Find My Love - Part One

Well hello to you and Happy Spring! Having shaken the snow from our boots and the ice from our eyebrows, isn’t it wonderful to see the daffs trumpeting up through the ground to announce the season? What a relief! The winter has been long and cold and lonely, little darlin’. The play wot I wrote launched me into it and was a resounding success: heaps of fun and camaraderie, nominated for an award and – even better – raising £1,500 for a local charity, which is more than they receive in donations a year, apparently. The lead-up to Christmas was accompanying carols and bell ringing, making it very busy for this atheist. After my eighth ringing session in a row, I returned to my bed on Christmas Day and barely left it until NYE, thanks to a bout of what had to be influenza, despite the jab that I’d made a point of getting. A point... jab... hehehe. Sigh.  

January and February were filled with Dick.

Ah, that joke never gets boring! Between my last entry and this one, I successfully auditioned for the part of Dick Whittington. Auditions, rehearsals, photocalls, publicity, dress rehearsals and performances. The last stick of scenery left the theatre barely three weeks ago. It was a lot of fun and hard work, and allowed the darkest days of the year to pass me by with minimum fuss. 

Dick and Pussy

Dick and Seamen

Excited Dick

Dick slap. (That's enough Dick jokes now - Ed)

The problem was that it had to end. The usual after-show blues were lessened, probably due to relief that I didn’t have to go out and be around people. This escalated to an extreme of “I'm not going to go out, nor be around people," I wanted nobody to see me either. I spent about a week in hiding. Not just in my house, but in my bed too. Under the duvet, where no-one can hurt me. Soft around my face; electric blanket warming my limbs. As much internet as I could eat. Peaceful, quiet… jeez, I might as well be dead because that’s not living. It didn’t stop me though. 

I was finally coaxed into an evening of sociability with my pals, offering me dinner in a pub before I went on to a play reading/audition. At least that had been the plan, but chocolate torte and a pub quiz sounded more enticing than decoding Shakespeare, so I gave in. What I couldn’t understand was that, despite sitting with the two people I love most in the world, eating my favourite food, and doing one of my favourite activities, I still had to fight off the panic passing over me in waves. I rode it out, being fully aware of its existence: knowing that it was irrational and that it would disappear soon, yet this only takes the edge off what is a disturbing sensation. To describe it to someone with their panic virginity intact is hard. It’s wanting desperately to run away, but not being able to move. Sometimes it feels as if my arms are glued to my sides or being held there by an invisible force. Make a fist and place it mid-nipple on your chest. That’s where I feel things the most. Stress is a dull ache there; affection, a warm glow. I often press my own fist deep into that spot to numb anything unwelcome. Panic radiates from there and gets into my head, in the same way an egg beater on high speed would. Understand now? Me neither. 

And yet, I got through to the end of the evening and I was proud. We didn’t win the quiz by a long, ignorant chalk, but we didn’t come last either. I promised I would go to the second play reading on Wednesday, and knew I'd be doing it with my head held higher than it had been for days. I might even venture out of the house voluntarily! Of course, this was when reality got its massive kneecap out and used it to plough a furrow right through my delicate bits:

As we were preparing to leave, one of us noticed repeated missed calls from their daughter; one of us checked their phone and emails to investigate; three of us learned some awful news about a mutual friend and sat back down in shock. It seemed that lovely Martin, who has managed many a stage on which we’d been performing, had passed away. 

How could this be? I’d only seen him last week as we piled bits of set into the scenery store together. When (at over twenty years his junior), I was more poorly and knackered than he was! But it was true. Quickly, suddenly, overnight, five days after I’d given him a big kiss and hug goodbye, that was filled with emotion and gratitude for his hard work and friendship throughout the show. I’d actually bade him farewell. How often does that happen? It wasn’t enough to stem tears that had snuck past the Sertraline guards and were now escaping down my face. This was real sadness, not this pretend stuff that I battle daily. 

We cried together as the pub closed around us. Then we shuffled back to their house, arms-in-arms, and cried some more, between reminiscences of a friendly, delightful man whom it had been a pleasure to know. My gratitude for his acquaintance was matched by the gratitude that I’d been in company when I’d found out, and that the love I have for those companions is mutual. It was in the early hours of Monday morning that I walked back to my car, past the theatre that I’d rarely ever been to without Martin also being there. Everything was darker, colder and emptier, just like the world seemed now I knew that this lovely soul was no longer in it. R.I.P Martin. 

Something like this reminds us that life really is short. It could have inspired me to Get On With It. Instead, I went the other way and returned to my hiding-place. Maybe it was a testament to how much Martin had got under my skin? I managed to honour my promise to go to the play reading somewhat reluctantly but determinedly. (Yes, you can do both, but it makes your head throb.) Then, as we all know, a freakishly unseasonable storm saw the country buried in snow, and me buried under the eiderdown once more, with the heating on full blast and a really good excuse this time. Luckily for us all, snow thaws, antidepressants numb, and time heals more every day. 

