absolutely no hesitation in asking me to drive her anywhere at any time.
And yet, in many ways, she's become one of my greatest friends - we confide in one another and talk about everything and anything. The summer before last, she read my second novel and came to me and hugged me and told me she thought it was briliant. She understands how tormented I've been by this whole writing/rejection hamster wheel I have found myself on, amid everything else that has been going on. But now her life is moving on - away from me, and it's both a sadness and a joy. She's just come back from her travels, is now finding work in television and will soon be moving out as soon as she can get together a month's deposit for the rent on a squalid studio in Soho to share with the bf. And good for her, I say. Live life, take chances, be young. She's determined, intelligent, beautiful and strong. The girl will go far.
Anyway, the point of all this is that a few days ago, she and bf told me they had installed some writing software on the desktop of my computer. My computer's been out of action since then as the charging cable died and I haven't had the money to buy another. But now I'm back in business. I turned on my computer, and there was the software. They had chosen their own title for it, it read:
NEVER GIVE UP
I could have wept.
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