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

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

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

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

Blusher

Dear Frankie,

Was awake at 5am this morning. (Too much birthday cake?) So I did what anyone just into her 45th year would do (my favourite record speed by the way) - I bought a blusher online.

Clearly there are a multitude of things I need - a car that works, a hall carpet that is not threadbare, a cooker that works. Anyway. Some bird in the Guardian would exclaim 'It's the Nars blusher' whenever she bumped into a friend, so used was she to being asked what was different about her.

Apparently "it makes every woman look better, giving all skintones a sexy flush of peachy pink'.

And the name dear reader, of said blusher range? Orgasm.

Basically if you look like you have had a good seeing to, people think you look great.

Blusher = £21.

Sex = Sod all.

I'm in the wrong business.

Read that as you will.

Lub you.

Dobson x

Mommie Dearest

Dear Dobson,

Given your absence I can only postulate that things like work, young children and life in general are all demanding your time – either that or you’ve buggered off to the Maldives for three weeks and kept it from me.  I miss you when you’re not here, and you know how much I hate to talk about myself…

I have decided that tomorrow I will buy a Mother’s Day card for the person in question; always a difficult task for a misomater.  Do I assuage my own feelings of guilt by getting her the prettiest card containing the most genuine message, or do I adopt an insouciant attitude towards the whole thing with a cheap and meaningless token gesture?  Decisions, decisions…

Matricidal fantasies aside, I currently have very little to gripe about.  Your previous advice has been heeded and I am doing my utmost to enjoy whatever time I am able to share with The Man.  I find his company fulfilling in many different ways.  I like him – a lot.

I never thought I’d see the day when Justin Timberlake’s standing in my wank bank was rescinded, but given current levels of gratification his position is now somewhat redundant.  When I mailed him to tell him so he took it badly, but that’s Aquarian ego for you…  He’ll get over me.

Frankie

I'm Bringing Sexy Back

Dear Frankie

I'm going to layer this blog like a Mary Berry Cake, or probably more like a Findus Lasagne.

First layer. Your enjoyment of your relationship. To most, this is a good thing. A wee gift from The Gods. A big 'hurrah' for you. A lucky man.

I know that that is not how you roll. Most of the time. I have learned that you may be searching for the self-destruct button.

You must not do this.

You must instead go back and re-read some of your blogs. Think about the negatives of not feeling this way. Also, don't read about couples on Facebook. We all know they are bastards. That Valentine's stuff gives me the dry boak.  What a waste of money and time. And mostly it's from people who can only function when told to, or show love through a shit teddy, cheap chocolate and a crappy card.  When the fuck did they gig to a packed house in town, or run a marathon? They don't do, that's why they pepper Facebook with that stuff.

Enjoy it all.  A fucking bus might mow you down tomorrow or some other clichéd death.  I am very, very happy for you.

Probably best to keep wanking though or we may lose our fan.

Which leads me nicely unto layer two.

Sexy.

I have been told that I am the fall guy to your dirty stuff on the blog, so I am going to sex this puppy up.  Here goes.

Ooohhh, that boiler is leaking. Dirty git. Better get a plumber out, eh?  Yeah, big old plumber. With tools.  Ohhh. When's he coming? Get it? Coming. Cumming. See what I did there.  What do you mean he's cancelled? But I swapped stuff at work to get back early and picked up the kids for this. I can't believe this.

Oh wait.  Spoiled that slightly.  Will try again.

Ooooohhh,  that's right, oooh yeah, oh hang on, my bingo wing is trapped, move, fucking move, ahhhh, ok, I'm fine, ooh right, so, hang on, that's the baby crying, get up, no its your turn...

Bollocks.

Layer three.

I can't write sexy.

I like 'sexy' and I am not a prude. Rude stuff makes me laugh, I am unshockable.

But dear reader I am unable to put it down on paper.  I guess it's a part of my life I like to keep private, even though I can voyeur with the best of them.  Everything else about me is laid bare, in my job, on here, in counselling, in my limited stand-up stuff.

But you must be brave and soldier on.  Sex it up for me.  Except I know that it ain't sexing up. It's actually you.  And that's what makes you so darn fab.

Dobbers. x