Now before you go blubbing into your Bluetooth device, what I really wanted to share with you was something a little lighter. You see, during the pantomime I was surrounded by people but most importantly, male people. Ones who like me enough to give me hugs whenever I demanded them. Which was often, as I needed to replenish my dwindling stocks. (Not a euphemism.) It felt so good! Going cold turkey as soon as the show ended did not. One of the single chaps had displayed somewhat more than just platonic interest, and it made things stir that I thought might never stir again. The problem is that, while he’s delicious and fanciable, I’m old enough to be his mother and find it hard to forget that when spending time with him. This didn’t stop me from contacting him and trying to arrange a date. The sucking void left by Dick needed to be filled. (Seriously, NOT A EUPHEMISM!) I think we might both have realised how odd it would have been as our messages petered out. Maybe a lucky escape, but I was still craving companionship. It’s been seven months since my last bit of “romance”. I just wasn’t meeting the right candidates. 

So, all of this made me think that maybe, just maybe, I should wade through the murky waters of online dating again. Nearly three years has passed since the misery of the last time. This tougher, stronger, different person that I am now could have a different approach to it. Instead of trying to sell myself on paper with flowery words, I could be more concise: 

Wanted: Man. Single. Tall. Kind. Musician. GSOH. 

For a tall, kind, musical, amusing girl, who you really need to meet to appreciate. I sing, act, bake, write and compile puzzles for varying amounts of money, sometimes none at all. I don’t enjoy wine, but I do enjoy laughing. I’m slim with curves and long, red hair. I don’t photograph well. I have neither kids nor ex-husbands. I’m not interested in casual hook-ups, so let’s not waste each other’s time, but if you’re serious, take me for a walk in the countryside and we’ll talk.

That’s more abrupt than concise and smacks of experiences that I have no intention of repeating. The whole process hoovered up many precious hours before – one of the reasons I didn’t want to go back. If I did it – if – I’d have to let the chaps find me, rather than searching through them. I’d have to select a site carefully. I’d need to be choosing from blokes who had heard of apostrophes and who knew how to use them. Plenty of Fish, Match and Guardian Soulmates had all produced swathes of the wrong sorts of guys, for reasons punctuational and political. As I wondered if there was anywhere else to look, curiosity and loneliness took me by the hands and led me to the eHarmony home page. And before you could say “if”, I was setting up an account. 

Ah, the tedious, time-sucking, self-focusing setting up of an account. So many questions to answer, all about me. I was not my favourite person at that moment – I rarely am – so it was with half a heart that I wrote about my passions, and hastily illustrated my spare time activities. Then the dreaded wall of adjectives from which one must choose. It was supposed to be how my best friends would describe me, but I really didn’t want to bother anyone. I picked CREATIVE without missing a beat. I expect people can see that. To this I added AFFECTIONATE, ARTICULATE and FUNNY. I nearly put KIND instead of ARTICULATE, but I was trying to paint a bigger picture. (CREATIVE, see?) I don’t suppose many suitors will read that part anyway. 

I thought I was nearly done, but oh no: enter the legendary eHarmony Personality Questionnaire, that makes the Spanish Inquisition look like a daytime TV phone-in quiz. Its point is to get to the bottom of your character by asking question after dull question, some of which were hard to answer quickly. Yet I did, making me worry if I’d done myself justice. (Lighten up, Lizzie! It’s not like this is legally binding.) They all had seven blobs, on a scale of “Not at all, no way, never and I’d shun anyone who did,” to “Oh yes, baby, that is totally my bag,” passing through “….meh”. A blob was highlighted for each response. It’s cleverly constructed, weaving similar queries around others to produce a precise precis. Kind of: “Do things make you angry?” Then later: “Are you sure things make you angry?” Then later still: “Are you really sure things make you angry?” By which time, your answer may have mutated from its original form. Of course, Little Miss Conflict here may have confused it e.g. denying I was a leader but highly agreeing that I would take charge of a situation etc. I got quite impatient with it in the end. After all, I wasn’t really signing up to this was I? I just wanted to see if there was a point to it. Where were the men? Show me the men! Then let me decide. 

I sped up a notch, grabbing any old photo for my profile, and finding my unsmiling headshot from Dick. 

Dick head.

Actually, I was smiling, but it’s one of my “someone’s pointing a camera at me for an official picture” grimaces, where I press my lips together and don’t look very happy. I look a lot better under a daft faces or exaggerated grin, which is why I end up with so many pictures like this: 

So it’s true - I really am not photogenic. I’m not sure that the above will haul in the marriage proposals, though they’re a much more accurate representation of me. This isn’t going to go well, is it? 

Still jumping through eHarmony’s hoops, like a fat doggy being coaxed on by the promise of a juicy sausage or two, I listed “health, friends and music” as three things I’m thankful for. Just three. No room for a roof over my head; food to eat; being able to see and hear, and walk and talk, and laugh and sing. Obviously, I’m most grateful for surviving cancer, but I’m feel like I bang on about it too much. While it wasn’t a walk in the park, it was a doddle compared to what some of my friends are going through even as I type. It almost seemed like a doddle compared to this process. I hated every minute of the set-up. Yet again trying to define myself through a series of inane questions. Trying to list things I like in fewer than one hundred characters. Trying to nail film, book, music preferences down to just two or three genres, so I can be matched. It’s much more complex than that. I’m much more complex. Just try asking me for “job title” and see where you get. 

