Dear Lucy

Dear Lucy,

I found this post which I never quite finished at the time. It was from when I’d just met Chris online but not yet met him in person. It’s our Second-year anniversary on Sunday (of our first Zoom date – as you may remember, we met in Lockdown) – so I thought I’d send it now in honour of that.

October 2020

Dear Lucy,

As you know, I’m on a dating App hoping to meet my husband. Ha! I’ve just read that as I typed it! What a tall order. It’s like saying I’d like to be a rock star by simply listening to Spotify.

Being single at the tender age of 51 (a number I still find hard to say out loud) is not a position I thought I’d still be in, or at least hoped I wouldn’t be in.

I’ve done ALOT of internet dating over the years and it’s not like I don’t have options. I get plenty of offers, just the wrong kind. “Oh god I love red hair, is it real? God, I love redheads!” “No, it’s a wig, goodbye.”– Fetish. “I love older women, can I send you photos?” “No, run along to Mummy now,” I’ve simply not got the energy to be a Cougar, or the heels. This is only the tip of the iceberg on internet dating, but this is not what this is about.

I’m writing to you because I’m scared, genuinely scared.

I’ve met a man online that I actually like, he’s called Chris. I instinctively like him and I always trust that. We’ve spoken a few times and Zoomed once. There’s a glimmer of hope, but it’s overshadowed by fear and doubt.

At this age, I’ve had way too long to build up barricades; to my feelings, my vulnerability etc. What if I can’t come out from behind them? I’ve always been a late starter, but can I really learn to be in a mature, loving and respectful relationship at this stage of my life? What relevant experience do I have? I knock it out of the park when it comes to ‘pleasing myself,’ and ‘doing things the way I like them,’ but draw a blank when it comes to, ‘putting someone else first’  or, dare I say it, ‘compromising…’

It already feels like ‘yes, we could have a relationship,’ but that’s not going to be the hard part. I’m afraid I may never be able to be with anyone and it will simply be because I just can’t do it.

Here are my major concerns – and I promise, there are ALOT more:

• Can I accept the back seat status I’d have to take in this relationship? He has kids, so whether he intends it or not, I’ll always come last in the pecking order. I want to be someone’s main priority. But I also have unused ‘mother’ urges that I’d like to put to use.
• What if the kids hate me?
• Worse still, what if I’m accepted into his family with open arms. Will I be able to accept? Coming in from the outside is always hard for me, no matter how much you’ve helped me with this, and you have.
• I’m high-maintenance parading as low-maintenance, the worst kind according to Harry (When Harry met Sally). “Oh yes, it’s fine…” says, laughing. It’s not fine. It’s never fine, whatever it is, and you’ll never know about my long list of why it’s not fine until it bites you in the ass. I need to woman up and talk about my needs, but there are just so many of them. 
• And what about Misophonia. Most people don’t take it seriously and I can understand that, it sounds totally made-up. But it’s not, and if he triggers my Misophonia, he’ll have to go, no matter how much I like him. The weight of this has never felt heavier. It really can, and sometimes does, disable my life. I can manage this alone, but how can I expect someone else to work around it with me? Should I just accept it’s easier to be alone?

But what if…

I love him and he loves me, and appreciates who I am. What if he supports me and cares for me, makes me feel loved, considered and safe. That’s all I really want at the end of the day, I think. Is that perhaps the scariest thing of all? To actually trust, allow and accept those things from another?

Well, the way I feel now, I’m up for finding out, as terrifying as it all is. And if things get messy, then let them. I can handle it. I want to live, not just be alive, and living is all about other people.  

As of today – our Two-year anniversary

As you know Dear Lucy, my fears and worries were not unfounded, but here I am – here we are – two years later regardless. I was ready. Chris is what I’d hoped for but one thing I never predicted was that it would be Chris who would support me through my relationship struggles (along with my ace support team of course). I could go on and on about all his wonderful qualities and attributes but he knows what I think, and probably, so do you. As wonderful as he is, he isn’t perfect, and neither am I. But we are perfect for each other.

