'Tis Done

Dear Dobson,

It's taken me a few weeks to get over the frustrating disappointment of an adjournment, but I can feel a gentle shift in attitude beginning to happen. I never expected to feel optimistic about the impending new year, yet that seems to be where my mood is heading.

The 'C' word has been and gone, and it seems to have been something of a success. Mes enfants were happy and grateful; I don't know that I could have asked for anything more than that. I'm relieved. I've never much enjoyed Christmas, the pressure to have fun and feel close to those I love on one particular day is suffocating. Anyway, it's over and it was okay.

Tomorrow will mark the one year anniversary of my relationship with The Man ending. Yes, there is still unresolved business to deal with but that needs to be parked until May. I have plans to hang with some jazzers all day and all night - it will be joyful, the complete antithesis of what was happening this time last year.

Tomorrow will also mark seven months exactly since my first date with SG Guy. He blew me away with the Christmas present he gave me; beautiful, exquisite, French lingerie. I can't wait to 'try it out' when he returns to London in the new year. Things are good. It's lovely and easy.

I was reflecting on the past year last night - I think it's inevitable when a new one is on its way - and I came across a picture of The Man that had been posted on the internet. I wasn't looking for it, but perhaps I was meant to find it. He appeared more 'ordinary' than I remembered. His hairline seemed to have dramatically receded. He was smiling, but looked dead behind the eyes.

Perhaps I was meant to find it?

Frankie

The Law Is An Ass

Dear Dobson,

After much anticipation and anxiety, my day at court finally arrived. I felt sick, nervous at the prospect of seeing The Man after all this time. Despite my desire to be anywhere but the witness care 'suite' (and I use that word very loosely), there was a sensible voice in my head that kept repeating what had happened was fundamentally wrong and this would be my opportunity to voice that belief.

Three and a half hours later, and after many trips to the lavatory, I was informed the case would be adjourned for another six months. The judges were delayed by the morning's case and they do not, ever, work beyond 4 o'clock.

Upset, disappointed, angry... etc. I know you've heard it all before. So given those feelings, plus the absence of my children and SG Guy who was in Europe, I embarked on a three day binge.

I took my finger off the self-destruct button on Sunday afternoon. It was then reality managed to sneak its way in. I wish I'd managed to shut the door in time, but I failed. It's been a quiet week and numb is where things currently feel most comfortable. I'm hoping it's a temporary state of mind, it's not a pleasant place.

Frankie

Hanging Up The Towels

Dear Dobson,

Given that these are stressful times, it was inevitable that my old friend 'Insomnia' would rock up at some point, hence me hanging up the towels and loitering here at 1 o'clock in the morning.  I am so tired, in fact, I'm exhausted.  I've been fighting the lurgy for over a week now with no sign of it abating.  My body is telling me to slow down but it's difficult; I've children, singing rehearsals, gym and a soirée to organise for Saturday night.  My libido is suffering too and I feel terrible for cancelling my tryst with SG Guy tonight, but what's the point if I'm not up to it?  I'm no faker.

In view of my cancellation I considered a wank but lethargy and apathy won the day.  My glass of 14.5% Merlot remains unfinished, the lid is firmly on my 'Berlin XXX' poppers and the batteries in my bunny are on their last (hind) legs.  It's tragic.

Ten days and counting.  Then who knows where I'll be at - a better place hopefully, with some fresh batteries...

Frankie

Round Midnight

Dear Dobson,

The title of this latest instalment is a song I'm currently learning for gigging purposes.  It was suggested to me by someone else, but man...  It's screamingly appropriate right now.

Sarah tells it like it is and no mistaking.  I'm meandering through my days in fierce denial.  The trial is almost two weeks away and I've a feeling that, no matter what the outcome is, it's going to feel shitty. You know it's not how I wanted things to be with The Man.  Nevertheless, it's the way things have gone so a pragmatic and practical approach is required for the time being - if only to get me through the dreaded day itself.