I gave up on not asking for help when I got to “What’s the first thing that people notice about you,” and posted the question on Facebook as a free-for-all. Words can’t express my distaste for doing this. I wasn’t in the mood for a compliment-fishing trip, yet I came away with a netful which made my eyes and my conscience prickle. The kinder the words, the more I felt I had unlocked new levels of scumbag. My confidence took a nosedive – what the hell was I doing? Trying to sell myself to strangers the same way I’d sell other used goods. It’s not the way I want it to go. Can’t I just meet someone naturally?? It turns out that I really can’t, and especially not if I never leave the house.

I pulled myself together and pressed the enter key. I’d got through the arduous ordeal with only minimal depletion of my chocolate stock. (It’s a vast stock.) An email pinged into my inbox, welcoming me to the website and introducing me to my first few matches. My reward for all the agony. At last! Show me the… blurry man-shaped blobs with first names? 

Yeah, single bitch. You see nothing until you slap down the spondoolicks. 

Now was the time to commit. To swallow it down or spit it out. Did I really want to do this? Was I ready to remount the crazy rollercoaster of emotions that is internet dating for a near-middle-aged woman? If only I knew what I wanted! I don’t even want breakfast. But I’m hungry and cold. So I do want it… don’t I? 

Oh Paypal, you make snap decisions so much snappier. A couple of clicks, a remembered password, and there I was - £39 the poorer and still bewildered as to why I’d done it. If you don’t step out of your comfort zone occasionally, it never gets any bigger. That must be what I’m doing. It’s like courgettes. Since I was a kid, I’ve hated them. Yet over the years, I’ve tried them from time to time, just to be sure that I still hate them. It turns out that now I’m rather fond of them. So much so that I’ve purchased and prepared them for myself. Tastes change. Zones expand. Pictures un-blur and become single men with faces, looking for partners. Nervously, I clicked onto the first one...

Was he a courgette, or a big fat marrow? Will Lizzie be zu-keen-i on him or does she squash the whole thing? Prepare yourselves for the second helping. It's already simmering.

I Won't Let the Sun Go Down on Me

People are expecting all manner of things from me today, but instead of tackling them I am pausing to write this down in the hope that it will help. Mainly me, but possibly any other poor sod that is having to wrestle similarly. Also, to inform and explain to anyone wondering why they haven’t heard back from me, or seen me about in places they might have expected.

My (landlady's) cosy cottage

Shoving boxes, a pause. 

So, there’s no time for apologising. I do that a LOT. You’ll have to take it as read. We all know it’s been a while since my last post etc etc. You may be pleased to know that I found me a place to live and the move was impressive. Lots of stuff, but tonnes of beautiful assistance to match it, making it a completely different experience to the one I’d been expecting. To quote Eliza Darcy neé Bennet: “In fact <it was> quite the opposite.” I’ve been ensconced in my cottage for nearly two months now, and I love it more every day. It turns out to be much more suitable for me than the old place was. All that fuss for nothing!! True, I haven’t quite finished unpacking and settling in yet, but who has? In between shoving boxes about and ordering white goods, life has had to go on. Life which involves a healthy dollop of puzzle compiling; only a pinch of cake baking as yet; a soupçon of ringing and a glut of writing, directing and appearing in a play for a drama group that I’ve not really worked with before, but who are so refreshing that it might be the start of a longer relationship.

Publicity still from Littleford's Got Talent. 

I’ve been doing tremendously well as it happens, enjoying the dying summer days with renewed vigour. To cope with the upheaval of changing address, I created New Lizzie – one who embraces the unfamiliar (a concept which is even more unfamiliar to Old Lizzie.) She’s walking a lot more. She’s not hanging around anyone who makes her feel bad about herself. She even re-joined Slimming World five weeks ago, to help regain control over the appalling eating habits she’s developed over the last few years. There’ll be more on this soon. I’m 6lb down so far, which would be more useful if it had come off places that need downsizing, rather than places that need every ounce they can get. Cough, boobies, cough.

So what the fudging fudge happened? I am still asking myself that as I cling to the inside of an increasingly steep and slippery drainpipe. It was all very sudden. One minute I’m having the time of my life, randomly bursting into laughter and feeling incredible; the next, there’s a horrifying darkness all around me and I can’t find a torch. In terms of events, nothing changed. OK, the performance is getting closer which is a stressful time, but that’s a sensation I am very much used to. There’s been no bad news, no work lost, no blokes to break my heart. I don’t understand.

It’s true that, at the start of last week, I was feeling so positive I decided to self-unmedicate again, down to the next level; going from 100mg sertraline to 50mg as I had a nasty brain fog that I assumed was the tablets. If I’m feeling OK, I thought, maybe the excess sertraline is making me hazy? When coming off antidepressants one has to be careful. The side effects are unpleasant, particularly the dizziness. If I ever forget to take my tablet, my body alerts me to the fact later that night, by creating a puddle of sweat then waking me up with it. So I was prepared for clammy nights and a spot of eyeball-spinning until everything settled down. It takes a few weeks for the effects of the drug to wear off, the same as it does when you are waiting for them to start working. Therefore, in conclusion m’lud, I don’t think that’s the reason for the drop. Suffice it to say though, I put myself back on 100mg quick smart.

The only other reason I can think of might be the time of year. If you’ve been living in England over the last few weeks, you will have experienced the delights of the summer fading to autumn. Oh autumn, you deceptive season! You set the countryside on fire with blazing colours; bright and beautiful. Then while we’re gawping in admiration and enjoying the occasional (and freakishly) warm day, we don’t notice you stealing the light and stirring up wind and rain and inclemency until it’s too late. Hibernation suddenly seems like a great idea. I’m not surprised they call it “fall”.

