Not everything is black and white

I’D love to tell you this fortnightly scribe missed an issue was because she was lounging poolside with a cocktail and a good book.
The actuality couldn’t be further from the truth. The only liquid being fed into my system was by an intravenous drip, and however potent, was unfortunately not my favourite tipple.
I’m glad to say that I’m now on the mend, although I’m disappointed to say that my recuperation has in no way been aided by the eye candy potential of the doctors. That is if you don’t count the gay GP on TV soap Doctors and Steve Sloan on Diagnosis Murder (OK I know he’s not a doctor, but he’s related to one.)
Ironically, the only talent I witnessed was my anaesthetist who I only saw for a few fleeting moments (or maybe I dreamt it?) but I suppose it’s better to have been knocked out by him than knocked back.
It’s strange to report that one of those showing the most concern during my period of ill health was ‘the ex’, sending me messages with TLC via texts, and a belated present which I am assured is in the post. His funny messages made me weak, and did nothing for the pain. Or the stitches.
I had too much monotonous ward time for ‘what ifs’ and I blame the lack of hot medical staff for not keeping my mind off the subject. Maybe I’ve been eating too many apples?
I bought a ballgown more than five years ago: an impulse buy on a new store card in a sale. It is beautiful — black and classically cut — if it was any other colour it would be my wedding dress.
Anyway, I’ve never had it on, apart from running around dans la maison, evident from the fact the label is still attached.
But my plan, spurred on by my mother’s eternal optimism, was to keep it in case ‘I met a nice doctor and was invited to a ball’. After my recent disappointing hospital stay however, I’m left pondering the future of this piece of haute couture — I suppose I’ll just have to shift the search to another occupation which would offer me the chance to give this beautiful dress an airing.
‘The ex’ is a double glazing salesman so I don’t hold out much hope of him giving me the chance, unless black becomes the new white for summer weddings.
I am of course only joking — I think he’s been put off for life. Yes, I’m still being drip fed details of the aftermath of his recent break-up with ‘the one’ who’s just turned out to be another one.
Seeing his situation scares me slightly, well more than slightly.
I hate to see that two people who loved each other so much for so long can now feel so much hatred for each other so suddenly.
They’re now starting to see a side they hadn’t before, or hadn’t wanted to.
I know people who have spent their whole lives together and still don’t know each other.
It confirms my belief that you should never dwell on what future there may be in a relationship, because if you do you’ll never get anywhere.
A certain someone keeps telling me I’ve got my whole life ahead of me, but none of us has any guarantees that we do.
Ironically the same person is himself desperate to have children, but because of lifestyle choices and attitudes to taking a chance on something or someone who may not necessarily fit into the mould of what he is expected to choose, may have now left things too late, which is a shame because his babies would be beautiful. I did offer but....
The thing I have missed in my rehabilitation is someone to look after me, give me hugs and make me cups of tea and the like. That is other than my mum.
‘The ex’ has done his best, but to say we’re in ‘different places right now’ is an understatement. This could be remedied soon however, with news that a mutual friend is trying to arrange a reunion night out.
I’m not entirely convinced that it’s one of his greatest ideas though, unbeknown to him. I’ve been OK with my feelings up until now, because there has been several hundred miles to keep my heart from ruling my head, so being silly and falling in love all over again has not been an option.
I’m just worried if I actually see him again, standing in front of me, looking all vulnerable and huggable, I might melt and not be able to reconfigure for my journey home to the rest of my life.
So, it’s either going to be beautiful babioes, a black wedding, or an eternally doting mother. Decisions, decisions.