Not AGAIN, Judge!

When I stop foaming at the mouth, I will post what happened at Court Hearting Part Deux.

The day after...

THE AFTERMATH

The day after D Day I was back in work. Nothing had changed and everything had changed. My office looked the same; my desk was where it always was. But I was not who I had been. I was now a divorcee.

It was a Friday, so that evening I packed some clothes and on Saturday morning drove to the west of Ireland, to the northernmost tip of Galway. I was on my own, there to lick my wounds but I also knew there was a Bridge Club Holiday going in that hotel that particular week. Saturday I drove the length and breadth of Connemara, sobbing all the way along the winding roads leading to places that had previously soothed me and landscapes that always had wrapped themselves around my soul. On to Roundstone and down to Inverin. Cried my way back past the solitude of Lough Inagh. Stopped at the heart-breaking beauty of Kylemore Abbey. Lit a candle in Our Lady of the Wayside, the little church that sits at the junction of four winds. Nothing helped. Back at the hotel in the late afternoon, I had a shower, washed my hair and sat in my room reading. To my surprise, the ‘phone rang; they were short one person for the Bridge tournament, would I oblige? I would. So down I went, wet hair and all. I had tea and the loveliest scones and jam I’d ever tasted delivered to my table. Hastily swallowed them and as play began noticed every table held wineglasses, shot glasses, glasses of crème de menthe and what have you. Arsenic and Old Lace all over again… As play progressed and I had no clue what my partner held or what she was doing, I realized Partner was three sheets to the wind, so to speak. The tournament continued as did the merriment. Our score continued downwards in inverse proportion to the amount of wine consumed by Partner…My reward for coming down and playing? After the session ended Partner suggested I should take “Improver Lessons”… The fact that she was so well on that she could hardly pronounce the word “Improver” was obviously not germane to the fact that we’d probably finished last…  At dinner I sat with the Bridge players. Then it was time for drinks in the bar and a pianist who played old chestnuts and music hall stuff. No traditional Irish music. When the sing-song finished, I went to bed, hoping that my room in the old part of the hotel wasn’t in the area rumoured to be haunted. I had the heebie-jeebies already… However, the exhaustion not to mention the drinks put me out like a light.

Next morning, showered, dressed and ready for breakfast, I searched for the room key. Searched everywhere. Every drawer, every bag, every crevice of my handbag. Decided to just pull the door behind me and inform Reception that I had mislaid the key. I had indeed. I’d left it in the door. All night.

After a solitary breakfast, I went to Reception to book a ticket for the ferry to the island of Inishbofin. A conversation with two older ladies ensued when they overheard my request. It seemed they’d never been to the island and would love to go. There was no day trip to the island organized as part of their Bridge holiday…Run and get ready, I’ll get your ferry tickets, hurry, I have to leave in 10 minutes to make the ferry, I said. So three went to the island.  The entrance to the little harbour is difficult but the ferry was high-tech; when we were virtually on the rocks and myself and the foreign tourists were looking round for the  lifejackets and bracing ourselves against the rails, the deckhand was hanging over the prow and shouting up to the bridge; “You’re grand, Paddy, you’re grand!” By some miracle we were. Once landed, I walked the little paths, climbed stiles and drank in the beauty of the place. I had to beat a hasty retreat when a ram threw shapes at me.  At the other side of the island, for the first time in my life, I heard a corncrake. I knew immediately what it was. What a privilege.  The two ladies had a lovely time, and thanked me profusely for bringing them to the island.  Why wouldn’t I? I was going anyway and they had no other way of getting there. Isn’t that what life is about?  

Back at the hotel, it was dinner and a play about emigration staged in the bar. A two-hander based on true testimonies. It is true; the west of Ireland has been repeatedly emptied. But enough remain to keep the fire lit and the Irish spoken. We owe the people of the Gaeltacht a great debt. At least I feel I do.

Driving home, I was glad I’d gone. No burden had been lifted, but I’d heard a corncrake. And been advised to take Improver Lessons. And the ghost had not manifested.

Promises

I will post, and soon. I'm just having difficulty getting my head around it all.

I'll post the aftermath tomorrrow...

D Day...