But why look for a reason? It’s blindingly obvious to me that this is an illness and, just like a migraine or an unpopular relative, it can turn up unannounced and completely wreck your plans.

When I drove back from the rehearsal last night, I was trying to explore my symptoms. I had been a mess throughout the evening, finding it hard to string a sentence together. Even the ones I had pre-written. I couldn’t remember songwords I had read from the screen a mere ten seconds previously. I blanked on names of people I have known (and seen regularly) for a couple of years; I was shaking, particularly my hands, which made turning pages and playing instruments a lot harder, and tears were never distant. How can I instil confidence in a cast, when I’m like this? How can I expect everyone to be off script, when I read from mine? But there is more: The anxiety is shocking, the worst I’ve ever had. I’m still a long way from full-blown panic attacks, though once or twice I have come close, usually when an overwhelming urge to leave has conflicted with a desire to stay, resulting in a sense of imprisonment. As I awake from slumbers (night, morning, post-prandial, post-post-prandial), I boot up slowly like an ancient laptop, and doom and fear and despondency come flooding back. They don’t go away. They’re on my shoulders as I type, united in a single entity: A slavering Demon in black, with tentacles that wrap around my neck and gently squeeze while it drools on my shoulder and breathes foul into my face, whispering “Useless. Hopeless. Pointless. Pathetic.” Over and over. Please, please bugger off. I have got a lot of living to do and I can’t do it when I keep slipping over on your dribble.

The fact that I had been feeling better might have made the chasm seem larger too. I’m angry that it was the best I’d been feeling for months… possibly years. This, foul Demon, is NOT acceptable.

I am fighting it with everything I have. You will notice that I am still showing up at places where I’m expected, albeit a chaos of hair, clothing, bags and words, but I am there. My number one priority is not to let anyone down. I hate that more than I hate reality TV shows, or litter. Or Disney, and that is really saying something! To let you down is to let me down. I am still managing to come up with the goods, albeit somewhat later than you wanted them, but you get them! I am still getting up in the mornings and trying so hard to keep going, because I choose not to stop. My sense of self-worth has taken a nose-dive, which explains the repeated apologies, for which I am so, so sorry. Paranoia, jealousy, fear all battle for supremacy. Skimming through Facebook without getting upset is impossible. I even have to brace myself when I check my emails! And the most mind-shaftingly annoying sensation is the return of the loneliness. I have resigned myself to being single, suspecting that I’m one of those people for whom that is the natural state. I accepted that quite comfortably as it makes sense and it doesn’t affect anyone other than me. Yet this week I have been aching for companionship, with a wailing and a beating of the chest that doesn’t do my shrinking cleavage any favours.

Being aware of the issue is important. Throughout all the crappiness, there’s a voice of reason. As if a fraction of me has stepped away to watch the rest of me fall apart. That fraction knows what will help, and it’s this:

🙂   Don’t take on new projects.

🙂   Get outside as much as possible, especially in daylight hours.

🙂   Spend time in company.

🙂   Go through with things, even though they terrify the bejesus out of you.

🙂   Drink lots of water and keep warm – it really makes a difference.

🙂   Ditto the healthy eating. It’s good for you and your body knows it.

🙂   Avoid your FB newsfeed for a bit.

🙂   You know yoga and meditation help. Do some! Don’t make excuses.

🙂   Be open about the situation, without banging on about it.

I mean honestly, I’ve got the play and then I’ll be involved with a pantomime. I absolutely have to find more work and honour it so I can continue to pay rent and be settled. I’m really getting into ringing, and that’s no good with nerves. Plus, I’m hosting a party/gig to celebrate passing the five-year cancer-free mark next month, and I haven’t really invited anyone to it yet. I am determined to go through with it, even if I have to pop the Demon in some sequins and bring him with me. I must keep going.

If you’re wondering what you can do, it’s not much I’m afraid. Or is it? Understanding is a massive undertaking. If you can’t do that, then tolerance is just as important. Kindness, though if that’s the way you want to play it, brace yourself for blubbing – I’m not very good at accepting that I’m worth it. Hugs are great, but not always appropriate. Plus you might find yourself being clung to more than you expected, and thus more blubbage. Don’t say you weren’t warned. At the very least, you could come and see the show. Now that would cheer me up, though you might not realise it through all the tears. Actually, you’ve already helped, see, by reading this. I’m not sure if I’ve reciprocated. I’ll have to owe you one. I’m also not sure I’ve helped me, but it’s good to get it all out of my head so there’s more room for the maelstrom of Everything Else. Thank you for your time.  And sorry again.

What next? When? Where? Will these generic questions ever be answered? Who knows? Oo, there’s another one. In the meantime, Lizzie is appearing in Littleford’s Got Talent, a play about a play about showing off, by Lizzie. (Oct 11^th – 14^th, CTK Social Club, Thornbury. For info, see www.octopus-thornbury.co.uk) 

I Need a Miracle

Some days you are comfortably above the water level, others you are gasping for air. Today’s a bit of a gasper.

