Good Relations...

In the interests of maintaining good relations despite gritted teeth and howling gales, myself and He who shall be nameless played Bridge together. Nothing untoward was said during the evening, but as we left I was handed  two pages of Bridge "homework"... They are now filed behind the microwave, along side the cook book my sister gave me as a Christmas present. I  wouldn't dream of reading that either.

Frequent Breaks are good for you...

“The only way to cope with ongoing stress is to take frequent breaks”

(Divorce-directed Selfie Book#11)

“Let’s cycle the greenway” the Sister said. “It’ll do us good. Peace and quiet, nice hotel, fresh air”- and before I could say “bicycle clip” she’d booked us a few days in a Co. Mayo hotel conveniently positioned right beside the greenway. I borrowed rainproof leggings from my brother-in-law; we booked bicycles on the internet and drove west. The hotel was lovely, one of those old fashioned hotels which had catered for travelling salesmen in the days before online purchasing. Consequently, they had single rooms which were indeed single; mine was a small attic room which looked out over the latticed roof of the hotel and on out across the Atlantic. I stood at the window admiring the sea view, and watching the considerate farmer who appeared to be taking his cows for a stroll along the beach. Some of the cows were paddling in the sea. Cows chilling out…

Down to Reception I waddled, dressed for the weather; Tee-shirt, cardigan, fleece, gilet, rain jacket. Tracksuit bottoms, the brother-in-law’s rainproof trousers, sneakers. Bike helmet. Wool gloves under waterproof mittens. Bottle of water. Camera. Mobile ‘phone in case of emergencies.

The Bike Man was waiting in drizzling rain outside the hotel. Yaay!! The start of two days freewheeling along the converted railway track, with only the voices of the birds, cows and sheep breaking the silence. We signed the contracts taking full responsibility for the behaviour of the bikes, took possession of them and wheeled them through the gate and onto the track. “Let’s head west, let’s do the leg from Mulrany to Achill today. That bit of the Greenway runs along the coast” said the Sister. Oh I do love to be beside the seaside; this was going to be blissful. Tranquil. Nerve-mending. Up on the bikes and off we pedalled. Five minutes later I was lying on the track, tangled up in the bicycle and the brother-in-law’s trousers, crying. We had come to the first of the gates intended to keep humans and bovines safely apart. While I was trying to negotiate it, an overlong (for me) trouser leg became caught in the spokes, the bike stopped with a jerk and I went flying off it. The unforgiving cinder track cut my left shin, knee, hip and wrist to ribbons. Blood was seeping through the layers of clothing. Every bit of me was hurting.  We weren’t ten minutes out and I was already a mess. There really was blood on the track. Sis patiently untangled it all and helped me up. “We’ll go on” I said. “I’m all right”. I wasn’t, but I didn’t want to spoil her day. On we went, while the sea curled in on our right and farmland and heather were dewed by the soft rain on our left.  Every movement caused the cuts to abrade over and over again, rubbed by the torn lining of my tracksuit bottoms while my hip was rubbed raw by the waistband.  I began to wonder if I’d broken my wrist, not just sprained it. Eventually the pain got the better of me and we turned back before reaching Achill.

Back at the hotel, I enquired if there were a pharmacy nearby; showed some of my wounds to the Receptionist. Before I could sink into one of the comfortable sofas dotted about the foyer, there was an offer of tea and a chef appeared with the hotel’s First Aid Kit, kept in the kitchen apparently. It was the size of a small suitcase, leading me to wonder if cooking is a terribly dangerous occupation. I chose dressings and antiseptic, limped up to my attic room and dressed my wounds.

We met for dinner; I had brought a white lace dress for our formal dining. I hadn’t intended to accessorise it with cuts and bruises but, well, never mind. After dinner we wandered down the one street in the village. We found a little pub all right, where over the course of the evening an entente cordiale was established with some of the locals-the few remaining locals who hadn’t been forced to emigrate due to the recession, that is.  A retired engineer informed me that he owned one of the offshore islands and four hundred acres locally. Plus a lovely house.  “That’s lovely” I said, “what a beautiful part of the country you live in”. Ah, but it turned out he was lonely…the Sister was in fits.

Back at the hotel the two of us sat in front of a log fire and had a few nightcaps. Such a lovely, cosy hotel…I slept well in my little room, worn out by fresh air, extreme cycling and lots of food and drink. Stiff, bruised and bandaged, I saddled up on Day 2 and we headed east. A much harder cycle today but rewarded with beautiful views, rivers and bridges, weak sunshine with only the chattering of the birds and the nattering of the Sister disturbing the silence. I walked the bike through the gates and stiles. I walked part of the track as well, vowing to hire an electric bike next time…We got as far as Newport before surrendering and taxiing back to Mulrany. A dip in the hotel pool and a session in the hot tub worked wonders. All that was needed now was a nap before dinner. More lovely seafood, more drinks in front of the open fire and our last night ended.

