Tayon Seanagh Reflections

Chapter 8 – Life On The Other Side of the World

The next few months were pretty great. We travelled around the country and continent almost every weekend. We both wanted to see as much as possible. It was one of the many things we had in common, our thirst for life, to experience something different, to meet different people, to be different. In addition, of course, to our insatiable appetite for fucking each other and getting twatted.

Unfortunately, the drinking didn't subside, despite it being a conservative country, there were still plenty of westerners around wanting to get pissed up and so in the city we lived, this was well catered for. We were also both still smoking a shit tonne of weed, it turns out you can just buy dodgy weed from the taxi drivers who kept it conveniently in their glove compartment. Dodgy is an understatement, it was so compressed it came in a cube and it stank like it had been sprayed with something, something exotic - like paint stripper. Still, we smoked it carelessly.

My new job was very different to what I had been used to previously, it was a very hierarchical system and the office was super quiet. On one occasion I went to meet with a client and he refused to shake my hand. Often, I would find that the local male clients would not even want to talk directly to me but preferred only to converse with men. A hard pill to swallow but I accepted it and just got on with what needed to be done as best as I could. My work mates were at least lovely, a few degrees of magnitude tamer than those I had worked with previously, but still lovely welcoming people.

We also discovered that, surprisingly, there were quite a few festivals happening here too. In fact during the first three years of living there we got to see quite a number of incredible musicians – most notably Prodigy, Tenacious D, Naughty by Nature.....and even Psy....

When we went to our first festival, I was excited but super nervous. I didn't know what to expect . When we arrived, I asked Dick, "do I look OK?" His response, "no you look like a dirty bag of sprouts. Hahaha". "Hahaha" I laughed too. We cracked on and had a fantastic day, while I tried to forget about my silly outfit choice. Which for comfort, had been a pair of skinny jeans, a green vest top and pumps. I asked him the next day if he really thought I looked bad, since his opinion was like gold to me. He admitted he was joking but he was surprised because I usually looked more glamorous than that and it was the first time he had seen me looking so, erm, casual. OK fair point. I took it on board. The one thing he prided himself on was honesty and so we had made a promise to always be that way with each other.

We very quickly made a lot of new friends due to our social nature. We met a lot of very like-minded people – like meets like right. Since we, well Dick, was doing pretty well, with a swanky apartment that was paid for by the company, we would often have everyone at ours, well his, he made it very clear on many occasions that it was indeed his flat, for pre and post festival / gig nights. Sessions I was more than happy to accommodate. I would prepare the house, clean everything, cook up a delicious buffet and bake a tasty cake (if I do say so myself). We would lay on a generous spread of beers, liquor and weed. It was the place to be.

We were friends with people of multiple races, creeds and colours. The city we lived in was more culturally diverse than you could ever imagine. I honestly met people from countries I had never even heard of, this may sound ignorant but seriously, the world is a big place. If you think London is diverse, this city is London on steroids. It was incredible, we were living the dream.

It was a blessing to have all of these foreign cultures around us, in fact by the end of my decade here I would say that only around 20 % of my friendship group comprised westerners, and these were mostly people I performed with, because in the last few years I was working part time as a musician. Dick and I were finding that we didn't have much in common with most of the westerners around. Apart from a golden few, we found most to be incredibly boring and stuffy. Happy to exist within the confines of their gated communities and the bars. Incredibly proud of themselves for being important enough to have a job on the other side of the world and, for most of them, their job was really the only thing they had to talk about. Apart from the men, they could also talk about prostitutes, not to me of course, this was a conversation for the men. It wasn't until I travelled away to complete an offshore training course that I learned about the full depravity of this.

Chapter 9 – My Offshore Training Course

To say I was excited about this trip would be a huge understatement. I was to go and complete my offshore training course, a few hundred kilometres south of the city. This would involve navigating my way through a burning building wearing a blindfold, a very carefully controlled burning building of course; jumping from a 4.5 m tall spring board into the pool below and being rolled underwater in a fake helicopter, from which we were expected to kick out the fake windows and escape. All I was hearing was 'adventure playground for adults'.