No real reason – the situation hasn’t changed other than I know a few more facts, coming up after this paragraph. I had a lovely evening last night. Some kind friends invited me over for a dinner party. The food was delish, the company likewise. Though there were seven other people present, I did more than an eighth of the talking. A LOT more than an eighth, and this has been bugging me a bit. I’m a chatty girl most of the time, probably because I spend so long on my own. I don’t want to scare people off with that: “Ooo don't invite Lizzie – she doesn’t shut up!” I did return home feeling smiley and happy and positive, which was a lovely gift. It’s worn off pretty quickly this morning, as I look about the house thinking “my days here are numbered.” Maybe that’s it? I feel a wraith of depressive fog circling my head, slowing me down and making it difficult to work. I must fight it.

The financial adviser from the estate agency that are dealing with it all called me earlier in the week, and very kindly answered a lot of my questions. I asked him to pull no punches, just land it all on me honestly, so he did. Here’s the bones of it: (specific figures available on request)

1) The house is valued at X.

2) The maximum amount I might be able to borrow is about Y. I say “might” as not only does me being self-employed make lenders go “hmmmmmm……?” but I’m weirdly self-employed – not a plumber or a hairdresser… a freelance puzzle compiler??? Try finding that on any automated career lists. I’m also a baker/confectioner, a singer and a public speaker – so my income stream is from various things rather than just one, which (to the folks with the funding) is even less desirable. I need to demonstrate stability.

3) Even if I could get that, they’d do an affordability assessment on me too, and I’d probably fail that. The fact that I’ve paid rent steadily for 2.5 years means nothing. Lenders give no credit for past achievements!

4) Assuming I could convince someone to let me have a mortgage based on my income, and plus my deposit (Z), I could afford less than half of this house.

5) So if I wanted to buy it I would need to find X-(Y+Z) more spondoolicks.

6) I could ask e.g. ten people I know to “gift” me X-(Y+Z)/10. This is ultra-complicated. Their investment would have to be a “gift” as lenders would shy away if they knew they were sharing house ownership with ten other parties. However, it would be my intention to pay the investors back what they put in plus their share of how much the house had increased in value when I was ready to move on/repay. Messy. Tricky. Relies on trust. Not a good idea.

7) The Government’s “Help to Buy” scheme is apparently linked to certain houses only. They don’t give you money, they merely underwrite a portion of your mortgage i.e. vouch for you. I could borrow a bit more, should I be eligible and should I deem to live in one of these certain houses (which are mostly newbuilds). The scheme ends this year, so if it was my direction I’d better get my skates on.

8) I could find a guarantor. This is basically someone who applies for the mortgage in their name for me. Their income and age would be taken into account, so it would need to be someone with a good couple of decades of working life left, and earning around three times more than me. Apparently the age factor is very important. It could be more than one person, but everyone who signed up would have to have their credit checked and go through all the hassle of obtaining a mortgage. After that, it would be me that made the repayments. After winning the lottery, marrying a sugar daddy just for his cash, selling my body, this is actually the most sensible and likely thing to do. And it looks like my only hope.

I did think about crowdfunding to make up the deficiency. With that, I’d have to pledge a reward in return for the donations. I did me a little menu of what I might offer:

•          In return for a £10 donation, you would receive a decorated “Thank You” biscuit, handmade be moi.
•          For £50, a handmade batch of something (choc brownie, Malteser cake, millionaire’s shortbread – oh, the irony), sent to anywhere in the UK.
•          £100 would get you a basic party cake, sent to your door.
•          For £200, I’d record and upload a vid of me singing a song of your choice, dedicated to you.
•          £500 and a custom-compiled crossword all about you would be yours.
•          If you could stretch to £1000, I could write you a script for a pantomime, tailored to your specific pantomime requirements.

Yes. It made me laugh too.

And of course, it wouldn’t work. Who’d give money to some git to buy a house when there are tonnes more worthy causes? Who’d pay over-inflated prices for stuff they could get more cheaply elsewhere? Even if they did, how would I honour all these pledges? I could find myself having to write fifty pantomime scripts, and it still wouldn’t be enough money. It’s a shame they don’t allow you to offer sexual favours – I might have stood a chance there, killing several birds with one ill-advised illicit stone. In conclusion, it’s a “no” to crowdfunding.

Age-wise I’ve got about twenty-five working years ahead of me. (I know it’ll be a lot more than this, but that’s what the banks see.) I feel as if this is make or break time for me: I need to buy something now-ish or I will miss the boat and be a tenant forever. I asked if it was possible to sell the house to an investor with me in it, continuing to pay my monthly dues. Yes, it is, though it is down to the vendor’s discretion, and also the first thing my new landlord would do, almost definitely, is to raise the rent.

ARGH! It’s all so annoying.

So that’s the summary of all I have done so far to honour Part C of my plan (see previous post Turn! Turn! Turn!) In terms of Part B (selling stuff to downsize) it’s going to take a while to get the Ebay ball rolling. My priority for the next six weeks is making products to sell at Christmas markets and online.