PS If you’re reading this, Happy 2nd Zoomiversary darling. X

Dear Lucy,

You’ll never guess who came to one of my workshops the other week… Alan Partridge! Here’s how it transpired.

The workshop

I start the Zoom for this week’s Write for your Life – creative group journaling  workshop.

Ding!

The first person arrives. It’s Jane, one of my regulars. I know this because I can see the top of her head and I can’t hear her. I say hello and know she’ll join us when her tech is working.

Ding!

Various other people arrive and we chit chat and say hello to each other.

Ding!

This time, (no pun intended) it’s Alan Partridge. Of course, I’d seen he was booked on and had also had a brief chat with Lynn (she did the actual booking naturally) where she confided, and asked me not to mention that it had been ‘suggested’ he attend the workshop by the BBC as part of an ongoing performance improvement plan.

He has ‘Peartree Productions’ where a name should be on his Zoom window. I seem to remember that Peartree Productions had long since folded, but I’m guessing he’s continued to use the name as it sounds quite good.

“Hello, hello!?” he says looking faux-confused, as if he’s never attended a Zoom call before, immediately taking up all the attention.

“Hello Partridge Productions” I say. I’m not being facetious; this is how I put people at ease. Slightly teasy, but always welcoming.

“Have I pronounced it right?”

Alan, irritated: “I’m sorry, isn’t this ‘Life for your life writing life’?” His obvious mis-quoting of my workshop title, a lame attempt to regain comedy control.

“Yes, Peartree productions, it’s ‘Write for your Life,’ you’re very welcome.” “Can you tell us your name so we know what to call you?”

“Partridge,” he says performatively, “Alan Partridge.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you Alan,” I say. “Are you able to change your name or would you like me to do that for you?”

“Change my name? Woah woah lady, calm down. I know women like to change men once they’ve got their teeth into a relationship, but this is all a bit sudden!” He smiles, pleased with his quick wittedness.

“Ha, yes…” I say, trailing off whilst he finishes laughing and looking around for visual support.

“I just meant your name, on the corner of your screen, so we can call you by your first name. If that’s OK? Would you like me to do it, it’ll just take a sec?”

“You go ahead Mish Money Penny,” he says turning on his best James Bond.

I change his name on the Zoom to “Partridge, Alan Partridge.”

“Are you flirting with me Mish Money Penny?” He asks as he reads back what I’ve written.

“Ha, no Alan, I’m just a bit literal. Right,” I say, “for those who haven’t been before, this is how it works.”

“Sorry,” says Alan – clearly not sorry – “Aren’t we supposed to introduce ourselves and tell our sob stories first?”

“No, no Alan, there’s no need to, unless you really want to, of course.”

“What am I here for then?”

“All will become clear, and don’t worry, there will be plenty of time for sharing and discussion after we’ve done the first exercise.”

“Star jumps or squats?” he says.

“What’s that Alan?”

“Exercises, star jumps, squats… oh you know… oh sorry, ahum, yes, let’s, let’s get going… I’ll be quiet now… shhhhh.” Alan says putting his finger to his lips.

“Any more questions before I go into what we’re doing to get up to today?”

“Where are the toilets?” Alan says with a snort. He catches his own silly joke and mumbles another apology followed by a deep look into the camera, with his elbows on the desk, “I’m here and serious. Let’s get stuck in!” He says as if he’s begun presenting a quiz show.

I begin my introduction covering what we’ll be doing which takes just a couple of minutes.

Half way through Alan interrupts again.

“Sorry, are we going to do any actual writing?”

“Yes Alan, any minute now, as soon as I’ve finished the brief introduction, we’ll get cracking.”

“Cracking!” says Alan, enjoying the sound of his voice.

I finally finish what is literally a two-minute introduction after three more interruptions; “Sorry, you’re on mute – only joking.” “Can someone actually tell me where the toilets are? I’m in a Premiere Inn using their Wifi but the signage is nothing short of appalling.” And finally, “Will there be snacks?”