In other news, alcohol is proving to be something of an emotional buffer for me.  I know it's not a healthy way of coping with the situation, but the way I see it, the 'situation' will be over soon.

It hasn't all been doom and gloom though.  I've a nice little earner coming up in the form of a dinner / dance gig.  Although not the most satisfying in creative terms, these 'dos' always prove to be quite lucrative.

And there's more good stuff...  At the weekend I was a willing participant in some gin research and discovered some real corkers.  I think I can safely say that Brockmans, Monkey 47 and Cadenhead's would all be up your straße.  Especially Cadenhead's; it's Scottish and 50% proof.  What's not to like?

I continue to spend wonderful evenings with SG Guy.  He's uncomplicated, generous and has the most sublime touch.  His apartment has become something of a haven for me, a rooftop escape from all the sewage down below.

Time for me to attempt sleep.  These days it tends to be disturbed by anxiety inducing dreams, but I have a feeling things might be a bit easier in a month or so.  Goodnight Dobson.

Frankie

Resurrection

Dear Dobson,

We need to get back to doing this shit.

In my mind, I don't care whether we're simply writing for you and me.  I don't care how many followers we have, what the figures are, who's interested or not.  This bloggage, as I understand it, is ultimately for us.

I think, whilst desperately trying not to sound like Tammy Wynette, sometimes it's hard to be a woman.  It's fucking hard.

As you know Dobson, I'm up in court this month - a witness for the CPS.  Partly I've been reluctant to write because I don't know who's going to read this.  'The Man' is aware of this blog and he may well come across its content.  I've reached the point where I don't care if he does or not.

Our relationship ended in the messiest of ways.  He hurt me, physically as well as emotionally, and as you know after a period of contemplation I went to the police.  It wasn't an easy decision to make, but ultimately, at the very heart of it, was the belief that what he had done was wrong.  Very wrong.

I have done my best since things ended, to get on with my life.  I've successfully gigged, I've achieved a Certificate in Counselling, I've tentatively embarked on a new relationship and yet life feels 'stuck'.  Until the trial is over I'm unable to move on.  We still have a connection, even if it's in the most negative of ways.  I want to be liberated.  I want it to be over and I acknowledge that, soon, it will be.

I hope that with the end of the trial - no matter what the outcome is - I will be able to disconnect.  In spite of everything, I still feel tied to him, as if this trial binds us in the unhealthiest of ways.

Obviously it's been a long time and there's much more I could divulge but I feel I need to be economical with what I share right now.  The time will come when it feels safe again, but until then this is the best I can offer.

Frankie

Spiralling

Dear Dobson,

I have an essay to produce in sixteen days and as you might predict motivation is low, so I thought it was time to pay a visit to our sacred space. 

I have found myself wondering if this complete lack of focus is what it's like to have ADHD?  If so, it must be exhausting.  My brain only seems to be able to cope with minute pieces of information and I'm finding it frustrating.  In a bid to change this state of affairs and given my surplus of singleton hours, I have taken to watching series after series of anything in a foreign language.  As you know I'm a fan of anything dark and Scandinavian, so both series of 'The Bridge' (Bron || Broen) have been an absolute godsend.  I'm now into the third series of 'Spiral', which is also dark but French.  Watching this kind of thing forces me to engage.

My heart remains broken; my emotions feel as if they've been blasted into a million pieces - someone has kindly scooped them up and plopped them in a bucket for me, but now they have to be sifted through.  That's proving more painful than the initial blasting itself.

I am doing my utmost to be 'normal' and do 'normal' things.  Parenthood offers little space for indulgence which can be both a blessing and a curse, my singing is on the up, college is going well (essay aside), I'm back running regularly and support from friends and family is forthcoming.  However...

Going through the motions has never been my bag and there is a distinct lack of joy in most of what I do right now.  Where is the fucking joy Dobson?