When I got there, I was not disappointed. It was as fun as I had imagined it would be, if not more. I found myself being the only girl on the course for this particular intake, which was OK, everyone was very friendly and polite, though admittedly I felt a little like a Barnum attraction with all the staring. Over my time in this country, I did get used to it but never to the point where it didn't make me feel uncomfortable anymore. The price we pay for having tits and a vagina. If only we had thought this through properly girls, how were these boys ever supposed to be able to get things done with us walking around thoughtlessly flaunting our bumps.

The course lasted for three days and in the evening I would go and hang out in the bar with a couple of British and Russian guys. We were having a great time, it reminded me of being back home again. Sinking pints and having a giggle, swapping cheeky jokes. The conversation was dry and often bordered on the inappropriate. I had missed this. Then suddenly, without a word of warning, we moved effortlessly on to the subject of prostitutes. While my new friends swapped notes on the different ladies they kept at different ports. Wait, didn't one of you just proudly show me pictures of your beautiful wife and two young boys that you have waiting for you back home. I couldn't believe the light tone with which this topic was being discussed. No hint of shame or even embarrassment, from any of them, that I was privy to this avalanche of information. I quickly realised that my presence was of no importance at all. This was a conversation that was held easily and often between such characters. I felt stupid, naïve, sorry for their families, sad, angry..... a well of emotions was building up inside me while I sat there and tried not to let it bubble up all over everyone. I politely made my excuses and left them to swap notes.

Thank goodness I had Dick. Dick was nothing like these guys. When I got up to the hotel room I called him in floods of tears. I don't know if I was more upset with them for behaving the way they do or with myself for my naivety. Dick comforted me and told me not to worry, the next day I would be going home and meeting him straight off the bus at his works party. We were both looking forward to that.

When I arrived at the party, I was tired. It had been a full on three days anyway without the late night tears the evening before and I had just travelled for four hours to get home. Anyway, I promised I would be there so I did a quick change at the airport, motivating myself with the knowledge that once I had a glass of wine, all would be grand. This method of rejuvenation had been successfully tried and tested on many occasions. I walked into the crowded room, the vibe was alive and buzzing, Dick noticed me but immediately drifted back to continue the conversation he was already in. So I took myself to the bar to get that much needed glass of life juice. Life juice in hand, Dick still had not made any attempt to acknowledge me and greet me. This was not an uncommon occurrence actually, it was something he pretty much always did these days. I thought that this time, however, he might make an allowance, on account of the journey I had just taken and knowing that I had been upset the night before. No such luck, so I scanned the room for a familiar face and made a beeline for some conversation that wouldn't involve too much effort on my part. After a lonely and draining evening, we made it home and so in my tired and drunk state I got upset by the fact that he thinks it OK for me to be the last person he acknowledges in a busy room. He reminded me that I was not so insecure and I shouldn't need his attention so much. Wasn't I cool enough to just chill out and take care of myself. Yes of course, sorry I momentarily forgot. No harm done.

Chapter 10 - Life Gives both Glorious Moments and Dollops of Shite in Tandem

Another great thing about this place was the food. With the diversity of people came the diversity of cuisine available. You name the country and you could find the food and more often than not, it would be cooked by the respective native. I was in heaven. I had never been a fussy eater as I grow up in a household with a rule of 'if you don't eat, you don't get'. So you would eat whatever was put in front of you. Despite this, I had always been skinny growing up, I piled some weight on when I lived in the U.S and Scotland but when I left London I was as skinny as they come, on account of all the drugs I had been eating in place of food. Now, unsurprisingly, my figure was changing fast, not helped by the fact I was pretty much always stoned when outside of working hours. I was worried about what Dick would think of me now, we had already stopped having sex regularly. Which was hard for me to take since before we had been 'at it like rabbits' as they say. We would fuck all day and everywhere, all over the flat, on every piece of furniture that could handle us, or well, sometimes couldn't, in the bathrooms of pubs and clubs, on the beach, in the sea, in parks, in the disabled toilets at work (not proud of this one), on the desks at work after hours (a little proud of this one). We couldn't get enough of each other and I loved it, I loved to be wanted, I loved feeling sexy, I loved him loving me.