“As it’s National Penguin Day we’re going to start with the following prompt: ‘I wish I could fly…’ We’ll write for five minutes. Write those words and keep your pen moving. I’ll set the timer for five minutes.”

“Are we boiling eggs now?” His face drops again when no-one laughs.

“So, if everyone…”

Alan starts doing an Orville impression “I wish I could fly, way up to the sky but I can’t…”

He sees the blank looks of the other participants and says, “It’s Orville. You know, the singing duck and – at best – third-rate children’s entertainer.” He chuckles, “Only in the 80s” “Sorry Keith, RIP mate.”

“OK, and your five minutes has begun.”

I start the timer and put everyone on mute.

Alan immediately unmutes himself. “Sorry, am I being a penguin who can’t fly or just a penguin?”

“What’s the difference?”
“Well, a penguin who can’t fly in an overt way is different to an every-day penguin who is generally useless at becoming air-born.”

“I see what you mean Alan, try not to overthink it. Just write in response to the words, “I wish I could fly.” What does it mean to you?”

“Well, I wish I bloody well could fly but since the Big C, the new one, not the old one, Cancer” he whispers. “I mean Covid, the new Big C. Anyway, since that it’s so flipping complicated to fly. Lynn, my assistant god bless her, she helps out but she can’t get past security. “Yes Mein Fuhrer! No Mein Fuhrer!” he shouts. “Ach! Tung, you will show your Covid pass or I will have you executed! Ha!” he says with an evil grin.

“Try and forget about reality Alan, try and let go of everything.”

“Ooh er” he snorts again, eyes darting once again for support.

“Just see where the pen goes.” I re-set the timer, “OK five minutes, here we go.”

I see Alan searching for yet another interruption but eventually he gives in and starts writing. At first, he is resistant but once he starts his writing gets faster and faster. He grimaces and frowns, he looks thrilled and excited, then angry. This is free-writing at its best. He stops abruptly looking up to see everyone still writing.

“Jane, psssst… Jane” Alan whispers loudly. The fact we’re on Zoom continues to elude him, or at least that’s what he pretends. “Jane, what have you written?” Jane ignores Alan which isn’t difficult as we’re back to the top of her head and she’s probably muted the Zoom. “John… psssst… John.” He insists. John stops briefly but doesn’t look up.

I type in the chat to Alan, “Alan, are you clear on what you’re doing?”

“Yes,” he says out loud, ignoring my attempt at a private ‘chat’ conversation.

I type that I’d rather he typed the response as he is disturbing the others. He continues to speak anyway.

“Actually, no, I’m not clear. I thought I came here to develop myself, so that HR can, you know, tick the right box and leave me flipping alone to do what I’m best at. Do you know I’m a National Treasure, a household name? I’ve come up with no less than 712 ideas for quiz shows and 48 detective series alone. I’ve taken over 1000 calls from desperate and honestly, some pretty pathetic listeners on my radio show, looking for advice and words of wisdom and reassurance. From yours truly! And what do I get? A slap on the wrist for caring too much, for being too polite and calling ladies ‘ladies.’ I love ladies, and not just in the bedroom department. My assistant is a lady – just about – and she’s alright. It’s not just for my needs that I like women though, they make excellent receptionists, restaurant hosts and other things. No, call me a lot of things, but sexist I am not. I believe all women should get a fair crack of the whip, and I mean all of them, not just the attractive ones. So don’t haul me up on a charge of sexual harassment. I’m as woke as the next man. I woke up today, I woke up yesterday and I’ll keep waking up until I start getting paid to sit and dribble in front of my TV along with the rest of societies rejects. I can’t fly and I never will. Not as long as I’m a man. Not as long as I’m not a woman! I never will be a woman! Never!”

The sound of the timer interrupts the silence as the others finish writing. Alan’s verbal free-write is over and I see him begin to process what he’s just said.

I proceed to pair people off into rooms as usual and give everyone instructions to share what they’re comfortable with.