Morning came knocking at the attic window. Banging, in fact. The bruises were now turning lovely autumnal colours. The left knee was bending a little bit. Time to go home. We headed for Dublin, the Sister clutching the hotel’s recipe for scones and homemade jam. I’m not a tea and scones person, more Chardonnay and crisps, but the afternoon teas in the hotel had been historic and I knew the Sister would be well able to replicate the stuff.

Back in work, the boss asked how I’d enjoyed my trip.  It was wonderful, I said, apart from the scars and sure, maybe they’ll fade with time.

Yes, frequent breaks…but preferably not bones.

 So off I go. ..to distraction heigh ho...

I have a stalker. Or do I? What do you do or think when a person from your writing group wants to know every detail of your life,such as "Why are you taking an  antibiotic? Where do you live? What's your address?

Distraction- very good-if you don't mind the injury...

Post tomorrow. Regardless.


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Distraction...

I was advised that the only way to deal with chronic stress is distraction.....days away...frequent breaks from the same-old-same-old...

Come on baby light my fire...we're roasting Shakespeare...

Come on baby light my fire – we’re roasting Shakespeare tonight…

Being a lover of words and of all things Shakespearian, where better for a weekend than Stratford-upon-Avon? Accordingly Sisters #2 and #3, Nieces #2 and #3 and myself boarded a flight to Birmingham.  Our flight was uneventful; bugles sounded when we landed and for a minute I thought it was a heavenly accompaniment to my fervent prayer of thanks for being on terra firma once more. Before long we were ensconced in our pretty little B & B, thrilled at being in the village and among the houses so familiar from the pages of books and the screens of TV and cinema. All set for a weekend of history and culture, tea and cream scones, and walking in the footsteps of the Bard.

That’s what we did. We walked the village and its environs, we visited Shakespeare’s house, the Town Hall, walked to Anne Hathaway’s cottage, the Globe Theatre, walked by the river, did it all. Interspersed with frequent stops for refreshments of every kind. By Saturday evening we were all walked out. We’d seen everything, gone everywhere any of us wanted to go. We'd had a wonderful time.  On one of our forays into shops, Niece #3 bought me a little hedgehog. Christened Snedgespeare, he starred in all my photos from then on.

Saturday evening- what to do? It was too early to go back to the B & B and we had no tickets for the play. One of the Tudor townhouses, now a hotel, caught our eye. We could have a quiet drink there, it wouldn’t be heaving with noise and disco-goers like the other places we’d passed.

The hotel bar was full; the Function Room was hosting a small wedding party, so we settled in at the side of Reception, in a lobby containing chairs, sofas and an open fireplace stacked with twigs, logs, papers and cones. Low tables held flower arrangements and candles. All very nice.  We were sipping our drinks and relaxing when a gentleman in shirtsleeves approached from the back of the hotel. With a smile and what sounded like an East European accent, he asked if we would like the fire lit. Oh yes, Sister#2 exclaimed; we’d love it! Us Irish love an open fire! With that he took a strip of paper from the fireplace, lit it from one the candles and touched it to the kindling. I thought it a strange way for an employee to light a fire, and even stranger, he continued on through the lobby  and walked out through the front door of the hotel.

The fire took light all right. It roared up. Within seconds a black waterfall of smoke was cascading down the chimney. Oh my god, the chimney must be blocked up, someone said. Better go and tell Reception what’s happening. Niece#3 got up and ran round the corner to alert the staff. By now smoke was billowing along the lobby. Next thing the smoke alarm went off.  Now the staff were evacuating the guests from the bar, next thing the wedding party were streaming out of the Function Room. No problem, just smoke from the fireplace, no problem, please leave the building. Oh my God, said Niece #2. I myself was beginning to worry in case we got blamed – this was a Tudor building, listed, priceless.  As we stood outside in the cold hoping we wouldn’t get arrested the Fire Brigade Tender arrived, sirens blazing, and firemen charged into the historical, irreplaceable building…. Eventually order was restored and guests and wedding party were shepherded back in. Our little group of unintentional near-arsonists meekly followed. The fire was a rosy glow now. The smoke had dissipated; the wedding disco was in full swing, the bar full of drinkers. We got fresh drinks, including a whiskey for Niece#3, a non-drinker who felt she needed something to get her over the humiliation of being related to me and her other aunt... Niece#2 was blaming her mother and me, insisting that we egged on whoever he was. He certainly had not been an employee of Shakespeare’s local Travelodge.