Now though, truth be told, I was becoming insecure, incredibly insecure. Everything and everyone around me was different and I was expected to suddenly be different. To fit in, to be a good girl, be quiet, be a good wife. He reminded me on many occasion that I was not embarrassing him, I was only embarrassing myself. My sense of humour, which had carried me through my whole life, was now no longer understood. My basic hobbies, which I had in fact forgotten about, were not happening, I didn't run through the country side with a cool breeze in my face, I didn't sit outside and read, I didn't play guitar and sing anymore, I didn't go to the theatre or visit any museums. The core of me was trickling out of its casing and I didn't even know it. The demise was so slow, so subtle, I wasn't even aware of it happening. I was becoming completely one dimensional, a good time girl, who was now getting fat and embarrassing herself, desperately trying to cling on to being the good time girl. Trying to painfully emit the energy that used to make everyone around feel comfortable and happy. The self-inflicted pressure of this got heavier and heavier with each passing day. The pain of Dicks repeated rejections were getting heavier and heavier. I asked him once if it was because I had put on weight that he didn't want to have sex with me anymore, he assured me it was not. He had always been attracted to larger girls, and besides, when he met me, he knew I was not naturally skinny, he could tell that from my flabby arms.

Original Personalised Song - Thank You - Contact Me For Yours! 💛💛💛

Chapter 4 – Landaan Taan

Before I launch into my experience of living in a third culture, lets nip back across the pond and reflect a little more on good old Landaan taan. What heady days they were. Having grown up in a very small town in the country, I had never considered living in a big city. However, my first working year after graduation was spent working in a town of 2000 people and so my 23-year-old self very much welcomed the opportunity – and I was not disappointed. Every weekend provided a new gig, show, festival or general opportunity for smash. From monopoly board pub crawls, to the arches of Vauxhall to a ballet production at the Royal Opera house – I was in for it all. Lapping it up like a street dog who’d found an abandoned kebab.

What’s more I had landed myself in with a beautiful group of mates. I’m talking here about inside beauty, trust me if you saw some of them in the flesh you would understand. Having grown up as the so- called ‘bastard’ child, it felt like a dream. My very own bastard family. A bunch of young mis- fits, many of them travelers, stomping around their new playground that was the infamous City of London. I moved around a bit during my three years here but the majority of my time was spent living south- west of the river. During this time, I had my house burgled while I was at home alone, wearing only a dressing gown - he burgled the house while I was in the shower – and no I am not being sexist in assuming it was a man, I saw him and tried to grab him at the front door, until having a moment of clarity of ‘what the fuck are you actually going to do if you get him’. So then made the more sensible decision to call the cops. I witnessed the London riots, the portion of which was executed outside my house near the train station and on a lighter note – I saw several urban foxes. I had never seen a fox in the wild in my country town. I think we all know why. If not google it and discover yet another example of how fucking shite humans can be. OK not such a lighter note after all. Anyway, my point was, London really is a bustling metropolis of activity and adventure. Everything is going on, everything is to be seen, well unless you are under the Vauxhall arches…. Everything is up for grabs. Life is up for grabs. I loved it, I felt alive and free and mischief reigned supreme.

How I managed to keep my job during all of this headiness is a mystery. At this time, it was not only common but a damn right expectation that you drink heavily in the pub with the old school engineers. A couple of lunch time beers would turn into an afternoon of bunking off, to an evening of more than a couple of beers, to quite often a drunken call in ‘sick’ the next morning.

One particularly memorable occasion of bunking off was after having spent the afternoon of Australia Day having my desk phone hammered by my two best Australian girlfriends, who truly are beautiful, inside and out, demanding that I go and join them. I eventually did go and join them, not like I could get much work done with my phone constantly ringing, only to encounter utter chaos. One of them had almost ended up in a fight, because someone had stolen her jacket, then cussing the world because she had lost her phone, the phone that she then called her boyfriend on to let him know, she had lost her phone…… I know, with friends like this I didn’t stand a chance right. After watching, with my heart in my mouth and my hands slapped to the side of my face, the pair of them play chicken trying to cross a main road to come and meet me, we stepped onto a boat and proceeded to snort several lines of coke and smash several shots of tequila. The next morning I woke up sporting a fabulous black eye after having fallen out of bed the night before and head butted the bedside table. I also discovered that I had lost my purse. I text my boss – “I can’t come in today, I have a black eye and I have lost my purse”. I shit you not, I was still too drunk to even try and lie. What a fucking twat I was. I really let my boss down that day and if she ever happens to read this, I want her to know, I am truly sorry.