I put Alan with Jane and open the rooms. I’m ready for Alan to have a problem with joining his Zoom rooms but, with a look of concern, he quietly clicks to join, muttering “Aha!” quietly to himself and vanishes from my screen.

Five minutes later when everyone comes back, Alan is still quiet, but smiling slightly at what I assume is some relief at having got stuff off his chest. I ask if anyone would like to share. Alan jumps in and says thank you to Jane. He doesn’t say what transpired in their conversation, but as usual, the magic of writing and sharing has done its trick.

We finish the workshop with just a few more minor interruptions including Alan flinging his pen to his left and shouting “catch!” to the person who is presumably next to him to him on his screen.

Everyone says goodbye and after I explain to Alan that I can’t share people’s emails, (“Bloody HR police again…”) he says, with a final laugh that he may come again, not for self-development but for the ‘excellent snacks!’

PS Obviously, I wouldn’t normally share someone’s experience, but Alan practically insisted when I asked if it was OK to share his verbal free-write, on the basis that it demonstrated even those who can’t physically write can take part. “Diversity – back of the net!” was his parting comment.

Dear Lucy,

Do you remember the advert from last Christmas where they had that robot cheering up sad single people, well I don’t think I told you, but I brought one – a robot that is.

In case you’ve forgotten, the advert showed lots of solitary people sitting in grey, hard edged homes with microwave dinners, looking sad. It showed them – still in grey – in various situations with other people whilst everything and everyone else was in colour, all to the sound of ‘All by myself’ – the Celine Dion version. As each of the singles woke up on Christmas morning they discover a large shiny red present sitting mysteriously in their kitchens, hallways or living rooms. After seeing the gift beginning to be unwrapped in the various homes, things move on quickly to full-colour scenes where the robot is at the Christmas dinner table with family or friends, a bit of the shiny red Christmas paper still stuck to his outer casing. Everyone is in full colour, including the previously sad single people and everyone is happy and laughing at bad cracker jokes. The soundtrack merged into ‘Thank god it’s Christmas’ by Queen.

Despite the ad’s misguided assumptions about single people and what makes them happy or sad – the desire for merchandise was so unquenchable that they had to move on from the cuddly toy robot to an actual real, working robot. He’s still flying off the shelves, despite the enormous price tag. Naturally he’s from Japan and is white and shiny, just as a robot should be. I named him Bob because this is what I call almost everything that feels like it needs a name.

I took him home to meet my family, but they just smiled reluctantly and nodded when I introduced him and carried on as normal. They didn’t ignore him as such but they didn’t talk to him either. Bob, being a robot, didn’t take this personally.

If I’d brought home a second hand Flymo and plonked it on the dinner table, the conversation would have flowed with gusto. “Ooh we used to have one like that didn’t we?”, “No, ours was an 8200, that’s a 6700, and it wasn’t that shade of orange, that’s an earlier shade”, “Oh yes, that’s right. I really liked that lawn mower.” And so on. But Bob, being a total unknown, essentially doesn’t exist, at least not in my family.

“Pass the sprouts please” was about as much as I could muster as the weeks went by, feeling there was no hope of change. When I talked about how much Bob has made my life better, happier, more fulfilled, they would interrupt and talk across the table about how no-one had realised that the potatoes weren’t home-made but actually Auntie Bessie’s! No-one minded because they’re so delicious.

Instead of resigning myself to the situation, I decided to take this on as a challenge. I will get a reaction! So next time Sunday dinner came around, I took home a goat. I tied him up to the chair and put some raw vegetables on a plate. Nothing, no interest, no questions. Even when he started bleating really loudly. “Did you see Strictly this week? They shouted over him, “I can’t believe that awful bloke’s still in it, what’s wrong with people!” Quite, I wonder.

The next time I brought an exercise ball to which I had attached a moustache and a monacle. Nothing. I put an air pump alongside the other food on the table and reminded the family that this is just for Bob – yes, the exercise ball is called Bob too. They don’t hear me of course because there is a heated debate taking place on which of the two local Morrison’s is bigger than the other.