Speaking of fucking, the last time that happened was Christmas night and I miss the physical contact.  Though having said that, the idea of being intimate with anyone ever again terrifies me and it all feels a bit dead from the waist down.

As I said, where is the fucking joy Dobson?

Right, I'm off to watch another couple of episodes of Spiral.  The essay can wait.

Frankie

Dignity or Dignitas?

Dear Dobson,

Life seems to be meandering from one day to the next, so I suppose that's evidence I'm hanging on in there somehow. It's an existence of sorts but I'm aware I'm lurking in the shadows, courting anonymity instead of the spotlight for the first time in my life. I feel jaded, used, discarded.

The Man ignores the odd phone call I chance, my e-mails and occasional texts. All fall on deaf ears. I've a feeling he doesn't even read the words I carefully construct. Each agonising phrase dusted with a whiff of hope - hope that he'll be sufficiently moved to reconnect. I realise it's futile. My services are no longer required.

Sadness is a constant, disappointment a regular visitor and anger an unwelcome one. Then there are the dark thoughts; the powerful fantasies of revenge countered by those of pitiful self-destruction. I am lost. Broken.

As you know Dobson, this isn't just a case of heartbreak. It's more complicated than that. It's old wounds revisited. I didn't want to have to go to 'Rejectionville' again but I'm fresh off the bus, suitcase in hand and the locals seem to know who I am. All because someone said 'trust me', and I took a chance.

January is nearly over ergo I have been single for almost a month. Time flies when you're empty and numb. I miss The Man - I miss 'us' and 'we' and I miss 'my boyfriend'.

Frankie

Which One Is The Dead One?

Dearest Frankie,

Fancy meeting you here... Is it sheer luck that we even remembered the passwords to the magical kingdom of Blogger. Serendipity. Or just a catchy password. Who can tell...

I am as surprised as you by your shock exit from the love train. I really can't understand it.  I am, however, pleased to see you here and talking in rather positive tones.

So.  Here's to blogs and stuff.  And the remaining / still alive BeeGee.

Dobson x

Happy New Year My Arse

Dear Dobson,

These are difficult, desperate days and in the face of such adversity, resurrecting our online tête-à-tête seemed like the only thing to do to preserve a modicum of sanity.

When last we spoke I was on board the Love Train and life was good. It continued to be so until just after Christmas when the stoker decided to throw me off. Nothing was negotiable. Perhaps he thought I'd dodged the fare but I can honestly say I hadn't.

Heartbreak over the Christmas / New Year period is possibly the worst kind. It's that time of year when couples strive to outdo each other with overt, gaudy displays of bile-inducing affection and being involuntarily single amidst all this is akin to having bubonic plague. No-one wants to get too close in case they catch it.

This wasn't what I anticipated going into 2014. I feel as if I missed a big clue along the way; the one that said 'He's going to dump you'. And let me tell you, the man is as stubborn as his Taurus the Bull birth sign - he won't be changing his mind or compromising in any way.

I'm shocked and saddened. I believed we were good together / for each other. Our experience was obviously very different.

Initially I will try and fix myself by taking on board what the Bee Gees have to say above, but luckily for me, I've been broken before so have a few tried and tested methods of my own; good people, running, singing, my course, this blog and strength of character. To be honest I'd have preferred to be planning a holiday with my boyfriend in the new year instead of my solitary emotional recovery, but needs must.

Despite the miserable overtures, it feels good to be back here.

Frankie

Writer's Blockage

Dear Dobson,

My creative juices appear to have stopped flowing.  I'm dry as a menopausal vagina and I blame one thing and one thing only for this arid state of affairs...  Contentment.

Now don't get me wrong, life is not all peaches and cream, of course there are many things I would change or improve given the opportunity or the finances, but in general I don't know if I've ever had it so good.