Chapter 5 – Bunking Off

Bunking off became a very regular past time during these days, not only from simply having a skinfull the night before and being physically unable to remove my head from inside the toilet bowl – but also because of the raging horn that me and this guy, for the purposes of this story, let’s call him Dick, had for each other. After our post- Savoy shenanigans, Dick and I would regularly take days off for drinking / drugs / humping sessions. In fact the next time I met him after the Savoy was a Sunday evening for our non- date - date (we were both always very clear about the fact it was just sex…until it clearly wasn’t). The Sunday evening spilled in to Monday, which spilled into Tuesday which spilled into Wednesday. Yes we started strong. We spent a whole 3 days in his flat, mostly naked, mostly high and mostly fucking. It was glorious fun. Now by absolutely no means, could I ever have been considered what you would call a goody two shoes, but this was a leap into the abyss, even for me. I was cheeky and I could be naughty but I always took my studies and my career seriously. Until this point. The only thing I cared about now was him. This beautiful exciting boy with the beautiful penis. I couldn’t get enough.

We danced naked around the living room, we took coke, ecstasy, MDMA, ketamine and pretty much had a continual spliff on the go. We drank wine, gin, beer, sherry, ate yellow food and chain smoked. In fact, the reason we got to know each other was because we were both smokers and would flirt over our self-rolled fags out the back of the office.

On this particular occasion of bunking, he dared me to dance outside on the road with a human sized inflatable penguin he had in the house. As mentioned, I was not the shy, retiring type, and I did so gladly. Meanwhile he held the cranked-up radio out of the window – which at the time was playing Maroon 5 – Moves Like Jagger. Inspirational. I still can’t hear that song without being blasted back to this moment. Despite the chaos I am depicting, it was bliss. We were young, we were falling in love, it felt like magic.

Chapter 6 – Context

Now to put things into a little context here, to explain why I may have fallen so hard at this point, I guess you could say I am that old cliché who has Daddy issues. I don’t know who my biological Dad is and my Grandad, who I had always considered to be my Dad, had died just one month before this ‘sliding doors’ Savoy event. I had also broken up with my ‘childhood sweetheart’ of 9 years a couple of months before I lost my Grandad. The breakup was a long time coming and expected, by that point we had grown in to two very different people. But still it hurt and all of it was a huge change in circumstance for me. So, it’s fair to say, that if I hadn’t been on a rampage before this, then I most definitely was now. Without my grandad, I felt immediately lost.

My Nana, who I had also always thought of as my mother, was still around and thankfully healthy at this point, but my Grandad had always been my biggest cheerleader. My Nana too, but on much more practical terms. It would always be my Grandad that I would run to with my latest achievement because I knew it would always be met with awe. I can see now that everything I did had always been for him. I took on any adventure, I wanted to prove I could do everything and not only do it but be the best at it too, so I could run back and see that irreplaceable look on his face. A look that is thank fully, forever burned into my soul.

I replaced my Grandad with Dick, not knowingly at the time, these are the fruits of many years of depression and self-indulgence, pouring over past happenings in my mind and trying to pin point the moment it all went wrong. Well here it is. Pin dropped. This is the marker point for the beginning of the end of myself. The realization of this, of course, came much later when finally the relationship between Dick and I ended. I found myself in a position of having no one to live for. No one to tell my day to. No one to be proud of me, no one to love me. I felt like I was completely alone, living in a foreign culture on the other side of the world. I had to learn how to live a life just for myself. To push myself, to achieve, to experience life for the simple joy of living it. For the simple joy of being me. It took a long ass time to do this, I am not going to lie. But I did it. I lived and I achieved. Now I can sit here and write these reflections with a somewhat outside view of it all. Now I can relay it with a slice of humour because I came out the other side. I found my way back to myself.

