Chronicles of a Trailing Spouse...

Whoever wrote that a reunion is a little bit of heaven , didn't see the T-Shirt that DH was wearing when he came through arrivals last week. It was a polo shirt -- something I hate at the best of times -- but with a stripe; the sort you'd get in the grandfather's section in M&S. It was the wrong size, colour, shape, and made him look like he'd just wandered out of the milking shed after the morning shift. And so what was supposed to be a wonderful event -- a reunion after two months, the start of a new life beckoning, the one-year old who was now walking -- was slightly tarnished. By an ugly top..... By the time we reached the car I had to insist that he took it off, which he did after some harrumphing, and changed into something slightly better.  We have a tacit agreement in our marriage that I choose all his clothing, right down to shoes. He truly can't survive without me, at least sartorially. Or indeed in the whole present-buying arena. Which is why...

I've learned a couple of things this week.  The first is that should you lose your passport, check both your handbags, even if you think the pink one hasn't been used since long before the passport went missing -- because it is sure to be in there.  This can at the very least save on the cost of phoning the British embassy, Irish department of foreign affairs, The foreign and commonwealth office, all the garda stations in Galway, the local cinema, your favourite coffee shop and finally, your sister, who then in turn spends an hour tearing her study apart looking for your grandfather's birth certificate (needed if neither you nor your parents were born in Ireland). It also stops  you looking like an idiot when you have to phone everyone you know (to whom you have subjected to tearful phone calls all day long with tragic updates) to tell them, 'ha ha, it's ok, my life isn't over, I will be emigrating along with my family after all, it was in my bag all along, ...

I overheard four-year-old and seven-year-old boy's discussing me in the bath the other day. ' Mummy needs a man' said the seven-year-old  wisely as he poured a cup of water over his head. The four-year-old solemnly nodded in agreement, 'yeth' he lisped ,'cos daddy's gone'. They have a point.  This point was never more explicit than last week as my car glided to a halt at the side of the road, just off a junction, due to an electronic failure which I had been studiously ignoring for some days, despite the big red light on my dashboard flashing  'THE END IS NIGH!' . It was, as the poet says, pissing down from the heavens and for a moment I sat there, thinking, 'how can I solve this without getting out of the car? '  Had I been more attentive in the custodial duties of my mobile phone, I may have been able to solve it by phoning my mechanic, but sadly I hadn't laid eyes on it in days and it was no doubt languishing at the bottom o...

) I've just finished reading Caitlin Moran's brilliant new rant 'How to be a woman', which claims to be 'The Female Eunuch' , written from a bar stool.  It is absolutely hilarious, and addresses all the issues that modern women have to contend with, from periods, high-heels, abortion, childbirth, Brazilian waxes and what to call your vagina --  to the bigger questions of modern feminism (or lack thereof) and why it's fallen off the radar of late. In an age where more little girls want to grow up to be the glamour model  Jordan   -- whom Moran describes as 'Vichy France, with tits' --  than a schoolteacher or doctor, we have to ask ourselves what happened to feminism; where did it all go wrong? In a brilliantly simple excercise to ascertain whether you are indeed a feminist or not, she advises - "Put your hands in your pants. a) do you have a vagina? and b) do you want to be in charge of it? If you said 'Yes' to bot...

Since DH and myself are once again separated  by oceans, continents and time-zones (we will join him after Christmas), and without the all encompassing sorrow of hovel-house, nightmare neighbours or fears over DH's liberty, I find myself now free to focus 100% on being a demoralised single-parent. They don't! As I write, I am sitting in the cafe in Eason's bookstore, nursing a cappuccino, facing the self-help section, which given my current state of mind, seems appropriate. From where I sit, Louise L. Hay assures me that I can heal my life; Paul McKenna promises that he will make me sleep (not without wine he won't) and  Sherry Argov explains why men marry bitches (apart from Brad Pitt, generally they don't: Men are uncomplicated creatures and prefer women of a similar persuasion --insofar as is possible, what with them being women and all -- and want to marry a woman who will make his dinner, give him a cuddle and occasionally go down on him.  And if...

DH needs to get back to work.  As the visa application for Oz drags on I fear for his sanity.  My first inkling that he was 'losing it' was when I found him sitting alone on a bed in the boys' room furiously assembling a gigantic Transformer  toy whilst inexplicably wearing a hand-knitted hat on his head and a bow tie around his neck. So engrossed was he that he didn't notice me for some moments before looking up and asking 'have you seen the other truck for his foot? ' On another occasion he disappeared outside for several minutes; wandering outside onto the deck I found him perched on the roof of the garden shed staring out at the cows in the next field as if it were the most normal thing in the world (it is a very  nice view mind you). Unlike me DH is not designed for idleness, but rather than seeking out things to keep him busy -- and without the cut and thrust of the world of work, not to mention the incentive of pay at the end of the month -- he sinks i...

There is a general rule in our house:  In almost all circumstances -- whether it’s a choice between the pasta-dish or the 'Catch of the day' on a meal out, or a debate about the virtues of a minor road versus a main road -- should DH go against my advice, he generally turns out to be wrong.   Put simply, I’m always right.   Triumphantly I will point out to him (or increasingly my ten-year-old daughter aka Exorcist impersonator):  'If only you had listened to me! I am always right.  In all circumstances. As in ALWAYS' Except in one particular circumstance. Let me give you an example.  The other night, after a couple of glasses of something suitably pungent, I found I was suddenly irritated at the sight of DH; slack-jawed, dispassionate, and staring with a glazed expression at the TV (yes, the eulogising has most certainly worn off at this point) and started flexing my argumentative muscles.  Not generally truculent, I nonetheless fe...

They say what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger; certainly three months of quaffing a bottle of Shiraz each night may well have toughened up my liver in the same way the past three months have tested my Pollyanna -like optimism and belief that things will always turn out OK in the end. The symbiotic and simultaneous pan-continental misery and despair that has characterised mine and DH's lives during this time -- certainly our run of bad luck seemed to be overextended  -- left us at times wondering if we were the unfortunate recipients of a hex of some sort. In isolation of course most of these situations could have been rationalised, but when heaped on top of each other they became unmanageable and I spent several weeks bemoaning the turn my life was taking, convinced in my darkest moments that I would never see DH again and was sentenced to a life as a single mother of five.  It of course all started with- the house of horrors which was hovel-house;  DH ...

I got an email the other day notifying me of a date for my forthcoming driving test.  And despite the fact that I’ve survived three years driving under some of the most hazardous conditions known to man (UAE roads ) and lived to tell the tale, I must admit I’m not feeling too confident. You see, dear reader, let me say it out loud -- I've failed my driving test three times   -- and have a sneaking suspicion I’ll never pass.  Now when I say fail, please understand that none of the failures were actually my fault, but rather the result of petty jealousies, gross injustices and at times pure bad luck (or lack of planning as DH helpfully points out). The first time I failed I knew I was doomed to failure the second I laid eyes on the tester: a disappointed looking, middle-aged, balding man wearing brown nylon slacks and an anorak; the type who won’t be swayed by a coy smile or a thrust-out bosom (I tried) – someone who’s very demeanor spoke not of deep personal...