I am unsure as to whether this new state of Zen comes as a result of maturity, wisdom, awareness and generally being comfortable in my own skin or as a result of things having previously been so shit that anything is an improvement.  Having given it some thought, I believe it's the former.

Without going all hippy on your arse, I feel as if good is begetting good and it's fucking fabulous.  My recent application form has earnt me an interview, my jazz duo is now a quartet with an impending gig at a Central London venue and I have a man who thinks nothing of repairing my mangled runner's toenails...

I feel as if I can have whatever I want right now.  That concept scares me a little, but not enough to stop me asking.  Sacrificing some of my creative juice doesn't seem like such a bad trade off to me.

Frankie

Highs And Lows

Dear Dobson,

My week, in a nutshell.

Low Point:

Parenthood has been one of this week's crashing lows.  I've never rated myself much as a mother if I'm honest; I don't make my own houmous or anything, but I like to think I do a decent job and most importantly, my boys know they're loved.  Unfortunately oldest has entered what we have labelled 'The P Zone' - yes indeed, as his thirteenth birthday looms, Puberty arrives and the odious stench of testosterone hangs heavy in the air like ammonia.  All kinds of muscles are currently getting a good flexing.

He has behaved appallingly of late and I yearn for the days when a clip around the ear wasn't something that could land you in court.  If this is just the beginning of a catalogue of heinous pubescent behaviour then I'd like to terminate my contract here and now.

What do you mean I can't terminate my contract?

I suppose I simply attempt to muddle through the best I can, like many other parents have before me - except my own mother of course who did less than her best, but that's a whole other story I can't be arsed investing any energy in right now...


High Point:

The Love Train is stoked full of coal and is chugging along beautifully.  I don't know where it's destined to go, but being aboard it makes me very happy.  The Man is warm, wonderful and uncomplicated - I love having him in my life.


Any Other Business:

The application form has gone away.  The waiting game commences.  I shall know within three weeks or so if I'm up for interview.  Obviously they'd be mad not to take me.

I went to the cinema to see the new Star Trek film and found myself strangely drawn to Spock.  I never thought I'd use a Vulcan as stimulus for a wank.

I miss you and would like you to come back.

Frankie

Just Not Tony Hart - Please

Dear Dobson,

Since the Jimmy Savile story broke several months ago, I have been somewhat distressed by the long line of celebrity paedophiles, rapists and sex offenders that has continued to emerge.  It's like the televisual story of my youth is slowly being destroyed before my very eyes...

Yesterday's revelation that Tarby may be joining the ranks of Savile et al was yet another inappropriate slap in the face.  It would seem the concept of 'Variety' in the 70s meant exactly that.

As an homage to the continuing scandal, and with some assistance from The Man, I have come up with a list of top five tracks to mark the occasion:

Aaaaaaat 5...  'Clair' by Gilbert O'Sullivan

Aaaaaaat 4...  'Thank Heaven For Little Girls' from Gigi

Aaaaaaat 3...  'Sweet Sixteen' by Neil Sedaka

Aaaaaaat 2...  'Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon' by Neil Diamond

And at Number 1...  'Young Girl' by Gary Puckett and The Union Gap

Obviously Serge Gainsbourg gets a special mention for 'Lemon Incest', the duet which he sang with his then twelve year old daughter...  

Unfortunately I've little doubt that in the time it's taken me to write this, yet another celebrity's name will have been added to the ever increasing list.  I'm sure it will stop eventually, it has to, else there will be no-one left to out.

Happy Wednesday.

Frankie

Procrastination And Taramasalata

Dear Dobson,

Whilst you're up in court today, being one of twelve men good and true, I am at home sitting on my arse eating taramasalata and Turkish bread and mostly procrastinating like a bastard.

I am supposed to be filling in the application form for the next level of my course, but it's all way too demanding for a Tuesday.  They want to know things like 'Why?', 'How?', 'What?' and 'Do you have any mental health problems?'