Chapter 7 – A Change is Needed

A decade before this self- reunion, however, as the time to departing neared, literally and figuratively, I was really in the thick of it. After one bank holiday weekend on yet another rampage – four days in a row and even wearing the same outfit – I was in a particularly sorry state. I went out after work on a Thursday to watch a band playing with Dick and another friend from work. Followed by a Friday night club night with a DJ set that was to last for 10 hours. The party continued back at Dicks flat afterwards, we slept a bit and then headed to the pub for a few casual Sunday bank holiday beers. Monday, was spent crawling back home to my own flat, I did actually have one. Wearing the same dress I had stepped out in on Thursday, that had by that point been handwashed and tumble dried 3 times over the weekend because I was either too drunk or too hungover to make the trek back home. I fell into bed and then dragged, and I mean dragged, myself to work. I couldn’t spend long at my desk, I could barely see, I couldn’t get my eyes to focus on the computer screen and my head was spinning so much I could barely even keep it upright on my neck. I had a piercing sound whistling through my ears that rendered me completely disconnected from the physical realm in which I was apparently supposed to be existing. I had to keep taking several trips to the toilet where I would lie down on the lovely cold floor in the cubicle and take deep breathes. Willing myself to get up and put a smile on my face and get back to my desk before anyone noticed that I had lost control and I was clearly a drug addict. Somehow I managed to get through the day, but I bet more people noticed what a fucked up state I was than I would care to admit at the time.

Chapter 1 – Background

I was told recently, that I should wear a bra when I take my dog out for a walk. A walk around the condominium I lived at, which was situated in a very conservative country, a country which everyday has a temperature of around 30 oC and 90% humidity. I was told this by a man, although not surprising it was a man, it could just as easily have been a woman. “You fucking wear a bra”, I thought, “see how you like it”. I didn’t respond with this retort however, not because I didn’t want to offend the man, but after living here for over a decade, I was aware that such a response would be futile. A huge waste of my already diminished energy. I’ll be honest, I struggled here, not just on account of being a woman but, simply, just by being me.

As soon as I arrived, everything that I was, was not accepted. I was not in any way prepared for this. Naïve of me, yes. Stupid of me, perhaps. Destructive for me, definitely. In the space of a 13 hour flight, my social status diminished to second class, well, on many occasion, much much less. I became inferior, disregarded, disrespected, under-appreciated and abused. Of course, there are many more adjectives to describe what would happen to me over the next decade but this is a good enough start to paint the picture.

For a girl who had only ever been exposed to a bum grab and a cheeky whistle, who had only ever heard of, and I must say, very very much appreciated, the work of, the suffragettes, for a girl who had been told her whole life by her Grandad that she was smart and valuable and could be anything she wanted to be, this treatment came as somewhat of a surprise. Such a surprise, I walked through it all, blindly, stunned and unable to take note, to take action or to adapt.

Although, now I look back on it, I guess I was always in training for this. A girl, born in the 80s, growing up in the 90s. A time when women were raised to be sexy, woman were raised to use sex as a weapon. You only had to look at any music video of this generation to ‘learn’ this. A slim figure and a pretty face is power. Beauty is respect.

I didn’t have the easiest of childhoods, I certainly didn’t have anywhere near the worst. I worked hard, worked several jobs and paid my way through university. At the age of 23 I was working in London in the engineering industry. A young girl, in an industry totally dominated by men, older men. Yes there were inappropriate comments, yes there were derogatory assumptions, yes there were unfair treatments. Was I really aware of it at the time. No. I was young, I was enjoying life, I was making money and meeting interesting people. One man, in particular, I found so interesting, I would move to the other side of the world with him, after only knowing him for one year. Am I aware of those inappropriate behaviours now, you bet your fucking ass I am.

So I moved to the other side of the world, in this ostensibly fair industry with this ostensibly wonderful man I just met. Now it’s probably important for you to know that I am a working-class gal, raised in an inconsistent family environment. That’s all I will say about that for now. The point of this snippet of info is that I wouldn’t be described as the shy, retiring type. There weren’t many shy, retiring types around me growing up I can tell ya. We worked hard, we played hard, life - for most - was not easy, on account of the fact the government are a bunch of twats and didn’t/ don’t give a shite about caring for such an environment. Any environment, for that matter, containing people in similar circumstance - where help only comes in the form of what fell off the back of a lorry last week.