Part A is something I have been thinking hard about. What is it I love about this home? What do I dislike? What am I looking for in a new abode/workplace? I might take you on a virtual tour when it’s not so messy. In the meantime, here’s what I need:

•          Light, airy, spacious house, not only inside, but around it. Avoiding the feeling of being boxed in.
•          Three bedrooms. Could work with two. (One to sleep in, one spare, one office. Could combine the spare and office.)
•          Shower. Bath optional, but I love having one.
•          Gas supply. For central heating and cooking.
•          Large kitchen – kitchen diner would be best. Plenty of surface space but preferably an island in the middle rather than edges. It’s nice to face the room when I’m working, not the wall. Double oven very useful.
•          Big windows, green stuff outside. (Not moss or mould…) Ideally a good view esp of the setting sun.
•          Parking
•          Ideally detached as I make a lot of noise (singing, playing, cooking) and do things at strange hours. Semi-detached OK. Don’t want to live in a terrace or a flat please.
•          In a nice, peaceful area. Not too many comings and goings, revvings of motor engines, drunk teenagers staggering past.

(NB all this is pretty much what I have now. DAMMIT.)

As if all that wasn’t a big enough ask, I want to stay in this town. Living here is fabulous. I have never felt so settled or happy in all my life. I’m establishing myself as a member of society; I’ve made new friends – people I really, really like. I know my way around and love learning more about the locality all the time. I am not going to leave Dursley/Cam. No thank you.

Just had a look online. Anything like the above to buy is equally out of my price range, leaving me with one-bedroom flats or teeny tiny terraces. I know how miserable this would make me, so it’s not really an option, not even a temporary one. (Please, not temporary anything. The prospect of having to set up phone and broadband and services, and notifying EVERYONE about me change of address and... then having to do it all over again when I have to move again?? Oh lordy lordy. Life is too short for that!) There are a couple of OK-ish ones to rent. (I think whatever happens, I’m in for a rent increase.) Nothing that has made me want to start throwing things into boxes and hiring vans.

You might want to offer your help, now I know what I need. It’s either a “gift” of that portion of money that I am lacking; or maybe you are prepared to be a guarantor for me? Or you know of someone who might be able to do either of these things, and can forward them this blog link. You can get in touch by emailing thewizzylizzie@gmail.com without feeling obliged to follow up offers. Maybe you know of somewhere I could rent? If none of the above, console yourself with the fact that you just read through this load of cobblers, which means the number of views this post has had just increased by one. Knowing that I have the support of people, even just in spirit, provides me with a great deal of strength and makes it easier to breathe.

Are you an eccentric billionaire who would give me the price of my house in return for a night of passion and Nutella macarons? If not, why not? Another question I won’t be answering in the next exciting instalment, more gripping than cling film on everything except the thing you wanted it to cling to. 

Piano Man

What, so soon? Sorry, but I couldn’t hold it. When you feel a blog coming, you have to grab a bedpan and let it all out: 

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a pianist.

(Cue brassy intro to Tony Bennett singing “Rags to Riches” if you must, but that’s all the Scorsese you’re getting.)

It’s the truth. As a kiddie, if we went round to a piano-furnished home, I’d have to have a go. I clamoured for a keyboard, but as effluence outdid affluence in our family, I had to make do with a hand-me-down from my cousins that barely scraped two octaves. So I saved my wages from many a Saturday morning shift at the local corner shop, and in my fifteenth year I was able to purchase a Yamaha PSS-480. Wow! It had a hundred different instrument sounds on it and a Billy Joel demo track that your music teacher was sick of hearing the first nine notes of.

Wah wah wah wahhhh, wah wah wah wa-wahhh..... "Kathryn and Grace, I WON'T tell you again...!"

Ah, it was a glorious bit of kit, but with small unweighted keys and a memory bank into which I would record single lines of melody and play them back simultaneously, it made me lazy. At this time, we were given my auntie’s dilapidated old upright (NB this is not my uncle), and I certainly did used to thump stuff out on that. But by now the most awkward of teens, I didn’t want anyone to hear me, so in a household of six, opportunities were few and far between.

When I fled Planet Thanet for Bath University, I made an earnest attempt to learn. Students got massively discounted music lessons. The teacher in this case was the Uni’s musical director, Robin somebody. I remember three things about him:

1) That he used to wear a navy blue RNLI smock all the time. Yup. ALL the time. (It might have been the only thing that would fit him…)

2) That he had ferociously untamed nasal hair.

3) That he used to sit through my half hour lessons sighing. He didn’t even try to disguise his contempt. Beginner’s anything is very tedious on the ear, but I expect piano is even duller for a teacher as you don’t get to join in.

I had always seen piano playing as some exclusive club, of which I could never be a member. It always seemed like it was for people who were better at life than me. I felt like there was a secret to it that I wasn’t party to. Every expiration of air from this chap only reinforced that idea. He would sit there, smock crumpled, nostrils bristling, making me feel like I was wasting both our times. Any confidence I might have hung on to took a pounding from the practice rooms. You had to go and sign for one of three keys, which weren’t always available, (so you would have walked allllll the way across campus for nothing.) If you did succeed in admission, you’d probably be fenced in on all sides by thousand-fingered Chinese students with no choice but to hear them through the pound-shop-tissue-thin walls. They’d be zipping their ways through a Chopin étude, while you struggled to put both hands together on “Up the Stairs” or “Bear Dance” or some other mind-numbing composition intended for a five-year old. The passion fizzled out. Or at least transferred to my new boyfriend. It was something else to do with my hands, I suppose.