What to say? Well it has to be a quotation from the man himself; “All’s well that ends well”. It did all end well... We weren’t arrested, the hotel didn’t burn down, and Nieces# 2 and 3 still speak to me. While Snedgespeare is sitting on my desk, smiling a big hedgehog grin at me as I type.

Don't look back, don't look down...

I've slept better, now that I feel I have some small control over my life. Food no longer turns to cardboard in my mouth. The chainsaw has stopped reefing up my insides, at least during night time. Maybe I won't lose more than the one and a half stone I've lost so far. (I think that's what I've lost. I never weigh myself, don't have a scales,  it's just that my jeans are falling off me and I wasn't a hefty hoochie to begin with.) Keep on keeping on...trudging through the blizzard, trying to count my blessings, my distractions..trying to meditate... I've lost my mojo, majorly. But...didn't I lose myself a long time ago...?  Isn't that the problem, what the divorce is about? ...In a blizzard, keep trudging on, even if you feel you have been trudging for an effing millenium.... Next weekend, a break.

The sequence of events...

The sequence of events;

Late last year I had signed a document agreeing to joint carriage of sale of the house by the 2 solicitors and an estate agent to be appointed by them. The agreement finally arrived back at the house via snail mail/carrier pigeon/ slow boat to China addressed to himself. He refused to sign it. Doesn’t see why on earth, when there is no dispute whatsoever, two solicitors should be given the power to sell our house for whatever they deem fit, or an estate agent appointed by them, sees fit.  He sees costs ratcheting up between the 2 +1 and us losing all control over our situation. He’s right. He told his solicitor he wasn’t signing it. His solicitor informed my solicitor. My solicitor got on to me stating that proceedings would now be issued to force him into court over this.  No, I said, there are to be no proceedings issued whosoever. I agree with him. Well, you were happy to sign it, I was told. No I wasn’t happy, I signed it because I thought I had to, because I thought I was obliged to, that this must be the way the Court works.  

He wanted me to take back the deeds of the house from my solicitor, who had requested that I give them to her to check the title etc. and hold them in trust. I know he’s thinking of all the rogue solicitors who abused their clients’ trust and played merry hell with the deeds of their clients’ properties, to say the least. It’s not that he thinks our legal representatives are not ok, just that he doesn’t trust the profession. Nor does he see any reason why we can’t just keep the damn things at home as we have always done. The stress of all this was now getting to me big time. The insecurity of not having the house documents/sale proposal under my control was shredding my nerves. I was waking every day feeling as if there was a chainsaw tearing up my intestines.

The solicitors were not happy to hear that the agreement to have them jointly sell the house was not going to be signed... Stalemate. We discussed the fact that it is now nearly a year since the process started and we as yet have no Court date, no Terms of Settlement, and in the meanwhile every email, call or letter is sending the costs skyward.

The misery is dragging on, and we have no certainty about anything. So we called a halt.

I made an appointment and went out to my solicitor to retrieve the deeds of the house. I left clutching the manila folder as if it were a baby.   I found out I had to formally instruct the solicitor to cancel the proceedings. Only my solicitor could cancel the court application, apparently.  In the meanwhile, the bills arrived. Stunned is not the word... My solicitor had felt that we were nearly there, the process was almost complete. The bill included a reference to  proceedings to force the Respondent into court re the sale of the house. That hadn’t happened, and we weren’t nearly there.  The paperwork wasn’t completed, we had no court date, and as far as we were concerned we weren’t nearly there, by a mile. The solicitors had done nothing wrong, they followed their methodology but as we were to discover, there was more than one way of obtaining what was needed.

Someone advised that we go to a sort of DIY divorce service. So we did. In a small, well worn house in a little estate, we sat and were told that all could be done via their service once my solicitor had cancelled the first application. I found this hard to believe; No solicitors required by law to do this work and attend on the day? No requirement to have a barrister draws up one particular document and attend the court hearing? Was she sure about all this? Yes, she was. They had helped hundreds of people through the process already. The cost? €500.00, €250.00 now and €250.00 when the divorce proceedings were finished.  We had paid the two legal practitioners many multiples of this…The paperwork arrived via email two days later to be printed off, signed and lodged in court.   There was apparently no problem with it; we have a court date; June.

Hard lessons, for both of us. I’m on the floor mentally, physically and emotionally.  There’s only one way of dealing with this; try and put it all behind me.

New Mantra; Don’t look back. Don’t look down.