This little feature of my multi-faceted personality (I can say that now, I wasn’t aware of it then), helped me loads in London. In fact, it had helped me loads throughout my whole life until after London. Throughout my life growing up and my life at university in Wales, I also spent some time living in the U.S and I worked in the far north of Scotland, before moving to London in 2010. This – ‘take no shit, own yourself, know yourself, have a fucking laugh’ - personality of mine, had seen me through all of these geographies so far. This belting personality of mine had earned me a degree and a masters and landed me a job with one of the world leading engineering consultancies. I fell in love with a colleague, the love of my life, or so I thought. I moved to the other side of the world. A dream. Until I got there.

What transpired in fact, was a suppression of character, so great, it crushed me greater than the Mariana trench could crush a polystyrene cup. Yes I am a geek, let me try that again, it crushed me greater than a giant could crush a pea, than a fallen oak could crush a mushroom. Than an abusive partner could crush a devoted one. Than a society of conservatism and judgement could crush an ignorant, naïve young woman. Than a decade of self-doubt and shame could crush the life of a human.

Chapter 2 – My First Week

The guy I was moving out there to be with had moved over 6 months before I did. This was my choice, because he was being moved there by our company for a job particular to his skill set. I chose to wait and find my own means of getting there. I didn’t much fancy moving out as his ‘spouse’, relying on his wage, even moving out with our company as a pity transfer or transfer of convenience. This situation was not in any way appealing for me. The thought of living together, making a new life together, meeting new people together AND working together scared the crap out of me. This would be way too much ‘together’ for me and my independent head. So I waited until I could get another job and be moved out there with another company, on my own merit. This was a bloody great plan - I should have seen it through.

The night before I was due to fly out, I’d heard no word from this dream man of mine. How strange, I thought, here I am, dropping everything, leaving my friends, leaving London for this man, and he doesn’t even contact me the night before I am due to fly to see how I am? I was sad to be leaving London, I was sad to be leaving my friends. For the first time, in my very inconsistent life, I felt settled, I felt like I really belonged and I felt like I knew myself. There was no part of me that wanted to leave, aside from the part of me that was hopelessly devoted to this new man of mine. In addition to that, to be fair, a few other very close of friends of mine were leaving too. Most were travellers and heading back to their homeland, others were moving out to smaller towns to settle and start families. So, being a believer in the synchronistic, I decided to jump too. To take a leap of faith so to speak. I realise this may contradict the idea you probably already have about me, most likely that I would be practical and factual - based on the fact I work for an engineering company…. you will realise soon that I am a very complicated character. This has been my fatal flaw and my saving grace on many, many occasions. Please put away all of your stereotypes and expectations and strap in. Things get complicated and messy. Most of it, you could say, is indeed my fault. Most of it, however, I definitely did not deserve.

So I followed my heart and moved to join the love of my life, after having spent the previous night crying because I still had not received a message of encouragement from the guy I was moving to be with. Or, for that matter, a message of well, any words at all really.

I arrived at the airport in this new, far-off country, he kindly met me, as was previously planned. I did eventually receive a message from him as I was leaving because my girlfriend had sent him a drunken voice mail. I would say delicately nudging him in the right direction, although it definitely wouldn’t have been delicate. She was a young Australian lass, born and raised in Canberra. We were friends for a reason and that reason definitely wasn’t our delicate approach when we were pissed off, or rather, pissed and pissed off, and especially not when we were defending a friend. Anyhow, I digress, I will do this a lot, I apologise in advance, a lot has happened and for reasons I will discuss later, I am not quite as sharp and as focused as I would have been at the point I am reflecting on. Which is now 2013, I am 26, I have just left the airport, there is my dream. He looks tired and weary. I feel for him, he has been working so hard in his new position. He is stressed and doubting himself. Thank goodness I made it finally, so I can take care of him.

