It might never happen

That’s what somebody said to me today. Some wee man in a bunnet, and bizarrely, an orange tracksuit. I’m not kidding: orange. It must have been given to him by grandkids with a sense of humour or something, but I felt like telling him that anyone dressed like that had no business giving folk advice. “Cheer up,” he said. “It might never happen.”

Except it did, you bloody great eyesore.

Which is a horrible thing to think. He was probably a lovely wee man, and no doubt his heart was in the right place. Under all that orange. But tell me, has anybody, in the history of the human race, ever cheered up on the command of some bawbag dressed as a traffic cone?

I only dragged myself out the flat because frankly I was scared I’d get bedsores or grow a hunchback or something if I sat about in my pyjamas any longer. Though come to think of it, it’s only been 2 days. Is it really possible that 72 hours ago I was happy and normal and looking forward to our  holiday and now the bottom has dropped out my world and I’m staring into the abyss of a solitary future?

Which is a touch dramatic, I grant you. People get chucked all the time and the world keeps spinning. My friend Cara’s husband walked out and left her with three kids, so in the grand scheme of human suffering I’m probably not doing bad.

All the same, I think I’m allowed a wee wallow. For a few days anyway. Without a human Hallow’een pumpkin telling me to smile.

Right, I’m over the wee man, it’s the last time I’ll mention him.

But does he not have a mirror? Is he colour blind? Because when I say orange, I’m not talking an okay burnt orange that you might find in M & S’s autumn collection, I’m talking the colour of Fanta.

Okay that was it. Done now.

The worst bit about all this is that it’s just totally blindsided me. Honestly. I keep waiting for the moment when I start to remember all the bad bits of our relationship and I’m like ‘oh right, fair enough then. Good breakup.’ but it’s not happening. I feel like I’ve been hit by an express train.

Or what I imagine an express train to be, given you could probably jog alongside most ScotRail trains and beat it to the next station. But I’m told such things exist.

I mostly feel stunned right now. You know when you’re really jetlagged and everything feels a bit hazy and surreal and you’re not 100% sure whether you’re awake or not? That’s me at the moment. Then I notice his stuff gone from the wardrobe or hear a neighbour coming home and realise it will never been his footsteps outside our door again, and… express train.

I cancelled my clients this week. Said I had ‘flu. One of my clients, she’s nice enough but a bit uptight, muttered something about how she thought being fit was supposed to keep you healthy, and I couldn’t even be bothered with a comeback. What are you supposed to say to that anyway? I’ll need to get back to normal soon, I know that. I can’t afford not to, if nothing else. But I’ll take a couple more days to wallow, and I don’t even care that it’s a terrible idea.



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