As a result of the cursed application form, today's agenda has consisted of the following; I have carried out several menial housework tasks, been for a run, showered, Facebooked, logged my run, had a few games of Diamond Twister 2, drunk copious amounts of tea and managed to sandwich several wanks between all of the above.  I am now eating and blogging simultaneously - there is no end to my talents.

There is, of course, a deadline for the application - Tuesday 7th May - but that's ages away non?  After all it's still April and you know how I work better under pressure...  If my current modus operandi is anything to go by, I'm pretty sure there will be plenty more riveting posts for you to read before then.  I'll bet you can't wait.

Frankie

Wank: The Sequel

Dear Dobson,

I share your concerns about the general dip in our readership that tends to occur whenever we discuss lady matters that don't involve vaginas, anuses, vibrators or bodily fluids.

At the moment, the trouble for me is that I'm having way too much good sex to want to write about it.  Add to that the feelings I have for The Man and it does bring a certain reluctance to share the details of our lovemaking with all and sundry whether this is an anonymous blog or not.

When I was single and wanking was obsessively high on the agenda it was a very different state of affairs.  Nowadays masturbation is something I can take or leave, but that's not to say it doesn't happen.  As I mentioned before, Thatcher's funeral whipped me up into a veritable frenzy and sometimes when I watch James Martin on Saturday Kitchen that gives me the right horn.  Though I must admit my degree of wetness depends on how heavy he's looking, someone should tell him that wearing a black shirt isn't a magic cure-all.

Frankie

Wank

Frankie,

Just a tester.  Do more people read this blog when it has masturbation in it?  Sex sex sex, wank, vibrator.

I thought we had a more discerning audience than that...

Love ya.

Dobson, the biggest wanker of them all.

The Love Train. Toot. Toot.

Frankster,

Thatcher is dead?  When did this happen?  I loved her on 'I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here.'

Bugger.

Yes.  Love is a very nice distraction from blogging, or indeed anything ending in 'ing'.  Probably not shagging though, now I come to think of it.

I am pleased you are on The Love Train (See what I did there?  Seamless).  Tooting your horn and filling your hole with coal.  Bloody marvellous.

I do believe that Karma has arrived for you, and the changes that we predicted back in December seem to be coming to fruition.

For me, I'm a wee bit more in love with life, and myself again. It's been a long journey, but actually, I think I am an okay person.

Maybe we both decided that actually, we are both a bit cool, and deserve some of the good stuff.  I feel it enough to say it out loud too.

On a complete tangent, but sort of not, I have noticed a positive change in my dad.  The reason is simple.  The father that abandoned him over 60 years again has been found.  Obviously, he is no longer around, dying at 50 something in 1969.... but.... I think it gave him some closure.

No doubt there will be some family stuff that comes out, but he sounded so buoyant and happy, and making plans to go on some trips, live a bit.  I could hear it in his voice and it oozed over the phone.

C'mon Karma.  Keep doing the do!

Lub you.  Seriously.

Dobster

Love Is A Many Splendored Thing

Dear Dobson,

It seems we have both been distracted from bloggage for one reason or another.  Alas, I have not been dreamy-eyed about hall tables or doing up my house...  I have been riding the express train of love, travelling first-class, accompanied arm in arm by The Man.

Much can happen in a short space of time and as you know from previous confessions I was very aware that stirrings of a non-sexual nature were happening.  Those things called 'feelings' were manifesting themselves and as uncomfortable as they were making me, I sat with them.  I'm glad I did.

All areas of life are good.  The Karma Police have finally discovered where I'm living and decided that a little payback is due.  I'd say way overdue, but beggars can't be choosers - or summat.  Even the weather is warming up, about cunting time though, it is the middle of April...

The Man is on his way round now so I must love you and leave you.  Would it be wrong to crack a quick one off whilst watching Thatcher's funeral?

Frankie

Faffery

Dear Frankie,

Bunny? Was that a friend of yours from private school?