Yes these are the thoughts that occupied me basically as soon as I landed. I believe that at that point, when I landed in said airport, in said foreign country, for said beautiful man, an alien spaceship landed and performed a lobotomy on me, thus replacing my absolutely awesome personality with one of an imbecilic ex- pat house wife and rendering me totally useless for all that was to come (please note I said imbecilic ex-pat housewife – the very important note here is that I don’t think all ex- pat housewives are totally useless, only the imbecilic ones – imbeciles sadly make up many genres of the human community, not just ex- pat housewives, who are definitely not all imbeciles. The ex- pat husbands on the other hand……).

He takes me home, to ‘our’ new apartment and ‘our’ new life. I am greeted by the security guards at the condominium entrance. They address me as ‘ma’am’. Weird. I just aged 30 years on the flight over here did I? I would find out later (2 years later), that these same security guards had greeted prostitutes entering ‘our’ new apartment, in ‘our’ new life, before I had even had chance to use ‘our’ kettle and make a bloody cup of tea (fucking imbecile).

That night we drank, fucked and were merry. Merry to be together, merry to start our new life, merry for each other. Drunk on ourselves. We had such a fantastic night. Until he punched a hole in the wall.

Chapter 3 – Reflections.

I will interject the story here with a reflection, not because this occurred to me at the time of the wall punching incident, it didn’t occur to me until much later. The first night that I slept with this guy, we had been to our annual work function. It was at the Savoy, a fairly lavish affair, followed by a trip to a trashy club with a swimming pool in it. In to which we all jumped wearing only our undies – ball gowns and tuxedos were just not permitted. The club was trashy, not stupid. They were not up for a night of rescuing pissed up twats drowning in heavy weighted cocktail wear.

After this night of headiness, we went home, when I say home, I mean back to his place for a shag. As we were walking along the cold, early morning streets of London – trying to flag a cab (note this was pre-Uber days), there I was marching along in my beautiful, notably sleeveless ball gown, there he was in his tuxedo suit, inclusive of a jacket. The month was September. The time of day was approximately 5 am. It was fucking freezing. Did he offer me his jacket. Absolutely not. Not once. Did he think about it, yes. He confessed to me months, maybe years later, he thought about it, but didn’t want to come of as cliché. What a nob. Early warning sign. Most definitely. Did I see it, absolutely not, did I want to see it, absolutely not.

What followed after this however, was not at all bad. We went back to his place, had a night of pretty fucking fantastic sex, I can’t lie, the guy had – has – a great penis. As far as I am aware, he is still alive and with a fully functioning penis. The next day I took a bus back from his place to mine. Yes a bus. Despite the fact we had been celebrating at the Savoy the night before, those shenanigans were on the company, I was definitely not in the realm of taxis across London on a busy Saturday lunch time. I was indeed only a couple years out of a bank loaned university education. So for me it was the bus. With a sleep deprived, hung over, but happily shagged look about me, and still wearing the beautiful ball gown, emitting an odorous mix of fags, booze, sweat and chlorine. You can take a working-class girl and put her in the Savoy …… 

 Incidentally, during this bus journey home I received two phone calls – one from a couple of girlfriends (one being the elegant lady from Canberra mentioned earlier), kindly letting me know they were in the pub and that I should go and join them. I did. The second was from my drug dealer, kindly inquiring as to whether I would need any supplies that weekend. I did. Drug dealers can be so thoughtful. 

I am a regular, shitty, but pretty fucking awesome human,

I’ve seen things of beauty, and some damn right gruesome,

A young (ish) woman, who has fucked up a lot,

So imagine how many of life's lessons I've got.

Though I have been humbled, on several occasions,

The resilient idiot I am, just cracks on, bruised and brazen.

Still fucking up, of course, from time to time,

Though I do hope to make it, a less frequent habit of mine.

This novel ere, is a wanky catharsis for me,

A place to swaddle my self-doubt, in prose and to be.

I have lived many lives, of inconvenience and indulgence,

Not always have I thrived, but I can boast experience.

With failures to toast and wins to boast,

I do hope my words, will keep you engrossed,

I’ve circled the ditch and been in some scraps,

Situations from which, I thought I’d never come back.

What I can offer now, is a unique perspective.

And at the very least, you can read,

How not to do what this twat did.