When I was teaching (and single again), I noticed there was a gap between the kids going home and the school being locked, when I could duck into one of the music rooms relatively undisturbed. So instead of doing any lesson planning or – good gracious me – marking, I’d thump out chords and sing along until I got kicked out by the caretaker. I did this so often, I got quite mediocre at it. This dwindled along with my spirits as my depression grew, and I replaced my accompaniment with a guitar, on which I progressed throughout the Jabba Years and beyond.

Then I fell butt-over-nut in love with a pianist and we moved in together. In terms of me playing, it didn’t work the way you’d think. At last there was a piano in my home all the time… but in the room he was working in, or within earshot of it; his piano, that he played beautifully. So once again intimidation held me back, and I spared him from my cripplingly slow attempts at anything recognisable.

Now we divert to my ideal man: The love of my life, my future husband, potentially a father to my twin boys, (though that bit is as uncertain as my desire for motherhood.) Sadly, it wasn’t the chap above. When I split with him, my excellent counsellor encouraged me to write down what I would look for in a partner. Tentatively I began a list… which sprouted legs and ran, taking me with it. Bullet points became sentences to which I added detail, and suddenly, accidentally, I had created the man I wanted to be with. Not pausing to think about how unhealthy this might be, I gave him a name and a family, and, inspired by a photograph of an actor I’d had a crush on as a teen, a whole story about how we got together. I wrote it all down, even read it out loud into my Dictaphone so I could mull it over while doing something else.

I assume you are curious for more detail, but you’ll have to stay that way for now. It wouldn’t do for anyone to know too much about him, for many reasons. I’ve only disclosed his name to two other people! The whole saga will probably be revealed one day, in novel format. So it is possible that he might change my life after all. Until then, I’m keeping him close to my chest, literally, but for ease of reference, I’ll concede a “J”. Obviously he’s wonderful, gorgeous, and sexy; always there for me when I need him; he’s great company, funny, intelligent, kind – everything I could ever want in a partner; he can never hurt me or let me down. Nor can he exist.

Sighhhhhh.

It’s all gone a bit Pygmalion, but with no Aphrodite to breathe life into my creation. There’s an overwhelming sorrow when I remember that we’ll never be together. The actual date we were to have met passed by several weeks ago. I marked it by being sad in a kind of a hopeless way - even if the place in Italy existed and even if I had managed to go there, we wouldn’t have met because HE (Joseph?) ISN’T REAL and I know that. I might be an idiot, but I’m no fool.

This doesn’t stop him (Jonty?) having an effect on my life. In a way he is helping to keep me safe and content in my self-imposed bubble of singularity, stopping me extending emotions to anyone else until I am ready – almost like I am being faithful to him! Inevitably every man I ever meet gets measured up against J (Jeroboam??), and few stand a chance of being remotely close. You might think this is loopier than an arthritic granny’s attempts at crochet, but remember that I have my eyes wide open. I acknowledge that this won’t go on indefinitely. When I am ready, I will let him go. Until then, I will accept that I have real feelings for someone (James?) who exists only in my writing and leave it at that. The brain is a strange organ.

Which brings me neatly back to the piano. (See what I did there?) You see, J (Jupiter???) is a pianist. He teaches youngsters and it’s his passion. My lifelong yearning to play has been built into him. In reality, we select mates because they can satisfy certain needs we have, maybe even bear some of the characteristics we feel we lack. As I have to survive independently, I find that the way to go is self-satisfaction. (Cough.) By learning, I bring him (Javier??) closer to real.

So living alone, with a deaf neighbour, what was stopping me? Not being able to afford an instrument? Nowhere to put one even if I could? “No”s were not answers I was taking. I logged onto Freecycle and found several pianos up for grabs. One was local, so I went to see it. The couple were moving in together and each had pianos, so the older one was to go. When they offered to deliver it, also for no charge, I could see this was one of those “carpe diem” moments, so I carpe-d. Days later, a 1930s flat piano, with a ¾ length keyboard was persuaded into the only space I could spare. What, according to my rented furnishings, should be a fireplace with a flat screen TV above is actually a massive mirror with a piano below!

My audience awaits...

The only outlay I made was for the tuner, who had to charge me extra as it took him such a long time. Like me most days, the instrument is convenient but knackered. It has wobbly keys and some of them like to sustaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin without being asked, but it will do for now.

The beauty of this is that I’m on it all the time. I walk past the room and catch sight of it so I have to have a go. I’ll rattle off a scale on my way back from the loo. (A quick tinkle after a quick tinkle?) I’ll run through one of the pieces I’m working on while the kettle boils. The desire that I’ve had since I was in single figures is finally allowed to burst forth and spur me on. Not only that, but if I’m feeling agitated or unsettled, or need a change of activity; on my way up to an early bedtime – it’s there.

I’m fascinated by the learning process. Our capacity to learn is immense. I watch myself sight-reading a new piece, then taking less and less time to place my fingers for each beat the more I go over it. If I am feeling disheartened, I remind myself that every pianist in the world was once as crap as me. Maybe not at this age, or for such a long time, but we have all had to start from the same place. (Even little baby Mozart…) Hey, would you like to hear how crap I am? Would you? You wouldn’t? Tough. 

(Lucky for you I haven't worked out how to upload audio files to my blog yet.)

(But when I do, there will be no escape...) 