I am generally faffing this year. Hence lack of bloggage.  I am mostly floating in a jetstream of 'Let's just see what happens-ness'.  I feel this is the best course of action.  This will, of course, need to be revised at some point, but I feel a bit of a calm before the storm.

I have just come back from Scotland, where I normally feel a bit unsetttled and undecided about the future.  I have this time come back feeling like I was coming home more. I want to 'do my house up', get settled at work and buy a hall table.  That sort of thing.

I also have to train for this fecking 10k. Christ.

That's all the news that is fit to print. I started this blog in total peace. As per, everyone has now come in the room.

The other thing I am 'getting done' is an office in the back garden.

With a fucking padlock.

Lub you.

Dobson

Twattery

Dear Dobson,

As you’re aware, I’m not someone who likes to romanticise the business of parenthood.  I am quietly proud of my children, but I refuse to be drawn into playing 'Kid Top Trumps' in the playground with other parents whose own desperate insecurities force them to live their lives through the achievements of their offspring.

It’s a certain brand of parent that plays this particular game and their middle-class, wishy-washy, boundary-less school of parenting irritates the fuck out of me.  Just who are these people?  They have no personalities, they all need intensive therapy and they waste so much energy trying to present a ‘chilled’ and ‘relaxed’ front, when in reality they are obscenely uptight.  They maintain the demeanour of confused adolescents in forty-something year old bodies and hence, not knowing who they really are, they choose to define themselves through the often bizarrely named fruit of their loins.

I found myself at a swimming gala on Friday evening.  Middle Son was due to take part in a couple of races and I wanted to be there to support him, conversely, along with this desire was mild irritation that I’d lose a significant amount of my night sitting in a loud, humid environment with other parents.

On arrival I felt as if someone had amassed my worst nightmares and turned them into a caricature of the very parent I despise so much:

Rainbow-jumpered man was sitting at his child’s event with a fucking guitar…  He sat for at least three hours playing / strumming / tuning it, I don’t know which because thankfully I couldn’t hear over the roar of the crowd who were doing what they were actually there to do i.e. supporting their children.

All I could think was what a self-indulgent, self-absorbed cunt he was.  How embarrassing for little Balthazar or India that his / her father chose to upstage any swimming effort that he / she might make.  Even Oldest Son, who is autistic and allegedly has little sense of what is socially acceptable, asked me what the prick with the guitar was doing…  A proud moment for me.

I’m glad I’ve got that off my chest anyway.  Can you tell I haven't had relations with The Man for over 48 hours?  It could be a good night to resurrect Bunny™.

Frankie

The Big Thaw

Dear Dobson,

I cannot believe yet another respective birthday has been and gone.  I must confess I've been thinking a lot this evening about the passing of time - a classic symptom of getting older.  Unfortunately I've reached no earth shattering conclusions, other than time seems to be accelerating a little too quickly for my liking, especially the good stuff which seems to be gone in the blink of an eye.

And please don't interpret my ruminations as sad or maudlin, if anything, what I've said above makes me value the good stuff even more.

Could I have injected more clichés into the preceding paragraphs?

I must congratulate you on your purchase of 'Orgasm' blusher, I shall pay close attention to your flush when we next meet, but don't go overboard will you?  I imagine the Aunt Sally look would probably have an adverse effect...  Luckily, and without wanting to sound like I'm bragging, I have no need for such cosmetic indulgences at the moment.  My cheeks are aglow like two enormous Belisha Beacons and my Bunny™ lies redundant in the drawer underneath my bed; just for the record, there are many other reasons I think The Man is wonderful.  The Ice Queen never stood a chance in such company.

On that note, it's time for me to retire to the boudoir where I shall slip under the covers and inhale what remnants are left of the weekend spent with him.  Defrosted...

Night Dobson.

Frankie

PS.  Happy frickin' Anniversary, this is our fiftieth post.