You might wonder, as do I, why they aren’t interested in me and the things in my life and don’t show any interest in understanding my unusual guests or their importance to me. But eventually, three farm animals, two dressed up inanimate objects and a large pot plant later, I realise it’s me that hasn’t understood.

There’s nothing I could bring home to dinner that they wouldn’t accept as part of me – without question, because I am family. Interest doesn’t equal love. Understanding doesn’t equal love. No matter how infuriating those who wield it are, family love is immovable and uncomplicated. Unlike mine which clearly had conditions aplenty attached, including being interested in the things I’m interested in. I feel a pang of shame but Bob (the robot – I had to return the animals to the petting zoo) re-assures me that I am only human and that I should forgive myself. I had installed some free self-help software which has proved very useful.

So I stopped trying to get a response and brought Bob back. He is my companion after all, and he was really flipping expensive, so he stays. Also, Bob had said that they would eventually get used to him and treat him like one of the family.

This did come to pass. In the summer, Bob had to be sent back to Japan because his ‘Greeting’ function kept sticking. So instead of being greeted by a gentle ‘Good Morning’ when I woke up instead I had a slightly sinister sounding ‘good, good, good’ which felt more like an instruction than a greeting. I know Bob didn’t mean anything by it, buy my insecurity settings are still in the dark ages.

Anyway, when I arrived home for Sunday lunch, much like a new mother turning up without her   fresh pink baby, my family launched straight into a ‘where’s Bob?’ questioning session. I don’t believe I got so much as a hello. The family, now accustomed to Bob’s presence felt unbalanced without him. It was as if everyone were in danger of falling over and into each other without Bob there to act as a breakwater.

It cost a lot to fix and return Bob from his home in Japan. It turned out that I’d rendered the warrantee invalid by installing the dodgy free self-help software. It’s OK though as they upgraded Bob whilst he was being mended and the latest edition includes a new backdated Strictly download which will come in handy.

So now, I have more than I bargained for. They are ONLY interested in Bob. “Bob, do you agree that  ‘Clover’ is better than real butter?” “Bob, is it quicker to get to the Tesco in x or the Sainsbury’s in Y?”

So I let Bob do all the talking and just enjoy the Aunty Bessie’s potatoes – which really are very good.

Dear Lucy,

This morning – watching the beautiful snow fall – I am overcome with a feeling of contentment I’ve never before experienced. I wondered if I’d drifted back to sleep and was
dreaming or if I was even still alive. I’m still not sure, but hey ho.

It feels like I’ve let it all go – all the striving to ‘do’ better, for my life to ‘be’ better. It is what it is, and it’s all ok, at least for today.

It’s not resignation, rather a feeling that I’ve really ‘got’ something about life. That life really is short and I don’t want to waste another minute wondering whether I’ll ever develop a good relationship with sugar, alcohol, exercise, food, and more.

Whether I’ll find love and be able to find the strength and determination to hold onto it. Whether I’ll ever have the perfect lounge with a fireplace and perfectly placed lighting. If I’ll ever develop better habits, find my ‘thing’ and experience deep satisfaction.

Whether or not I’ll have time to discover all the authors, people, music, films that bring me joy. Whether I’ll ever write the book (or seven) I have within me, or even find the right time/energy/space to do the writing in the first place.

Will I ever find the perfect holiday destination, pasta portion, pair of shoes, coffee? Will I ever fully let go of all my regrets before I die? I could go on.

It could all happen, but I accept that it might not (and it feels really real to say it, not a platitude) and that that’s ok too.

Maybe its age, maybe I’ve run out of my worry quota (I actually think this could be a possibility). Maybe it’s my home-coming that’s brought me to this moment, maybe it was the meditative quality of watching the snow, or maybe the snow is just making me feel sentimental.

I may forget all this tomorrow and try to find a new way to gamify eating my five a day, but that’s ok too, at least for today.