D  DAY

It seemed appropriate that on D Day the skies were November Grey instead of June Bright. The rain was torrential as we left the house separately; he in his car and me in a taxi. I picked up my best friend and went to the Court Building. All the small private rooms were taken, so we took seats in one of the rows in the lobby area. Myself and my friend sat, not speaking. I wasn’t capable of it. All the time the tears threatened to spill.
There was a call for a particular courtroom and dozens of people rushed into that room. Around us solicitors and barristers argued and to- and -fro’d between their clients. A woman said “Ask him about the secret bank account I know he has”. One solicitor said to another “He can’t spring that on us now, the agreement has already been made”. Strange, strange, atmosphere. There was a call for Court 31; our designated room. Lots of people rushed in there. Puzzled, I asked the person in uniform if I should go in? Oh yes, I most certainly should.. I stepped into a court room for the first time. There was a Registrar seated at a long bench which had a digital clock like an electronic ribbon running along the top of it.  The Judge sat behind the Registrar at a higher bench. In the body of the courtroom, a rail, two benches and chairs. A witness box on the left hand side of the Judge’s bench.

The Court Register began calling cases using initials; AB and CB. MOR and AOR and so on. As each pair were called, they stepped forward and confirmed their presence. When our initials were called, I stepped forward. The Judge asked was he present. Oh, yes, I said, he’s outside. His name was then called out in full and in he came. Her Honour didn’t look too impressed. On went the roll call. On some occasions a solicitor or barrister stepped up and asked if the case could be deferred as there was a dispute regarding assets between the parties. On one occasion a woman dressed in leopard print top and leggings and tons of jewellery stepped up and was asked was her husband there. “No, he isn’t, he’s in a mental hospital, does it matter?” she said. Apparently it did matter, quite a lot, at least to the judge…

At 11.30 it was over.  I made it to the Ladies Room before collapsing in tears. Afterwards, my friend and I walked through the rain and sat in a pub, drinking. Got a taxi home.

Do I feel different? No. Do I feel devastated? Yes. Do I feel let down? Yes, majorly. Plus; the judge decided that the info re pensions was not conclusive/blah/blah so that’s to be heard in July? So the agony is not over yet…

The clock ticks on...

Time and tides ebb and flow and move us on...inevitably and  inexorably...I am conscious of time passing, the clock ticking down to D Day moment by moment. I am at the same time consumed both  by what if, what if.. and how will I get through it...I am frozen in some sort of unnameable terror and at the same time repeating madly positive mantras as if I can force things, force events, to turn out positive by just doing that. Always at the back of it is this mad hope, mad dream, that life can be different; that dreams can come true in spite of all the evidence to the contrary. Now I am beginning to wonder if this makes me a fantasist, a dreamer, an "unrealistic" person. In the words of the Beatles, all you need is love. Well, no, you need oxygen, food, shelter to survive. What  you need to thrive is love.
Parental love. Sibling love. The love of friends.Romantic love (if you get really, really lucky).  Love. That's what matters. That's what gets you through.  I have family. I have friends. I am loved. But somehow it doesn't make up for the lack of romantic love. Somehow it doesn't. Maybe some time in the future it will.

Stress and sea levels...rising...

As always when I am stressed, the west of Ireland calls me. I need fresh air blowing in from the Atlantic and to swim in water so clear you can see the tracks of crabs and sea snails on the sand below. I need the tranquillity of landscapes that wrap themselves around your soul. Seafood and home baked brown bread. Country pubs and céilí music. Somewhere, anywhere to take me out of myself, away from myself and my situation.

Instead I am sitting on a bench beside the river, in the Botanic Gardens in Dublin. The sound of brown water tumbling over the weir is soothing, calming, even if only for a little while. Every day is now spent between trying (and frequently failing) to do my job well and praying that I am doing the right thing. Still the tears spill; still my nights are fractured by dreams of loss, of being lost, of white knights, of chasing I don’t know what, seeking in the dream world what I can’t find in the real world. Then I wake drenched, heart pounding in my throat and I don’t remember what it is that has chased me through the night while I sought badly needed rest.

Years of total professionalism went out the window today; I burst into tears in the office. All my long years of working, my calm, caring, collegial and utterly professional demeanour... We are all human. I’ve tried to be superwoman and today it just didn’t work. In the workplace I find that anger, shouting, all that kind of behaviour is acceptable but just let something feminine like tears occur …and it’s an absolute no no.  Why not? People are people and when they are going through a personal crucifixion well maybe it’s time to change attitudes – and the sexism that underlies them.

Later that evening I burst into tears at the Writing Circle when it was my turn to read.  Sobbed. Couldn’t read the piece I’d written. Mortified.com. I gestured to P who was sitting next to me, who read it as though he had written it himself. As indeed he might well have, as anyone might have. I’m still going to writing things, trying to do all sorts of things, even though I feel the good has gone out of everything.

Q. When do the tears stop? (Me)

A. When they’re finished. (Counsellor)

By now I must have raised the sea level around Ireland by metres, re-salted the Irish Sea and am probably posing a threat to the Antarctic Ice Mass. D Day is a fortnight away.