and empty. My head pounds as I lift it from the pillow; my mouth is like sandpaper. I’ve accidentally knocked over the dregs of a bottle of wine I took to bed the night before, like a child brings his blankie. I reach for the alarm clock to shut up its incessant ticking. Why must the world move on when I have been abandoned?
As rubbish moments in my life go, this is the worst. It even tops the time I was subjected to a four-hour drive to Kerry with Barry’s five-year-old twin nephews. Barry’s brother was meeting us in Killarney and the Chuckle Twins had tagged along for the entire car ride on our way from Dublin to a plush country hotel. I mean they’re cute kids, but they had blatantly gate-crashed our romantic getaway. Just stop for a minute and imagine about four hours of the little darlings mashing crisps into the grey leather upholstery whilst demanding the Wiggles Greatest hits (believe me, they aren’t that great) on a loop. For a full week I had that ‘Hot Potato’ song going around and around in my head. When I have kids one day (you know, when I’m old and saggy) I’ll ban children’s music!
There’s an annoyingly upbeat ringtone piercing my skull. When I find the offending article in my coat pocket, I see ‘Pam’ on the caller ID.
‘I think I’m going to die,’ I answer.
‘Just checking you’re still alive, birthday girl.’ I can actually hear her smirking.
‘I wish I wasn’t. What happened?’
‘I swear to God, I’ve absolutely no idea.’
I fumble in my bedside locker for a pain pill and wash it down with the dregs of the wine, praying that I’ll be able to keep it down for long enough to feel human again.
‘Any word from Barry?’
‘Not a sniff. What am I going to do?? I mean, if he has no intention of this relationship going anywhere, like marriage and kids, then don’t waste my bloody time!’
‘Yeah,’ Pam agrees. ‘But the kids part? Nah. They are sticky, whiny things.’
‘Well…’
I pout. Who will want me now? I’m on the wrong side of thirty and single. I used to laugh at people like me. I’m a cliché on top of a cliché, wrapped in a pathetic lonely desperate blanket of despair. OK, enough amateur dramatics. Let’s just say that I’m destined never to be loved again and leave it at that.
‘Honestly though, Pam. I miss him. It’s so quiet here without him. I used to curse his snoring, duvet hogging, drooling and heavy breathing. The sharp toe-nails on his hairy hobbit toes scratch me, and the other night I threatened to banish him to the spare bed if he didn’t put a sock in it. I should be grateful to be living in a fart-free zone. He’s no Jon Bon Jovi, that’s for sure. But Jesus, I’d give anything to have him here. The big lump!’
‘God, you have it bad. Forget him.’
‘I can’t, Pam, I love him.’
I had tossed and turned all night and by my calculations had only managed to get about seven hours’ sleep. How is anyone expected to act rationally and reasonably on that kind of rest? I read about sleep deprivation in a magazine once in a doctor’s office, and it frightened the life out of me.
The stress might lead me to depression or to drive my car off a steep cliff. This is the rubble that Barry has reduced me to. Now, thanks to him, I’ll be forced to drink caffeine all day. This is in direct conflict with my previous ambitions to detoxify using Gillian McKeith’s strict regime.
‘Perhaps you don’t have a hangover. Perhaps you’re suffering from a common celebrity complaint.’
‘Oh?’ Now she has my attention. I feel like maybe I was a celebrity in a past life. Or someone regal. Possibly both.
‘You know, like, emotional exhaustion? Jennifer Anniston apparently was treated for it after the whole Brad Pitt/Angelina Jolie thing.’
I toy with the idea. Perhaps I’ll have to check myself in for some rest, relaxation and intensive counselling at whatever the Dublin version of Betty Ford is. Naturally, I shall use Barry’s credit card to cover said expenses – the whole damn thing is of course his entire fault!
‘Nah. Probably just a hangover. We had a truck load of cocktails, Pam.’
‘True. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Meeting Doug for brunch!’
Before I can half heartedly ask ‘Who?’ she is gone.
‘My life is ruined! I’ll be like Miss Havisham sitting here, waiting for Barry to come back.’ I reach out to Jess, our long-haired white cat. He’s been my loyal companion since Barry and I rescued him from the animal shelter I volunteer at, and he’s quite a good listener. He’s curled up at my feet and unresponsive. He wears a pink studded collar with a little jingly bell. Sometimes I think that Jess is a dead ringer for that snooty cat on those cat food adverts. You know, except he is morbidly obese. I poke him where his ribs should be, but just feel fur-covered blubber. He doesn’t move. Perhaps he is dead. No, he’s still breathing, but offering me no comfort.
This birthday weekend is a big fat disaster. I climb back under the cool cotton duvet, which is slightly damp from last night’s wine spillage. I’ll try to get back to sleep and shut the world out with my pink glitter eye shades. I’ve nothing to get up for now, anyway. It’s not like I have exciting plans, thanks to my feeble excuse of a boyfriend. The worst damn part is that it is Saturday – a whole depressing weekend of loneliness and despair stretches out in front of me. That’s just typical of inconsiderate bloody Barry.
By eleven o’clock, my need for deep fried food is taking over my need for wallowing. I throw back the duvet and sigh.
‘Waffles will help me get through this rocky patch,’ I tell Jess, ‘and plenty of them.’
Walking down the stairs requires far more effort than I’d expected. I dip the waffles into the deep fat fryer.
‘And another thing…’ I address the empty kitchen as I reach for the ketchup ‘…Slimmers’ Club can take their membership this week and shove it where the sun don’t shine.’
The last thing I need on top of my crippling grief is to be named and shamed on a weighing scales like a common whale. That patronising Debbie can keep her ‘never mind’ smiles this week. I’ve had enough humiliation for one weekend, thank you very much!
Back in bed, I reach for the chocolate marshmallow cookies that I keep buried deep inside my bedside locker, and slovenly roll over to reach for my iPad and proclaim my total and utter devastation to the entire globe via Twitter. The only downside is that you have to limit your whinging to one hundred and forty characters.
Barry doesn’t get the whole Twitter thing. He calls it TWITer, with an annoying overemphasis on the twit part. Once, he told me that only wannabe, Z-list celebrities like Jordan are on it, and all they talk about is what they had for breakfast. It’s so much more, I had argued. Sometimes they tweet about lunch and dinner too. Barry is hilarious. He doesn’t even have a Facebook account. I mean, that’s simply outrageous!
Personally, I love Twitter. I can pretend that Oprah and I are friends. One of these days, she’ll re-tweet something deep and meaningful I’ve commented about her pet dogs and we’ll no doubt strike up a lifelong friendship. She just doesn’t know it yet. She’s probably just busy out with her friend