Yep, I’m rotten! I could blame some of it on the keyboard quality but… nah, I couldn’t. It was all me. Please note, however, that I’m a lot less rotten than I was a month ago. I wish I’d realised how effective practice can be when I was a kid. All those recorder lessons where I’d stand red-faced, head bowed, being told off for having only run through my scales the hour before – if only I’d understood how quickly I would have advanced if I had dabbled daily.

Another thing I never realised was how much the choice of pieces affects the urge to play. I love Joplin (Oo Joplin???) and Ludovico Einaudi, so I’m bloody well doing them! I might leave out a few notes here and there while I learn, but a depleted “Entertainer” is better than the full “Waking Up and Stretching” to me, so up yer smock Mr Nostrilbush.

Already being able to read music helps immensely. I could probably achieve Grade Four with my right hand alone, while my left is at Ground Zero waiting for my bass clef sight to kick back in. Averaging it up, I’m aiming to sit my Grade Two early next year. If I can stop laughing for long enough. I’m so thrilled that I get the giggles in lessons because look at me – I’m finally playing a piano! With two hands at once! And a foot!

I’ve wasted a good thirty years NOT playing. I don’t want to waste any more time now. It might be an exclusive club, but at last I can see that I stand as much chance as anyone of becoming a member.

John? Jason? Jermoline? Will you ever guess? What is Le Français’ part in all this? Maybe he’s being saved up for a bedpan all to himself? Brace votre selves for encore de cette merde…

Keep On Running

It’s time.

Lizzie Rebooted fans – both of you – will note that it’s been almost a year since my last entry. In that time so much life has been lived, with more ups and downs than a roller coaster seminar. I’ve tried thrice to update you, but thanks to plummeting moods, confidence troughs, and having other things to do, Fabulous, Baby is where you were left.

The truth is that things did get worse. Then better, then a little worse, then worse than the worse time, then slightly better, but not as good as the better time etc. This meandering path has led me to here. As the reborn cyclist that I am (as of last week), I might be wobbling around in the dark, bouncing off potholes, but I’m slowly moving in the right direction. (My arse hurts too, but I don’t think I can work that in to the metaphor. It’s probably best I keep that to myself.)

I have learned a lot in those ten-and-a-half months since I last wrote at you. I’ve taken up some surprising new hobbies, forged new friendships, (ditched a few that weren’t working out…) and made some startlingly bold decisions, all to keep me going. I’m packing my days with Things I Want to Do which help me to become the Person I Want to Be. I’m thrilled to report that I’m more like her every day. I’m not going into vagaries here. No doubt you will have it forced upon your eyeballs in future entries.

Here are five fecund fragments to tantalise you into reading on:

1)      My dose of Sertraline has remained at a steady 150mg daily since July 2015, even in the face of all that crappiness with Le Français…

2)      … which resulted in piano lessons and a resolution to stay single, made easier by my devotion to the fictional chap I have concocted.

3)      Since we last met I've travelled in a hot air balloon, I’ve made The World out of cake, and I’ve been Aladdin, Guy Fawkes, Puck and, er, Beryl…

4)      … but I can’t wait to see the finished script for TMTG’s 2017 pantomime. Particularly as it’s me writing it.

5)      I have discovered the Meaning of Life. The meaning of my life, anyway.

I’ve survived the interim with more than a little help from my friends, but also by adjusting the way I look at the world. It’s not easy, and as winter’s bony fingers uncurl themselves and start reaching for my butt flab, I find that I’m going to need extra padding. So it’s time. Time for this old boot to reboot the reboot.

The -embers and the -ober have their beauties, granted, but it’s hard to see them through this veil of fear. Dwindling daylight hours and dropping temperatures shrink my usefulness and cover the ground with an icy sheet, making the slippery slope to the year’s end even more treacherous. My festive aversion seems to be outdoing itself, despite a couple of super days last year. A decision to stay single is all very well, and I laugh heartily to myself as I starfish out under the double duvet, with the window open ‘cos that’s the way I like it. However, in the pauses between not having to inhale anyone else’s body gas and watching what the hell I want on Netflix, the loneliness can bite down hard. One of my survival tricks is to avoid such pauses. Another is to write, as you’re never alone with a colon: never paused by a full stop.

There’s a definite change in tone to my previous ramblings – can you see it? Can you? If not, force yourself into my annals (DOUBLE N) and investigate more closely. As mentioned, I’m flipping my outlook on its bonce. With this comes the idea of blogging more frequently, but less turdily. Delicate morsels, rather than indigestible wedges that need to be washed down with liquids and a Gaviscon chaser. So that’s me done, for now.

All you have to do is stick around and watch the sagas unfold. Every pair of eyes that scans these words is also a pair of arms reaching out to support me as I stumble across to Spring. In doing that, I’ll be able to extend my own support to fellow season-strugglers and we’ll all be helping each other. (Meaning of Life #1 – ta daaaaah!) I can guarantee drama, entertainment and top-notch punctuation, all finished with a generous dollop of honest, from-the-heart Lizzie-ness. Unfortunately, I can’t promise you that you won’t be disappointed; I can only hope that the cause of that disappointment is not me.

How Soon is Now? What Do You Want from Me? Why is Lizzie resorting to song titles for her trailer? Is Vic There? Do Ya Think I'm Sexy? The answers to none of these and fewer will be revealed in the next exciting mouthful. Don't forget to swallow.